#I’m now avoiding Reddit

[wesleysniperking]

I have an Usopp problem 😵‍💫

***Break over

I’m seriously not sure if it’s because of the algorithm, or Oda’s 3 week break and fans are bored and suffering because of it, but it seems like Usopp has become more of (???) a person of interest in the fandom, very recently—for the wrong reasons. Maybe it’s because of my hyper-fixation on Usopp’s journey…I admit. Can’t even cross it out.

…So, maybe it is JUST me.

Maybe that’s why it seems like he’s a person of interest even more nowadays.

I am avoiding Reddit and Worstgen, but YouTube is testing my resolve. I use YouTube for other things besides One Piece analysis vids and whatnot.

Tamir’s Verse do post pro-Usopp videos, but even those bring forward slander in the comments that’s hard to look past, personally. There’s a video about how and WHY Usopp is the most disliked Strawhat! 🤯 I can’t watch Tamir’s Verse videos and shorts at all anymore.

And then there was a poll of “Who’s the Most Disliked Strawhat?” on my YouTube feed. Usopp had the second to the most votes. If “Other” hadn’t been an option/choice, he would have won. If the algorithm is gonna play mind games, can they give me the positive Usopp videos? Please?

This isn’t meant to be a rant at all.

But having to read that Usopp is “The Butt” of the Strawhats is kinda sh**ty. (This was in response to when I posted a comment in one of the vids. I said that Usopp was a nuanced and brave character).

But have no fear, I will forever argue against the harsh criticism. The harsh criticism and arguing won’t matter in a year. I know this. There’s the real world outside. I have to talk to someone about this…I know 😔.

The YouTube algorithm is playing mind games.

I won’t look at the comments I won’t look at the comments I won’t look at the commets I won’t look at the comm–

I won’t post a comment I won’t post a comment I won’t post a comment I won’t post a comment I won’t post a comm-

No more arguing no more arguing no more arguing no more arguing no more arguing no more arguing no more arg–

Let Oda cook let Oda cook let Oda cook let Oda cook let Oda cook let Oda cook let Oda cook let Oda cook let Oda coo–

Conclusively, I’m gonna go do some soul searching. I have an exam this week, and I’m experiencing writer’s block (currently writing a one-shot, writing Act 2 of an ongoing Usopp-centric fic)…and..

So, I’ll go and touch grass.

And I’m gonna give myself the hard challenge of not talking about Usopp for 1 week. You know what? Let’s give myself a bigger challenge. I won’t talk about Usopp for 2 weeks. But if that means not talking about Usopp, I’ll need to stop watching One Piece for 2 weeks, and writing fanfiction (even just updating the drafts) for 2 weeks... I’ll need to stay off YouTube, Reddit, and TUMBLR for 2 weeks... I’ll need to stay off Ao3 for 2 weeks…

I’ll have to clear my cache and delete all my tabs. I’ll have to avoid my email (I’ll unsubscribe from the YouTube messages I receive). I’ll reply to the last of my notifications…then…

2 weeks. 2 weeks. I’ll give it 2 weeks…

I can do this. Right? Right? I’m writing this to instill some discipline in me. I want to find a way to approach things differently, and not argue endlessly about nonsensical comments…I want to feel what it’s like to not participate.

Then I’ll come back to the fandom and be a little bit more positive and well rested. And I’ll contribute to all the nice things.

Note to self. I got this…if anyone is reading this. Thank you for your time ❤️

My break starts now!

Stay true!

– wesleysniperking

[iceskatingmobsters]

called allll my fucking reps today and I’m probably gonna call the nv ag’s office next

one of em mentioned they’ve gotten 600ish calls today about the shit happening in the news so pressure’s on at least

donations next I think

[plowolffe]

.

[zhongfile]

guilty pleasure - park jisung

pairing: jisung x afab reader

wc: 764

warnings: virgin!jisung, praising, kissing, overstimulation, dry humping, handjob, crying, jisung cums in his pants.

requests: open!

A/N: this is based on a reddit post i saw on twitter and i thought it SCREAMMED jisung. I put my own lil twist to it tho🫶🏾 hope you guys enjoy! feedback highly appreciated :)

“fuck— s-shit!” you pulled back from your boyfriend's lips scanning his face for any type of discomfort.

“ji? what’s wrong—“ jisung froze and so did you. you looked down at his lap seeing a clear visible stain over his sweatpants. he tried his best to cover his lap with his hands giggling when he kept apologizing to you repeatedly.

“baby it’s okay” jisung knew you didn’t care about him cumming in his pants but he did. It was embarrassing. and he would much rather not have his sweatpants be sticky every time you two kissed. you and jisung have been dating a little over a year now and you’ve only had heavy makeout sessions. jisung was a virgin and wanted to wait which you respected but every time you two made out he felt his urges were growing stronger. even feeling the need to finally masturbate for the first time but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet.

you could kiss him for five seconds and he’s pulling back trying to calm himself down not wanting to cum. If you squeezed his thigh or got a little handsy he would stop you before continuing to get his heart rate to slow down. jisung didn’t understand why you didn’t freak out over him cumming in his pants but you honestly found it cute and it gave you a bit of a confidence boost.

It’s been almost a month since you last made out with jisung and you were starting to miss it. jisung was avoiding another makeout sesh too scared he’ll cum in his pants again. he avoided any type of long kisses from you, always feeling his cock get rock hard when your lips begin to linger a little too long. jisung was proud of himself for keeping his cool for a month hoping the next time the two of you made out it won’t leave his pants sticky.

jisung arrived at your apartment with flowers in his hands and a smile on his face. excited to take you on a date after not seeing you for a while.

“baby?” he called, walking in your apartment “in here!” you shouted back from your bedroom bathroom.

jisung smiled once again hearing your voice as he made his way to your bedroom mouth going completely dry he saw you step out the bathroom. your black long dress hugged your body in all the right places. you smelt like his favorite perfume and you had on the promise ring he got you a while back.

“you look beautiful” jisung breathed out, handing you the roses. “thank you baby” you cooed quickly pecking his lips. jisung kissed you again this time deepening the kiss catching you by surprise making you drop the flowers. he pushed you back on the bed hovering over you. you wrapped your arms tightly around jisung’s neck while your plush lips move in sync against his.

jisung could already feel himself getting hard humping against your leg to get some type of friction. you moaned at the contact, his hard cock pressing in between your legs rubbing against your clit.

“gonna cum gonna cum” jisung chanted out between kisses, his hips stuttering as he came staining his black jeans.

“please” he panted. “touch me please” jisung was already pulling his still hard cock out his pants before you could even say anything. his cock red and dripping in his cum.

you slowly started pumping his cock in your hand jisung closing his eyes at the touch. whimpering at the overstimulation.

“does it feel good ji?” you asked kissing at his neck jisung letting out another whimper “y-yes”

you felt your panties sticking to your cunt as you got jisung off. his whines of your name and the way he bucked his hips in your fist turned you on so much.

“baby— i’m close again” jisung's voice cracked as he rested his head on your chest, his second orgasm approaching quickly. you felt a tear fall onto your shoulder looking at jisung. his sweet moans started to turn into small sobs.

“i’m gonna fucking cum” he cried out ropes of cum hitting your dress watching jisung legs shake as he comes down from his high. still letting out small sobs from the overstimulation.

“oh ji” you cooed, pushing his now sweaty hair out his face. “you did so good baby so good” leaving a kiss on his forehead.

jisung kissed your lips again, biting at your bottom lip. he pulled back scanning your face

“need to fuck you next time. please”

[httpsserene]

groceries — 𝐥𝐧. 𝟒 & 𝐨𝐩. 𝟖𝟏 lando norris & oscar piastri & fem!black!reader drabble. fluff. attempt at banter. dialogue heavy. no physical description of reader. could be platonic or pre-relationship. covid lockdown mentioned. baking soda vs powder plagiarized from reddit; thank you redditor fowler311.

synopsis: you know a thing or two about baking, because you’ve baked a thing or two.

˖♡ - ̗̀ ⇢ qatar, you were magnificent until you weren't. this post alone is me putting good energy in the atmosphere for the boys in abu dhabi. is this platonic or not? idk, it's up to you—i just happened to write it. (college semester is over !!! i will be so active you'll wish i never came back xxx) no part two requests, pls 🥺 enjoy reading, loves < 3

⌕ join taglist | requests & feedback | upcoming chapters | table of contents ↻

you grocery shop on saturday night because no one else living in monaco would consider doing the same. usually.

as you’ve been grabbing items off the shelves, you occasionally stumble across two young men—they’re the only other customers in the store with you this evening. 

the first time you shared an aisle with them, you offered a polite smile before redirecting your gaze to the various shapes and brands of pasta. the second time, you shyly murmured an “excusez-moi” and they apologized immediately while stepping out of the way, allowing you to grab a pack of chocolate chips. the third time, your polite smile widened in amusement, as you watched the man drowning in an oversized hoodie shadow-box his friend, who remained unfazed at the whooshing fists as he inspected a carton for any cracked eggs.

the fourth time, you realize that the two men are lando norris and oscar piastri—the driver lineup of the mclaren formula one team. and, they’re arguing about the difference between baking powder and baking soda, very loudly. in aisle three of carrefour. at eight in the evening. on a saturday night.

surely, these two have more interesting plans for their weekend besides grocery shopping.

“they can’t be that different, can they?”

“hmm. once is soda, and the other is powder. that’s quite different, i reckon.”

“yeah, but, they both start with ‘baking,’ so, i figure they’re more similar.”

“if they’re similar, why would they make two different products?”

“greed? consumption—oh, no, wait—consummate? no.”

“consumerism?”

“consumerism! that’s it.”

“i would agree, but i don’t think that’s the case with these two.”

“well, think harder. it’s freezing in here, osc.”

“i think you’re iron deficient.”

“what?”

“never mind—look, mate, this is your fault, really.”

“woo-oooow, i can’t believe this! so, you’re blaming me now?”

“you wrote the list, lando! how is your handwriting so terrible that i can’t tell if you wrote ‘baking soda’ or ‘baking powder’?”

“first of all, you told me to write the list! nobody writes grocery lists anymore, grandpa! secondly, why would you make the dyslexic kid write the list? it’s cruel and unusual—you know i can’t spell for shit.”

“lando. the word ‘powder’ has two more letters than ‘soda.’ i know that you know that. how did you make—whatever the hell that says—look like it could be either one?”

“osc, you’re hurting my feelings. are—are you saying i’m stupid?”

“i literally never said that. the word ‘stupid’ didn’t even come out of my mouth, you muppet—“

you bang the front of your cart into the end-cap of the aisle, sending a few rolls of bagels to the floor. your cheeks warm as their banter halts and heads snap over to look at you awkwardly rushing around to pick up the floor bagels. the last package rolled unbelievably far to knock against lando norris’s shoe. aren’t you just lucky?

you see lando press his lips together to avoid laughing (you appreciate the effort), and he dismisses your apologies as he scoops the bagels off the floor and moves to help place them back on the shelf.

“uh, t-thank you,” you stutter, as oscar piastri walks over just in time to catch a roll that was eagerly looking to return to the supermarket floor. the two men offer smiles in return—lando’s wide and gap-toothed, oscar’s boxy and toothless.

“soda spreads and powder puffs,” you blurt out, because you left you brain-to-mouth filter at home. maybe they sell replacements here. in the aisle furthest away from the two formula one drivers, preferably.

“what?” lando questions, a matching look of confusion plastered on his teammates face.

“sorry, i overheard your conversation,” you shrug, trying for nonchalance, “baking soda influences spread and browning, whereas baking powder provides puffiness and lift. they’re both leavening agents but, baking soda is sodium bicarbonate and baking powder is a mixture of sodium bicarbonate and an acid. soda needs and an acid to activate but powder needs moisture and heat. so—i guess which one you need depends on what your trying to make.”

you think you failed to portray nonchalance, if the perplexed expressions the two stare at you with are any telling.

oscar blinks, “…we’re trying to make chocolate chip cookies. i tried to convince him to buy cookie dough but he wanted to make them from scratch, even though neither of us can bake.”

“it’s more fun if we do it from scratch,” lando crosses his arms huffily, “you didn’t have to tell her that we’re absolutely hopeless in the kitchen, though.”

“i reckon she already knew that from overhearing our lack of knowledge about baking ingredients, lando,” the australian chuckles quietly, shifting the shopping basket from one arm to the other.

“do you have the recipe on you?” you ask kindly.

oscar hands the scorned grocery list over without complaint, “it’s my mum’s recipe. sorry if it’s hard to read—you’ll have to blame him for that.”

lando scoffs in indignation, “you’re exaggerating, oscar. my handwriting isn’t that bad, is it?”

you feel them watching as you decipher the hieroglyphics that are lando’s letters. you bring a finger up to trace underneath the scrawl, eyes squinting to force the words into focus—oscar snorts and lando sighs in played-up dejection.

“i can understand what you’ve wrote just fine,” you smile at lando, “i’ve seen worse. you know, my younger cousin’s handwritting is miles more dreadful than this.”

the brit knocks his shoulder against oscar’s teasingly, “hah! maybe you just can’t read, osc. have you thought about that?”

you tap your finger against your chin in thought, “—but my cousin is like, five-years-old, with terrible fine motor skills. so, i wouldn’t say that’s a fair comparison.”

the two are caught by surprise, laughing delightedly at your ribbing. the sound of their amusement is contagious enough for you to crease with your own giggles.

“i didn’t expect to be bullied in a carrefour’s on a saturday night by a stranger,” lando says with a grin, after he’s calmed down.

“sorry,” you shake your head playfully, properly introducing yourself before continuing, “i forgot you usually spend your time here arguing about baking soda. which—by the way, your mum’s recipe calls for both baking powder and soda, oscar. which is very smart and unique! in most cookie recipes, most people usually opt for baking soda alone, for the spread of the batter. but, your mum must’ve liked her cookies puffier and fluffier as well! anyways, that explains why it looks like lando could’ve written either word here—because he meant to write both.”

they thank you profusely for helping them overcome the challenge of lando’s handwriting, oscar returning to the aisle to place each ingredient in his basket.

“sorry, could you grab me one of the baking soda, as well?” you ask, “that’s the last thing off of my list tonight.”

“we’re all done, too,” the australian walks over with your box, hesitating briefly before you gesture for him to drop it in your filled cart.

the duo walks towards the registers with you, lando asking, “are you a baker?”

“no,” you chuckle, “i had a phase during lockdown.”

“ah, i should’ve known,” he teases, “i mean, that’s how you know that baking powder is sodium carbon-fiber—“, oscar echoes his teammates ‘sodium carbon-fiber’ with a soft smile, “—just a baking phase, right. makes sense.”

“oh, come on, lando norris,” you scold him jokingly, “baking powder is sodium carbon-fiber and an acid. keep up—we’ve been over this already.”

you separate from the two as you near the registers, unloading your cart onto the conveyor belt and exchanging polite conversation with the cashier as you hand over your stack of reusable bags. you don’t realize that they’ve waited for you until you start to think about the logistic of carrying all of your groceries home.

“uh,” lando pushes oscar forward with a firm hand on his back, the tips of the australian’s ears are reddening, “would you like help with those? we don’t mind holding a few.”

“would you mind?” your shoulders sag in relief, “i do this in one trip routinely but i don’t think that’s happening tonight. i only live about four blocks over—my doorman will help me get them all up to my flat, so i won’t be keeping you longer than necessary.”

that’s how you find yourself walking home, on a saturday night, with two formula one drivers holding the bulk of your groceries in their arms. you’re going to the casino directly after you put the groceries away because your luck is too good to miss out on right now. your doorman heads inside to grab a cart as soon as he catches sight of you. your two helpers exchange a glance in your peripheral vision as you come to stop in front of your building.

“well, this is me,” you start, pausing to thank your doorman, gabriel, as the boys carefully unload the bags onto the cart, “thank you for the assistance, you are both too kind.”

“mr. norris and mr. piastri are always kind,” hums gabriel, winking at the two men, before rolling the cart inside.

“wait, what? you live in the same building as me?” you’re flummoxed. you knew the rent was too expensive, but you didn’t think it was formula-one-driver-expensive.

“i live here,” lando reveals, holding the door as he lets you and oscar walk inside, “osc doesn’t. i feel like i would remember your face if i’ve seen you here before. what floor are you on?”

“i don’t know if i should tell you that,” you side-eye them flippantly, “i fear for my safety.”

“well, i shouldn’t have told you that i live here,” lando sniffs.

“gabriel blew your cover, mate,” oscar rolls his eyes, “also, she would’ve found out anyways. we would’ve had to follow her in to make the cookies in your apartment.”

your doorman squeezes into the first elevator with your groceries, while you and the boys opt for the second. oscar’s hand hovers over the button while he waits for you to clue him in, pressing lando’s afterwards.

lando clears his throat as the elevator begins to rise. “seeing as your thrilling saturday night activity of grocery shopping is over, what are the rest of your plans for tonight?”

scratching at the nape of your neck, you say, “don’t judge me anymore than you have tonight…i was thinking about watching the entire how to train your dragon trilogy.”

oscar gasps quietly, his eyes bright, “i love those movies.”

“would you like to come up to my flat and make chocolate chip cookies from scratch with us? and watch the movies, too?” lando’s question is sweet, and his eyes are earnest.

“i feel like it would be very dumb of me to visit the apartment of a man i just met in the grocery—formula one driver or not.”

“sorry, i can see how it’s weird. better safe than sorry, i know. i promise we’re not like going to try anything, or we’re not, like, serial killers or anything. oscar’s too polite for that, and i’m too squeamish. seriously, it would be just for the cookies. we didn’t have a baking phase in lockdown like you did, so we’re lost on a lot more than the different between baking soda and powder. sodium carbon-fiber and acid, or not. if it’s uncomfortable for you, that’s fine. maybe we can plan for another day when you know us better.”

“yep,” oscar offers in support of lando’s statement.

you smile, “you remembered about the acid this time.”

the elevator dings before softly jerking to a stop on your floor. the doors begin to slide open, “honestly? i think i’m more afraid about you guys possibly burning our building down rather than killing me in cold blood.”

you step out of the elevator, seeing gabriel waiting by your door with the cart.

turning back to face the two men, you survey them with a serious gaze before breaking into a grin, “don’t turn on the oven without me. that part requires adult supervision. let me put my groceries away and then i’ll be right up.”

© httpsserene - do not reupload. photos in header image are from pinterest. divider by @cafekitsune.

[hannie-dul-set]

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — FIVE.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this. 

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is. 

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 8.3k.

NOTE. landlord identity theft case was adopted from this reddit post that i heard on a podcast HAHHAHAH. anyway, there’s a bit less action in this one and a bit more set-up, but things do get heating in the latter part of this chapter so i hope that satiates you, my fellow freaks. as usual, please please do drop in your thoughts and comments! enjoy! NEXT CHAPTER TO BE PUBLISHED.

EVER SINCE YOU GOT BACK TO WORK ON THURSDAY, THE MURMURS WOULDN’T STOP. You’re not sure how it started or who started it, but you’re pretty sure some kind of information had been circulating while you were on your short leave because when a Yoosun employee came to your office early in the morning to pick up some documents— first thing on your agenda since coming back— his eyes immediately darted to your fucked up, bandaged up hands, and his face paled. He then proceeded to cover the upper half of his face as he warily walked up to the documents on your desk like he’s trying to evade a wild animal.

“I—I’ll be delivering these now, attorney, th—thank you! I wasn’t looking at you at all!”

Then he darted off like a rabbit being hunted down.

What the fuck?

That wasn’t the only instance. Every time you crossed paths with a Nalkeutta member that isn’t Mark or any of the executives, they’d immediately scurry away and avoid your gaze— even when you’re just trying to politely greet them. It started to annoy you, so you cornered Renjun to ask him if there’s something you should know about. 

He explained that since you requested Mark to keep your whole stalker situation under wraps because it was personal, people had to fill in the gaps to supply the reason for your few days of absence. However the words “multiple injuries,” and “police station,” and “hospital bills,” managed to slip past the sworn secrecy, and the story somehow got twisted to you getting into a bar fight the night of your welcome party, and your poor victim got beaten half to death.

Apparently your messed up hands and unscathed face served as a confirmation to your alleged brutality. The cause couldn’t be attributed to your stalker, so everyone had to use their imagination. Now, there’s an ongoing rumor that you jumped a bar patron just because he was giving you eyes and it pissed you off.

“Is that how everyone perceives me?” you gawk in wonder and mild offense at their characterization of you.

“You walk around the halls looking like you’re one the way to kill someone, don’t act surprised when people start assuming that you already have.”

“Oh, come on! I did not kill him! He just barely got out of a concussion!”

Your mistake is deciding to corner Renjun in the breakroom— where everyone is free to enter and hear your gradually escalating conversation. You notice his Hyeongshin subordinates hesitating to walk in, looking like a group of deer in headlights and immediately avoiding your gaze the moment you direct your gaze, and they scatter off into the wilderness with murmured sorry’s and excuse me’s.

You realize that you just admitted to the crime they were alleging. Doesn’t matter if the facts got mixed up because at the end of the day, you did assault someone, you did do something out of your own character, and you do recognize the mirrored image that your actions reflected. 

Before this, everyone was just mildly intimidated by you, your freshly ironed blazers, and your three-inch heels. Now, they’re all avoiding you and your gaze as if you’re some sort of batshit loose cannon like Na Jaemin.

That’s where most of the offense comes from.

“I just got really pissed off! I didn’t know what came over me!”

To bring yourself back down to normalcy, you decide to take advantage of the contact that had been recently added to your phone that you’ve yet to contact since— which is why you’re currently sitting in an Instagram staple bakery at the university district of Yeongdeungpo, Natty trying her best to nod along with your rapid fire complaints, and the fact that she’s having trouble trying to keep up and catch the questionable shit in your rhetoric might be a silver-lining. 

“Don’t feel too bad, the creep deserved it,” she tries to assure, but it doesn’t pull through.

“I don’t feel bad nor do I feel guilty, but I do feel like a fucking barbarian and the way my co-workers look at me certainly isn’t helping my case.” She watches as you sink down with a groan and wallow in your yerba mate, totally clueless on what to say to make you feel better, but your despair is unsalvageable. “Someone even had to see me go apeshit. So fucking humiliating.”

“Were they a co-worker?” she asks. “Did that person yap to the rest of your office?”

“No, he’s the devil, but I’m pretty sure he kept his mouth shut at the very least,” you wail, face in your hands. If he did, then the narrative that you’re volatile and crazy wouldn’t be running around. 

She cocks her head. “Isn’t that a good thing…?”

You pull up your face, revealing a grimace. “There’s nothing good about that freak. Natty, he was treating me like shit for weeks then suddenly switched gears when I swore at his face because I had enough of his shit. Who the fuck does that? He watched me beat the shit out of a grown man and thought it was hot. I didn’t even ask about it. He just aired out his kinks unwarranted, like, what the hell?”

She does not need to know that you’re talking about Na Jaemin. And she surely does not need to know about the fact that you’re under the same illegal company as him— your shared high school tormentor. 

“If you like someone, don’t you wanna make things easier for them? But this guy seems to enjoy turning my work life into a living hell. Do you know how much overtime I had to take just because of him? God, It’s like he gets off of seeing me suffering and in pain. It just gets more confusing after he helped me with the whole stalker death threat situation.” And considering your history with him. You groan and massage the wrinkles on your forehead. “I have no idea how to deal with him. If I ignore him, he acts up. If I get mad, he eats it up like a psycho and does more shit to piss me off even more. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

You realize you’ve been rambling and flinch up to observe your companion’s reception. Surprisingly, she seems to be thinking deeply about it, a hum rolling off her tongue as she ponders over your situation, and you’re a little nervous that she’s gonna grill you about the identity of this guy, or something.

“Well, first of all—”

There’s a wash of relief when he doesn’t ask about his name. 

“—is he hot?”

And that relief is immediately punted out the window to make room for your sheer and visceral discomfort at that single insinuation, of which you try your best to hide from your face. The ghost of Na Jaemin replaces the image of Natty sitting before you— an apparition of the breakfast you shared with him against your will thanks to a brief moment of value-drigen weakness. That blunt, as-a-matter-of-factness in the manner he admitted to his attraction. Completely unabashed like a self-assured asshole. That fucking smirk pisses you off to the depths of hell.

“He’s not ugly,” you grit, waving the parasitic image of him away. Natty’s eyes immediately sparkle. Like she’d only been trying to be interested before but now she’s actually, genuinely interested. 

“Good enough,” she chirps. “If that’s the case, then just seduce him!”

What?

“Take advantage of his feelings! Don’t let him take control!” Her pure, unbridled enthusiasm is catching you off guard. “Does he piss you off just to get your attention?”

“Uhh, apparently…?”

“Great, then you gotta exploit that.” Suddenly, she’s tugging you out of your quaint cafe chair and dragging you out of the bakery like a woman on a newfound mission. “First thing’s first— shopping. C’mon, I know just the place.”

“I’m sorry, but what the hell led you to that conclusion?”

Natty stops to look at you like a disappointed mentor. “Honey, flirting is essentially psychological warfare. You gotta arm yourself in order to disarm the other person— which means we gotta update your wardrobe from flat and plain business casual to skirting the line of an office porno if you want him on his knees and doing everything you say. Don’t let him have the upper hand, girl. It’s time to retaliate.”

You really hate that she’s kind of making sense, but you’re not very keen on abandoning your workplace appropriate clothing in a building full of men— even when 80% of them have now been instilled with the fear that you may be a maneater— so you manage to stop Natty halfway from dragging you all the way to the boutique by pulling her attention to a trinket kiosk stationed near Byuksan High School. 

“I need a new phone strap. Help me pick one out.”

You’re a professional in your mid-twenties. It’s not very gratifying to voluntarily join a bunch of teenage prep students whose schoolbags are heavily weighted by a despicable amount of keyrings, but you will if you must.

“I never pegged you as an accessory girlie,” Natty muses, jangling a string of pink charms and beads in the air to show off to you.

You snatch it from her, and toss it back onto the display baskets. “That’s because I have an image to maintain and that image has no room for bubblegum pink. Hand me that black chain one.”

“How does this translate to your image?”

“As a miserable reminder of how I’m chained to my job.”

Natty laughs and continues digging around the kiosk’s assortment of displays. You notice the very indiscreet stares of judgement from the highschool girls you and Natty are congregating with as you pay for your new phone strap, as well as a funny looking dog keychain that you think Haechan might appreciate. When the standowner hands you the paperbag of your purchases, however, you notice her looking past you with a disappointed expression on her face, clicking her tongue and shaking her head the moment you finish the transaction.

“Tsk. These hooligans just keep acting out in broad daylight. Someone oughta call the cops on these delinquents.”

Huh. You turn your head to where she’s looking at, and there you notice— from the sliver of an alleyway— a group of seven to eight Byuksan students cackling and surrounding someone or something. Then you direct your gaze to the school gates with the very evident Byuksan High logo decorating the iron bars to confirm. Byuksan has never been part of Nalkeutta’s union. You shouldn’t be in an area with active gang activity. They’re probably just a group of juvenile bullies picking on a classmate.

If that were indeed the case, you would have left right now.

But then you notice that the two people the Byuksan students are ganging up on are wearing the glaring set of red blazers that you’re far too familiar with—

“Whoa aren’t those two kids from Ganghak? What are they doing here?”

—and then your stomach drops. Because those two kids are from Ganghak. Not just students from Ganghak— you’ve seen them at the fucking office building before. Park Jisung and Oh Sion, clearly troubled by the situation because no matter how skilled of a fighter you are, eight people is way too much to handle. 

The former is carrying a large duffel bag with him. Oh, for fuck’s sake, are they out on a job? You feel a headache coming. You bring a hand to your head and grit your teeth. This is trouble. This is gonna be so much trouble if they don’t manage to get out of this.

“Hey, are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” you breathe out as an internal debate is going on in your mind. Eight boys. A very enclosed space. What the fuck can you even do in this situation? God damn it all. “Natty, hold onto this for a sec.”

“Wait, where are you— hey!”

She yanks you back the moment she realizes you’re headed straight to the alley. You look back at her face riddled with alarm. “What are you doing?! Don’t tell me you’re actually planning on intervening. High schoolers are terrifying these days! They don’t give a shit if you’re a girl or an adult. Those punks might actually hurt you, you know.”

“Don’t worry, I have a plan.” No you fucking don’t. At least not yet. You’ll figure it out on the way there. “Just— ugh. Can you take a video from here? Make sure to get a clear shot of the Byuksan kids’ faces. And whatever happens, don’t even think about calling the police. Don’t.”

Natty looks baffled yet at the same time in awe. And then lets go of you with a relenting sigh. “Why are you even doing this?”

You blink. “...Alumni spirit?”

Now, you didn’t expect that to elicit any kind of effect, but Natty for some reason appears touched by the bullshit you just pulled out of your ass, and you suddenly feel guilty. “Is that…is that why you helped me out too?” she says with glassy eyes. “Gosh, you’re such a good person, you’re so cool. Go do your thing, attorney. I’ll back you up from here.”

Did she forget that you literally had no idea who she was until she spelled it out for you? However, there is no time to clear up the misunderstanding that you are, in fact, not the good person that she thinks you are because those two Ganghak kids might lose a bunch of inventory at any moment and subsequently lose their lives to either Mark or Na Jaemin— which just translates to more work for you in case it really does happen.

So before you can even iron out a plan, your feet are already racing towards the crevice, open phone in hand, and you dive in head first to whatever mess this is gonna be.

“Whoa. What kind of extracurricular activity is this?”

Catch their attention. Catch them off guard because what could be more bewildering than an adult woman in pumps suddenly sauntering into a clear bullying ring— swiveling her phone camera to catch their nametags and faces. 

“Let’s see, who do we have here? Lee Hyunsung, Jeon Sangwoo, Cheong Jitae, and—”

“Hey, lady, what do you think you’re doing?”

One of them smacks your hand away the moment your phone nears his face. The kid looks a little annoyed and confused. Mostly confused. You sigh and pocket your phone. “I should be asking you the same thing.” Your eyes flit over to Jisung and Sion. They are also very confused, but mostly nervous— probably because you showed up. They looked like they were ready to throw hands prior to your interrupt, but that wouldn’t have ended in any way good at all.

This is not in your fucking job description. Whatever. 

“You eight are clearly ganging up on these two boys over here. Don’t you know that bullying is a punishable offense? You boys should hurry along if you don’t want to ruin your college applications.”

The one in front of you— who you assume is their leader— just scoffs at your threat, eliciting the same amount of ridicule from the rest of his posse. “Seriously? Lady, these Ganghak bitches are walking around in our territory in broad daylight like they own the place or some shit. We’re just trying to teach them a proper lesson on respect and decorum.”

Your mouth twitches, a slight waver in the expression you’ve been maintaining. “Wow. Territory. Are you kids in some kind of gang or something? That’s an even graver crime. If I were you, I’d just let Ganghak off and protect the future I have in store.”

“Hah.” He juts his face forward, further into yours. You don’t flinch. “Or else what? You gonna report us, old lady?”

The other seven cackle. Your jaw clenches. Alright, that’s it. These kids are gonna fucking get it.

“Go ahead. But you gotta know that my dad’s a police officer— and he patrols this area. You can report us if you want but it ain’t gonna do shit, lady. This is our turf you’re on.”

You look at his nametag. Shin Hyunwoo. A smile curls on your lips. “Really?” Suddenly, all the confidence he’s wearing flinches the moment he’s forced to meet your gaze. You still have your phone out. You let him watch as you dial 119 for all of them to hear. “Wanna test your luck, kid?”

R—iiiiiiing. Ri—

“Yeongdeungpo Police Station. What’s your emergency?”

This is a gamble. A very risky gamble, but you’re pretty confident in your cards after being acquainted with the deck.

“Hey, can you get Officer Jung on the line? It’s important.”

The person from the other end of the line chokes upon recognizing your voice that the entire station is probably sick of at this point. “A—attorney!” And at that moment, your victory is sealed as horror and realization dawns upon the faces of most of the kids— all except their ringleader before you. “Y—yes, of course, one moment, please—”

A moment’s pause. 

“Attorney, is there a problem? What do you need?”

Maybe you should have actually taken Officer Jung’s number last time. He’s proving to be very useful.

“Officer Jung,” you make sure to greet with an abundance of familiarity. You make sure to look at this Shin Hyunwoo kid as you do. “I just wanted to ask a question. Is there an Officer Shin in your station?”

All that confident, pubescent bravado slowly melts away. “Well, yes, we have three. Shin Haesu, Shin Junsik, and Shin Byungkwan.” The moment Shin Hyunwoo winces at the exact moment Jaehyun pronounces the last name, you know you have your guy. “Why do you ask?”

“Ah, well,” you exhale with a smile. “Between you and Officer Shin Byungkwan— who’s higher in rank.”

You’re met with one second of silence before Officer Jung finally responds with, “That would be me.” Thank god he’s going along without any question. Is this what Natty was talking about? “Officer Shin is just a patrol officer.”

Fucking jackpot.

“Thank you, that’s all I needed to know! Have a great day, officer!”

The call ends. You drop your hand and look at Shin Hyunwoo who’s red in the face and about to piss himself in embarrassment, and when you look around, the rest of his friends aren’t faring any better. One of them looks more pissed than anything and is about to lunge at you with a punch when you raise a hand to stop him.

“Land that punch and a police report is gonna go through. You think I came here alone?” The kid stumbles, biting down his tongue in anger. You sigh and run your fingers through your hair. “Seriously, you had to pull this stunt in broad fucking daylight with a bunch of people out and about. I have your names and faces. Try anything funny and you can kiss your future goodbye.”

You settle a tap on Shin Hyunwoo’s shoulder, who flinches upon contact.

“Now get lost.”

Somehow, your intervention worked. The eight Byuksan delinquents run off, but not without at least one of them calling you an old lady again and flipping you off. You remind yourself that you are an adult with adult-level maturity. Park Jisung and Oh Sion look at your approaching figure cautiously. “A—attorney,” the former greets with a bow, still clutching the duffel bag close. The latter sees this and mirrors his actions. You settle a few steps in front of them, arms crossed with a hefty release of breath.

“Is it only the two of you?”

“Y—yes. Jaemin hyung-nim sent us to pick up the commission and contracts from K Company.”

“Seriously?” What was that bastard thinking sending these two kids alone to lug around a giant sack of cash? Is he trying to test them, or something? Or maybe he just doesn’t give a fuck and sent the first two people he saw. That seems to match his personality more. Regardless this could have ended really badly. “Anyway, are you two headed back to Nalkeutta now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stop being so stiff,” you huff, pulling out your phone to text Natty that all is good, and that she should go ahead because you offered to drive the Ganghak kids home. She responds almost immediately with puppy dog eye emojis and more gracious compliments about your goodwill and kindness. You shudder as a chill runs down your spine. “Well, let’s go. My car’s parked nearby. It’d be quicker and safer to just drive back to the office.”

The two follow you like a pair of lost ducklings. They settle into the backseat, not budging a single word even when you start the engine and start driving.

It’s only when you pull up in front of the company building that Oh Sion musters up his voice to say, “Attorney,” he starts. “You’re so cool.”

Your fingers twitch against the steering wheel. Your eyes flit up to the mirror to see the two boys looking at you with something akin to admiration in their eyes— respect, perhaps. You’re not quite sure. It’s new. Especially considering how your image has been tanked thus far.

“Wanna be cool like me?”

You settle an elbow over the seatrest, cocking your head to look at the two boys with a smile. Their eyes glimmer expectantly. You huff out a laugh.

“Quit Nalkeutta and get back to fucking school.”

That’s when you unlock the car doors and shoo them off. You don’t want to go back in there after already clocking out for the day. They bow goodbye from outside and you wave them goodbye, driving off. 

You thought that’d be the last you’ll be seeing of those kids. Yet the next morning, you catch them loitering in front of your office, occasionally peeking through blinds as if you can’t see them, but you can. You very much can. It’s very hard to focus on drafting your contracts when there are two meerkats popping out intermittently through your office window. 

“What do those two idiots want?” 

Narrowing your eyes into the top of Park Jisung’s head peeking through the crack in the blinds, you’re just about ready to get up, get out, and just ask them what their deal is, but before your ass even leaves the comfortable cushion of your office chair, the door is sprung open— revealing the two boys being barrelled into your office by one Na Jaemin.

“Move it, move your fucking feet— oh, hey, attorney.”

To say that you’re unimpressed by the sight before you is an understatement. “First of all, learn to knock.” Na Jaemin simply brandishes you with a grin and a shrug. You give up with a sigh. “Second of all, what do you want?”

“Not me,” he answers, referring to the nervous pair that is Oh Sion and Park Jisung, who both swallow down a gulp in sync the moment Na Jaemin throws his arms around their shoulders. “These two have been hesitating to knock for the past thirty fucking minutes to the point that it got annoying. Thought they needed a little push and a shove.”

“How thoughtful,” you flatly say.

“What a good boss should be,” he muses a little too gratifyingly.  

You roll your eyes as you switch the gears of your attention. “So, what is it?”

The two engage in a quiet argument for a moment before Jisung shoots Sion a look, and the latter finally grits up the courage to speak, albeit still nervous. “There’s—there’s just something I wanted to ask you, attorney. You know, as a professional…?” 

This piques your interest. What kind of legal concerns would a high school gang member be facing?

“Go ahead.”

“Well, uh, hypothetically— if you find out that your landlord has been using your identity to apply for credit card loans…and when you find out and confront him about it, he threatens to file an eviction against you if you choose to press charges—”

Well, okay.

“Can he— can he do that?”

Oh Sion bats his eyes at you expectantly. You are, quite frankly, taken aback. 

“Attorney…?”

Man, you were expecting a girl problem or a teacher inflicting corporal punishment. Not a whole fraud and identity theft case. “Sit down,” you grunt, beckoning him closer. Then your tired eyes flit over to Na Jaemin, whose attention seems to be provoked by the issue, so your mouth twitches into a sneer. “Jisung, you can stay. You. Get out.”

“C’mon, let me stay,” he whines, tromping over to land a hand onto your desk, leaning over. “This sounds interesting. I wanna see you attorneying this shit up.”

Natty’s advice wanders into your brain. Does he piss you off just to get your attention? Great, then you gotta exploit that. You gotta use everything within your disposal to make life in hell a bit more bearable.  

“Na Jaemin.” 

You start your first attempt at testing the waters— which is honestly a little nerve-wracking considering there’s always a chance of this biting you in the ass in the future. 

But, fuck it. What more do you have to lose?

“I’ll have lunch with you tomorrow if you fuck off for the entire day. What do you say?”

The way Na Jaemin’s gaze shifts nearly makes you regret it at that very instance.

“Drinks,” he counter-offers.

What a pain in the ass. “Dinner,” you grit.

“Dinner tonight,” he presses. Then something on your desk catches his attention— which he promptly swipes and jangles in the air. “And this ugly dog thing.”

That ugly dog thing was supposed to be for Haechan, but whatever. “Alright,” you accept in defeat. “But you give me two days of peace instead of one. How does that sound?”

He flashes teeth at you, already taking a step back. “Deal.”

“Great. Now fuck off.”

Na Jaemin finally leaves your office, leaving behind two confused kids, staring at you like what the hell just happened. Park Jisung has been working here for a bit— even before Mark officially acquired you— so it must have been a bone-chilling shock to his boss to act like that. However, that is none of your concern, nor do you give a fuck about the image he’s projecting to his subordinates. “Sion-ah,” you turn. “Can you tell me more about your whole landlord situation?”

Park Sion tells you that it’s his father’s identity that their landlord has been using, and they’d only found out last month after receiving a letter in the mail that they owed a credit card company almost a million won— from an account his father never opened. This was followed by another letter from a different company. Sion doesn’t know exactly how it happened from simply overhearing conversations between his parents, but apparently their landlord had been using his dad’s name to open those accounts.

“I’ve only been eavesdropping since. They haven’t exactly brought it up to me so I don’t know the details…” he continues, trailing off hesitantly, looking down to his lap because he seems to be having trouble meeting your gaze. “We—we don’t have the money for a lawyer or anything, so I thought I could come to you for some advice, attorney. I—I understand if you don’t want to, though! Sorry, I—I just wanted to take my chances.”

You inhale sharply. Man. For fuck’s sake.

“Ugh.”

You’re not a charity worker. You’re not a god forsaken saint. You’re not motherfucking Mother Teresa. You have enough shit on your plate as is and playing pro bono for this case won’t do you any favors. You’re already neck deep and paperwork and you certainly have no intention of getting buried further underneath.

But—

“Um…attorney…? Is everything okay…?”

You sigh. You groan. You swing over to a drawer on your desk to fish out a business card sliding the same over your desk. You’re not happy about this, and that fact is definitely showing through your face. “Take this. Tell your parents to give me a call.”

Oh Sion jolts in his seat, blinking in disbelief. “Really?”

You’re really, really not happy about this, but your karma is bad enough already. Denying a kid in desperation would make you less than human at this point. You might be set on going to hell already, so the least you can do is hold onto the barest sliver of your humanity. “Yeah, just take it before I change my mind. If that’s all, then you two— shoo. Go. Leave. I still have work to do.”

Before you can wrack your brain about how in the world you’re gonna organize your planner spreadsheet from this point forward, Park Jisung, who’d been doing but being a silent pillar of support for Sion this entire time, adds another serving of stress to your already full plate.

“Attorney?” he raises, Oh Sion already halfway out the door while he remains inside. “Can I ask you something?”

“What is it this time?” you grunt, not even looking at him in order to preemptively nurse your incoming headache with a pen massaging circles into your temple as you continue your mental laments. Why hasn’t cloning been invented yet? Do you have to convince Mark to add another person to your department? That’s the only possible way you can handle Sion’s case without gumming things up in Nalkeutta. If that’s the case, then—

“Um...did you attend Ganghak in high school?”

The pen makes a hollow clatter against your desk.

“What?”

A million thoughts filter into your head in one, quick flicker. 

“Close the door,” you say after a second’s pause. “How do you know that, Jisung-ah?”

“It’s just that…I saw some of the past yearbooks before, and I kinda recognized you when the boss was giving you a tour of the building,” he says before a tight swallow. You drill your eyes into him. He looks away. “And I, uh, also saw that you were in the same graduating class as Jaemin hyung-nim.”

This is great. This is so great for you. Fucking fantastic. You want to quit and die.

“I see,” you answer. You ponder. Every second of silence that passes adds another bead of sweat to Park Jisung’s forehead. Your fingernails clatter against the polished table of your desk. You look at him when you admit, “I did attend Ganghak for my last two years of high school. And I was in Na Jaemin’s class.”

There’s no point in denying it. 

“This is a pretty funny coincidence, isn’t it? But I’d appreciate it if you keep this information to yourself, Jisung-ah.”

The only thing you can do now is damage control.

“O—oh! Yes, of course, attorney. I was just curious. I guess that would explain why you and Jaemin hyung-nim seemed so close.”

Close. You mask your sour feelings with a stiff smile. “Don’t mention this to him either. I’m not very fond of talking about my educational background. I’m only humoring you because you seem like a nice kid from my alma mater.” He nods profusely. You press your lips together even more. “Now run along. If Sion asks what’s keeping you, tell him you were just asking me how to apply for a driver’s license without parents’ consent.”

“Yes, ma’am! Thank you!”

The door shuts. At that very moment, you feel your shoulder melt as you sink into your chair.

Everything’s gotten fucked since you took Na Jaemin as a client. There’s no inherent issue about you going to Ganghak for a few years. The problem lies in the fact that during those years, you were Na Jaemin’s fucking alarm clock that he didn’t give enough of a shit to even remember. If he does remember, then he wouldn’t be ever so desperately trying to get in your pants at present. He’d be forcing your dignity down your throat the moment you blew up on him because what kind of alarm clock dares to look him in the eye?

He didn’t respect you enough to treat you like a human being back then. And if someone triggers that sense of recollection in him— you’d be done for. 

He’s already a shitty co-worker as is, but at least you have his shitty feelings for you to take advantage of. If that’s overruled by the memory of you being his subservient, walking, talking, inanimate pushover of an alarm clock, then you’d have lost your sole and single leverage over him. Zero. None.

But there’s only one instance in which you’d even consider telling him about his forgotten history with you—

“Ugh.”

Your eyes flit over to your wall clock. Nine forty-three. Seven more hours before your dinner at gun point with him.

“I should pack some digestive pills.”

—and that’s if he ends up falling down, down the line of being far too in love with you to even care about that history. The odds aren’t in your favor. So you just have to continue living as is until your bluff wears out.

*ㅤ

“Your taste in restaurants doesn’t match the trash regularly spewing out of your mouth.” 

That doesn’t mean you’d be acting like a doormat, though.

“Just shut the fuck up and eat, you ungrateful shit.”

You stick your tongue out before digging into the steak dinner he’s paying for. He says he thought you were a pushover until you started him like shit— so you might as well continue treating him like shit and sprinkle him the occasional bouts of positive attention, if that’s what gets him off. And what better way to tick off an egotistical freak than by talking about other men in front of him? 

“Hey,” you start, wadding off the sauce lingering on your lips. “How receptive would Mark be if I bring in another lawyer into the company?”

Your theory is proven by the way his eyebrows twitch at the mere mention of Mark. “Fuck if I know,” he sneers, pointing an accusatory fork at you. “I take you to a nice, fancy dinner and the first thing you talk about is work. Is that all you plan on talking about?”

“Duh. Take a look at my workload. Do you think I have a life outside of this shitty job?”

Na Jaemin simply stifles a low chuckle at your bitter declaration, continuing to pick apart his meal.

“At least this pays better than the last one,” you sigh, continuing to wake your fork around. Your dinner companion seems to be enjoying your tragic monologue. “I swear. The moment I save up enough money, I’m gonna dip, move countries, change my name and buy a new identity so that Mark Lee won’t be able to chase me down.”

He swallows down a mouthful of food. “Should you be telling me all this?”

You snort, beckoning a waiter to refill your wine. “Why, are you gonna snitch on me to your owner? You’re more obedient than I thought.”

That provocation ticks him ever the slightest— evident in the strain on his jaw despite the apparent grin. You down your drink to mask a flinch of nervousness, but you push forward, setting the glass down as you lift your head up, batting your eyes prettily at him with a sweet smile as if you hadn’t just demeaned him. This catches him off guard, and whatever bite he was about to snark dissipates with a cough from him as he peers to the side and tugs on his collar, waving the same waiter for a glass of water, but in a much less polite manner than you did.

There’s a tug on your lips. Natty was right. You gotta make sure to give him a treat at least once a day so he doesn’t act out as an attempt to get your attention again.

“Na Jaemin,” you hum, eyeing him carefully. “Aren’t you curious about what your subordinates came to me for this morning?”

“Not really,” he answers half-heartedly. “Did they kill someone, or some shit?”

“Wow. Such a great boss,” you drawl. “They were your Ganghak juniors, you know.” 

That was a fishing line. Just to get a read on what exactly he feels about his alma mater, which in turn may make your case better or worse in light of the fact that he doesn’t remember his history with you.

“So?” He simply raises a brow. “Am I supposed to give a shit?”

Yeah, you shouldn’t have expected anything more from him. “Whatever. Anyway—”

A phone call interrupts. As in, the default iPhone ringtone blaring from Na Jaemin’s pocket, which triggers his annoyance, but he pulls it out anyway to answer with a pissed off, “What?”

You pick apart your mashed potatoes while observing the way Na Jaemin’s expression twists and shifts from his usual hot-tempered annoyance, to being annoyed-confused, and then annoyed-stressed, based on the way he hisses into the phone while digging a claw into his hair. 

“The fuck do you mean Lucy is vomitting?”

Oh. Oh, wow. 

“I gave you one fucking job, you useless son of a—” His fit is extinguished by a loud groan, slumping back into his chair. You continue eating your food with heightened interest. This is a new look. This is nice. “Listen,” he continues into the phone, practically spitting venom. “You better be there when I get home. If you run away, I’ll kill you twice over.” Then he angrily sets his phone down on the table with a clatter.

You perk up with a curious gaze. “Trouble at home?”

Na Jaemin lets out a disappointed exhale. “As much as I’d hate to cut our date short, attorney—”

“Not a fucking date.”

“Yeah, whatever, I don’t give a fuck,” he dismissively says, focused on the watch on his wrist as he picks up his coat from the back of the chair. “I gotta go check on my daughter and stomp on the useless fuck I left to babysit her. Fucking son of a bitch.”

Well, that’s news. “You have a kid?”

“Yeah. Three.” He flashes you his phone screen. There are indeed three— three cats, that is. You buffer for a moment. The dots refuse to connect. He retrieves his phone before your brain finishes processing. “I was gonna give you a ride home, but—”

“I brought my car, It’s fine. Just go.” The mutt is a cat dad. Of fucking course. That makes sense. No it fucking doesn't. It’s almost terrifying to see him care for another living being. “And don’t forget about our deal.”

All he does is flash you a smile before dipping. What the fuck does that mean?

Whatever the case, when you finish your meal and attempt to bill out, you’re informed that everything’s been taken care of by the, quote-unquote, gentleman you were dining with. It really doesn’t sit well within your stomach that Na Jaemin now has you in debt— or maybe he’s doing this on purpose to manipulate you into spending more time with him. What a sneaky bastard.

Anyhow, the next morning, you’re deadset on fixing a solution to your excessive workload problem. So the first thing you do after clocking in is traversing the sets of stairs that lead to Mark’s office in order to negotiate the idea of bringing in a second lawyer into the company. You’d already texted your candidate last night and have arranged a friendly meeting later this afternoon. You don’t foresee any reason for Mark to object.

“There’s no issue with having another person onboard your team,” was Mark’s response to your concern. “But the main point of conversation is trust, attorney. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“I know,” you say. “I’ll be sure to vet you a trustworthy candidate.”

He gleams at you. “I look forward to it.”

The moment you leave Mark’s office, your lungs are refilled with a dose of air. “Great. Good. This is great,” you release with a huff, marching towards the staircase to the third floor.

You’ve stopped using the elevator since whenever you end up riding the same flight as anyone other than Mark or the four executives, they end up sweating like buckets as if they’d been trapped in the same room as an axe-murderer. It’s not very self-esteem boosting whenever your elevator companions immediately bolt off the second the doors crack open. You’d much rather take the extra effort than be implicitly insulted to your face.

The problem with this is that you have to pass by the stinky, sweaty gym to get back to your floor. And you’re just unfortunate enough to bump into Na Jaemin just as he’s finished his morning workout session.

“Oh.”

Your eyes meet. You flinch and shoot your gaze down. Big mistake because he’s wearing an almost translucent white tank top, making eye-contact with a whole load of chest instead, and you almost choke on your spit. “Uh.” You lose the timing to nonchalantly brush past him— and the bastard notices. Of course he fucking does with that smug grin on his face. But he honors the deal you made and settles with a simple good morning before taking a swig from his water bottle and walking off.

“Oh, hello again, attorney,” Mark gives a surprised yet pleasant welcome back to his office. “Did you forget something?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s none of your business,” you rapid-fire answer, back pressed against the closed door.

Your boss eyes you curiously, a smile playing on his face. “Well, you better finish your business soon because Renjun is waiting for you in your office. He’s requesting legal assistance for another external meeting over lunch. But you appear to be feverish. We can reschedule the meeting another—”

“No!” Your eyes widen. Mark raises a brow. “I—I mean, no, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine. I can join him. I’m just tired from climbing the stairs.”

“Well, alright,” he hums. “Now, off you go, then.”

This is perhaps the lowest point of your career. All you wanted was to avoid walking in the same direction as him, but your flight and fight kicked in. These in-office gyms are incredibly unprofessional and detrimental to overall company productivity. You’d submit a petition to take it down if only you had the fucking time. 

“What are you muttering and swearing about like a lunatic? You’re scaring the grown men around,” is how Renjun greets you, but you look at him like he’s the second coming of Christ. Thank god you’d be spending the entire day out of the building. There’s no risk of bumping into that demon again.

The meeting is at a fancy brunch place, so you and Renjun order enough mimosas to get through this shitty meeting on company time, with company money. The both of you are always on the same page, it’s great. Even when the meeting has ended, you two loiter and talk shit at a nearby cafe instead until he eventually gets called back to the office— while you remain and wait for your fellow lawyer and future co-worker.

“Attorney Kim Jungwoo,” you greet him when he arrives. “How’s JJS treating you?”

Yes. You intend on dragging your old friend into this hell with you— a very well paying hell with a more tolerable boss. Of course, you ease him into it over frappes and cheesecake. He says life at JSS is the same as you’d left it: depressing, deplorable, and Kim Doyoung dumping all the work to his junior associates while taking all the credit. That’s your perfect segue to offering him a position at Nalkeutta.

“Unlike Doyoung, I’m giving you free reign, here,” you say, offering him the draft employment contract you quickly whipped up at 11 p.m. on caffeine last night. “You don’t have to sign or answer now. We can iron out the details later. I just wanted to present you with everything that we can offer.”

Jungwoo skims over the binded papers, interested. “You were pretty devastated when Doyoung sold you off, so this is a bit of a surprise,” he says, gaze flitting up with a hum. “What’s making you happy in Nakeutta, attorney?”

You learn back, mirroring his expression. “Page three.”

“Oh, yeah? Let me ch— holy shit. Are you sure this isn’t a misprint?”

“No, I cleared it with the boss earlier,” you boast confidently. “Also, there’s an in-office gym. That’s gotta be enough to convince you.”

Jungwoo says you’re making it very hard for him to refuse and you say that’s the point. You let him mull over the contract for a while longer while you finish up your frappe and zone out with the ambient cafe tunes. 

It’s an afternoon weekday, so it isn’t very crowded. It’s peaceful. Quiet. Meaning the moment the sound atmosphere gets interrupted by the sound of a jingling bell, your attention is immediately strayed away by the noise, and your eyes widen— and you nearly choke on your spit for the second time today.

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss under your breathe, immediately darting around to look for a place to run off to. “Oh, fuck, don’t do this to me. Don’t you fucking dare do this to me, please—”

Jungwoo looks up from the document in concern. “Hey, you good, at—”

“Attorney.”

The sing-song tune of a third voice jumps in. “Fuck,” you repeat, unable to escape so you force your head up to acknowledge the looming and unwelcome presence. “Na Jaemin, I thought we had an agreement. It hasn’t been two days.”

He basks in your attention, pressing a hand against the backseat leather of the booth to lean into you. “Yeah, well our date got cut short last night so I figured my time sitting in the corner would too.”

“Ugh.” Your face falls into your hands. “Please tell me you’re here by accident. Please don’t tell me you deliberately came here to ruin my day.”

“Take a good guess, attorney. Had a nice chat with Renjun in the company lobby.”

You grit your teeth. That fucking snitch, you gotta knock him down a peg from your list of favorite co-workers. But that would mean Haechan would become first, but you don’t want to give that other asshole the gratification. Nothing ever goes right for you.

Before you can further lament the shittiness of your life, Jungwoo reminds you that he’s still here by clearing his throat, causing you to flinch and sit back straight to see the interested quirk on his lips as he sends insinuating glances between you and Na Jaemin. What kind of ideas is this guy getting? You can’t even dread that because you’re too busy thinking of a way to get out of this because if Jungwoo sees your co-worker— who’s already sending Jungwoo dirty glares— acting insane, he won’t take the delicious bait you spent all night preparing.

“Is this a co-worker?” Jungwoo playfully asks. “Aren’t you gonna introduce us, attorney.”

An idea sparks. Wait. Wait, hold on, this could work.

“Indeed. What great timing.”

You stretch your mouth into a smile and yank Na Jaemin down by the belt. 

“Jungwoo, this is one of Nalkeutta’s executives— Na Jaemin. Jaemin, this is Kim Jungwoo. A former co-worker from JSS Law Firm.”

He came here with his own two feet. Might as well use the hell out of uselessness.

“Oh, I remember you!” Jungwoo cheerfully remarks, looking at Na Jaemin directly. Your former co-worker obviously doesn’t know better and you immediately gulp.“I saw you in the firm once. We didn’t get the chance to talk, but it’s nice to officially meet you, Na Jaemin-ssi.”

You hope your smile is enough to mask your nervous heartrate and you peer at Na Jaemin, noticing his pissed off annoyance from the way his upper lip twitches as he runs his tongue against bared teeth. “Yeah? You won’t be seeing anything much if you don’t keep your fucking eyes dow—”

Before you can think, you place a firm hand on his thigh.

Then you squeeze.

And he freezes.

Behave, you scratch into the fabric of his jeans. Please.

The three second pause that lapses before Na Jaemin finally returns the greeting felt like a three second dip into ice cold water. “It’s my pleasure, Kim Jungwoo-ssi.” And then you finally resurface from the ice with a relieved sigh because that was a close fucking call. 

Still. You’re not allowed to rest just yet because while Jungwoo and Na Jaemin are having an unusually normal conversation, you sit there with the occasional auto-generated responses as you think about the possible consequences of your prior actions— and the fact that you did this. You made Na Jaemin do this. You. He’s currently exchanging his gym routines with Jungwoo who’s making firm eye contact with him when otherwise your poor friend would have been flung to the other end of the cafe by now like everyone else that came before him. 

This is fucking insane. You’re not sure how you’re feeling about this.

“Sorry, excuse me for a sec,” Jungwoo says, looking down at his phone. “Doyoung’s calling. Gotta take this.”

He gets up to leave the cafe and you take this opportunity to make a run for it too. “I—I gotta use the rest—eep!”

Na Jaemin yanks you back down into the seat cushions and settles a firm hold around your hips, pressing a firm squeeze to your thigh as he leans closer like some form of revenge for all the crap you pulled on him earlier. “Did I behave well enough for you, attorney?” he muses, hot breath hitting the side of your face. “But this deal is gonna cost you a lot more than just dinner.”

A chill runs down your spine. Yup. You knew there were gonna be consequences. You should have thought things through.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

[falseficus]

I read a physical copy of monstrous regiment soon after listening to the audiobook, and I noticed two tiny discrepancies between the two editions that make an absolute world of difference. when I found out that these discrepancies existed (you’ll find reddit posts backing me up about them), I felt cheated that my first experience of the book had portrayed a less cohesive arc than pratchett intended

if you’re looking to buy or read monstrous regiment, I strongly recommend the doubleday 2003 version or the corgi 2004 version, which iirc contain the original text. The harper collins publications and audiobook both contain these changes, which imo are confusing and severely undercut the themes the book is trying to get across. if anyone knows the status of other editions of the book pls feel free to add on

obviously the audiobooks and ebooks are more accessible than physical books to some people, so if you read one of those just know that the original text is different in some key ways. I still recommend you read the book because it’s crazy good :)

the changes I noticed, beneath the cut to avoid some serious spoilers:

firstly, the last line of Jackrum’s last scene. in the Doubleday version, this line reads:

“Jackrum had turned her chair to the fire, and had settled back. Around him, the kitchen worked.”

in the harpercollins version, the line reads:

“Jackrum had turned her chair the the fire, and had settled back. Around her, the kitchen worked.”

this pronoun change is actually has huge implications. in the scene in question, jackrum, a transgender man, reveals that he joined the army in disguise. he is referred to as “she” throughout his background reveal. however, he then considers where his future will take him, and in the final line of the scene his pronoun reverts back to “he.” jackrum’s pronoun goes from he->she->he, encapsulating the gendery arc of the scene. however, in the altered he->she->she version of the scene, half of that circle is erased. the neat tie-up of jackrum’s journey is left confusingly unresolved, and the importance of his gender to the book’s overarching themes goes underemphasized

the second change I noticed is how maladict appears in the book’s ending:

in the Doubleday version, maladict appears “in full uniform.”

in the harpercollins version, maladict appears “in full female uniform.”

maladict is the last soldier to reveal [their] true gender, keeping up a masc/ambiguous presentation far after all the rest of the squad has come forward as women. “in full uniform” maintains this ambiguity, allowing the reader to decide for themself whether maladict comes forward and presents as fully female or continues to dress masculinely despite the fact that circumstances no longer require it (in fact I believe that the latter is more likely, as maladict says “thought I’d try again,” which could mean dressing in male uniform again). “in full female uniform” removes that ambiguity, and brings maladict’s arc to a somewhat unsatisfying conclusion. it eliminates the possibility of maladict as transgender or gender-non-conforming, and I’m left wondering, “if maladict presents as female so readily, why make such a fuss of it before now?”

both changes undermine the book’s message by eliminating its space for non-cisnormative identity… which is kinda crucial to the whole idea. im honestly really disappointed that these changes were made in any version of the book, because whoever made them clearly didn’t get the point

[hayleythesugarbowl]

trevor evarts x smosh cast member! reader PLEASEEE

Am I The Crush? || Trevor Evarts x reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ masterlist • smosh masterlist ⋆˚｡⋆୨୧⋆

summary: when trevor joined smosh, you quickly became friends, helping him settle in—and secretly crushing on him. then some interesting things are revealed in a reddit stories video.

word count: 2.2k

warnings: mild swearing

a/n: happy to give you the trevor content you deserve 🫡 this takes place shortly after trevor joined smosh. reader is relatively close to trevor’s age. fem!reader. enjoy darling!!

<— another trevor fic • trevor hcs —>

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     “So, what’s up with you and Trevor?” 

     Your eyes snapped up in shock, looking at Angela’s expectant face across from you.

     “What’s up? Nothing!” you said quickly.

     You sat across from her and Arasha at a table, quickly eating your lunch before your next shoot. She raised her eyebrow at you and you just took a bite of your sandwich, avoiding her gaze.

     “It’s just you guys are, like, always together,” she prompted, looking to Arasha for help. 

     “You do spend a lot of time with each other,” Arasha chimed in. 

     “We’re friends,” you told them both. “That’s all.”

     The truth was, you kind of wished that wasn’t all.

     Trevor had just joined the Smosh cast no more than a month ago. You, having been a cast member for years now, had taken it upon yourself to help him get acclimated and feel comfortable there, befriending him immediately. 

     Which you did out of the kindness of your heart and definitely not because Trevor was insanely cute and also happened to be the closest cast member to your age.

     You quickly became close friends, confiding in each other, hanging out at work, talking for hours on end. You really enjoyed his presence and you couldn’t imagine Smosh without him now.

      And the more you had spent time with him, the more you realized that you had feelings for him. Some days you thought maybe. Maybe he might feel the same way.  And then then other days you thought you were delusional and you should stop crushing on your friend and coworker. 

     You were brought out of these thoughts by Angela’s voice.

     “Yeah okay, and Shayne and Courtney are ‘just friends’,” she said sarcastically.

     “That’s nothing like this,” you assured her. “There’s nothing going on between me and Trevor.”

     “What about Trevor?” 

     You spun around to find Trevor himself walking up behind you. 

     “Nothing! We weren’t talking about you!” Angela blurted out.

     “What she means,” Arasha shot Angela a look, covering for her obviousness. “Is that we were just talking about how you and (Y/n) have that Reddit stories video to film later today.”

     “She’s so good at it,” Angela whispered to herself, shaking her head at Arasha’s easy lie. 

     You ignored her and turned back to Trevor. 

     “Oh yeah,” Trevor shot a quick glance at you. “It should be an interesting one.”

     “Do you know what the theme is?” You asked him. “They didn’t tell me.”

     Trevor ran a hand along the back of his neck. “I’m not sure. Something about romance?”

     “Safe bet,” you nodded. “How was Two Truths One Lie?”

     “Wet,” he announced, gesturing to his shirt. “Shayne sucks.”

     You giggled.

     “So,” Trevor started. “Are we still on for coffee after work?”

     Across from you, Arasha raised an eyebrow and Angela grabbed Arasha’s arm. You shot them a look before your gaze returned to Trevor.

     “Why, are you trying to cancel?” You asked.

     He put a hand in his heart. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Boy Scout’s honor.”

     “You were a Boy Scout?” Angela asked in disbelief.

     “No, it just sounds cool,” he shrugged. “Well, I’ll catch you guys later. (Y/n), you still owe me an ice cream.”

     “And you owe me a pineapple.”

     “I thought that was just cause you loved me,” Trevor pouted.  

     “It was. And now I want my pineapple back,” you teased.

     “I love you,” Trevor tried, batting his eyelashes at you.

     “Let’s call it a wash,” you agreed, mostly because you were too flustered by him saying he loved you to come up with anything else.

     Angela coughed into her hand.

     “Right, I’ll see you.” Trevor made a small waving motion, before continuing on the other way.

     There was silence between you, Angela, and Arasha for a moment.

     “A pineapple?” Arasha asked finally.

     “It’s a long story,” you told her.

     They both looked at you.

     “Okay, so maybe I like Trevor a little bit,” you whispered. 

     “Good, because he definitely likes you,” Arasha said. 

     “What?” You felt your face warm. “How can you tell?”

     “How can you not tell!” Angela interjected. “Were you not just here for that? Who owes someone a pineapple?”

     “She’s right.” Arasha nodded. “He obviously cares about you a lot. He’s making plans outside of work. There’s always the inside jokes. He feels comfortable around you but was clearly nervous about something.”

     “You got all of that out of one interaction?” You looked at her in disbelief.

     She shrugged, taking a sip of her drink.

     You pondered what your friend had said. You couldn’t deny that you hoped what she deduced was true. Did Trevor feel the same way about you as you did about him?

     No. You shook off the delusion. This was Trevor, your friend, who definitely didn’t have feelings for you. 

      “Well, it doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to do anything about it,” you decided. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship if he doesn’t like me back—which I still strongly suspect, by the way.”

     “Hey, do whatever you want,” Arasha put her hands up. “Again, it’s your decision.”          

     “I’ll tell him,” Angela said suddenly, shrugging.

     “You most certainly will not,” you warned her, slapping her hand. 

     “Don’t worry, I’ll be subtle!” She teased, waggling her eyebrows. 

     “Angela, I love you, but you’re about as subtle as a sledgehammer,” Arasha patted her shoulder. 

     “Hey!” Angela shouted, looking around in outrage. “I can be subtle!”

     Your mind wandered as they argued, thinking about Trevor.

     You still didn’t believe them that Trevor had a crush on you, but the more you thought about, it the more you pictured what it would be like to be dating Trevor. Sharing jackets, holding hands at work, forehead kisses after a long day, going on coffee shop dates that were actual dates.     

      “(Y/n),” hearing your name, you looked up, your fantasy ending abruptly. “Tell Arasha I’m subtle.”

     You smiled at you friend. “Like a bull in a china shop.”

     ₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

    “You ready for this?” 

     You approached Trevor, smiling at him as you walked towards the set a few hours later. 

     “You say that like we’re going to war,” he said. “I’ve been in these videos before.”

     “Sure, but not since you’ve officially been Smosh cast. You don't know about the rituals—it’s pretty hardcore,” you teased. 

     “Hold my hand?” Trevor joked back, and your heart fluttered, if only for a second.

     “The horrors you’ll face are that which even I can’t protect you from,” you said in a dramatic voice.

     “Well in that case, I’ll hold Shayne’s hand.”

     “Sorry man, I’m taken,” Shayne said, overhearing as you walked towards the couch across from him.

     “You’re much cuter than him anyway,” Trevor stage-whispered as he sat down next to you.

     Your stomach flipped. It was times like these when you could almost imagine that he returned your feelings. You shook the thought from your mind, trying not to read too much into it.

     You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for the shoot and pushing thoughts of Trevor out of your mind. 

     You heard the director call rolling and then action. Shayne began the intro.

     “What’s up guys, we’re back with yet another Reddit stories video,” he said. “I’m here with (Y/n)—”

     You waved at the camera. 

     “—and Trevor, who just kind of walked in here, so apparently he’s in this video.”

     “Hey!” Trevor objected. A couple people off camera laughed at Shayne’s joke.

     “Today we’re going to be looking at some stories about crushes.”

     Great, you thought. Just what you needed right now. 

     “So, I think we should just jump into these. We have some interesting ones here, so let’s get into it,” Shayne said, looking at you and Trevor.

    “I’m ready,” you said.

    “Let’s freaking go,” Trevor agreed. 

     “Alright, so this first one says: Am I the asshole for leaving my fiancé after I met an attractive celebrity at a party?”

     “Starting off strong,” you said.

     …

     And that’s how the rest of the episode went. Shayne reading stories about people who sabotaged others because of their crushes or changed themselves completely or simply liked people they shouldn’t.

     You almost forgot about your crush on Trevor as you listened to the stories and provided your commentary.

     Almost.

     Hearing his responses to everything just made you remember why you had feelings for him in the first place. You were reminded of how kind and funny and thoughtful and wise he was. And it took all of you to not reach over to the other side of the couch and touch him.

     Not that this was exactly new.

     “Alright,” Shayne said, after a particularly insane story. “That was pretty wild.”

     “I know,” Trevor agreed. “Hiring sharks is crazy.”

     “I mean, I see where he’s coming from,” you joked and they both looked at you before you all started laughing.

     “Moving on,” Shayne said. “To our last story.”

     Trevor shifted in his seat next to you. You looked at Shayne expectantly, but Shayne was watching Trevor. He looked away quickly, beginning to read. 

     “So this one says: Am I the asshole for not asking a girl out, even though I really like her?” 

     “Story of my life, am I right?” Trevor held his hand up for a high five, and you returned it weakly. What other girls was he referring to?

      “I can’t relate,” you joked, “I ask people out.”

     Well, you know, except for Trevor.

     Trevor looked uncomfortable just then and you furrowed your brow. But then the moment passed and it was as if you imagined it.

     “So,” Shayne began again. “This person continues: So for some context, I just started working at a new company. I really enjoy my job there, especially because there’s this girl that I’ve been crushing on ever since I started my job. She had already been working at the company for years, and after I started working there we became friends. She was really nice to me and helped me feel comfortable there. And I quickly started to really like her.”

      “Pretty standard so far,” Shayne interrupted himself. “One of the tamer ones.”

     But you were barely listening to him. Something about this story seemed oddly familiar, but you didn’t dare hope.

     “However,” Shayne went on. “I haven’t asked this girl out. We’ve been friends for a month now, and I really want to, but I keep chickening out. I don’t want to ruin our friendship or work relationship if she doesn’t like me back. She’s way out of my league, and I’m scared she’ll say no. And I feel like the asshole because she deserves to know how I feel and that I think she’s the prettiest, funniest, sweetest, most talented person I know—even if she does still owe me a mint chocolate chip on a waffle cone.”

     Your eyes snapped up. Your heart had started beating faster and faster as this story had started to sound more and more like one you knew well. 

     But now your gaze immediately shot to Trevor who was watching you with an expression like nerves and hope.

     “So,” he swallowed. “What do you think? Am I the asshole?”

     You couldn’t believe this. Trevor had feelings for you. And if this really was his story, you had basically been living the same experience for the past month. 

     You shook your head, your voice coming out breathy. You felt out of breath, even though you hadn’t even left the couch. “No. No you’re not the asshole.”

     Trevor breathed out. “Phew. I was afraid between this and the pineapple thing, you’d think I was some kind of mega-asshole.”

     “Only if you don’t ask me out right now,” you said, taking in a breath and smiling up at him.

     “(Y/n) (Y/l/n), will you go out with me this Saturday, and buy me ice cream?” Trevor asked. 

     “Gold digger,” you rolled your eyes at him, but you couldn’t have been happier. 

     “Fine,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Will you go out with me if I buy you ice cream.”

     “That’s more like it,” you teased. “And yes, yes I will.”

     “She said yes!” Trevor mock-whispered to Shayne.

     “Nice dude, she likes you back,” he said, continuing the bit. You’d almost forgot that Shayne—or anyone else—was there. In your mind, it was just you and Trevor.

     “A lot,” you said, grabbing Trevor’s hand. “She likes you a lot.”

     Trevor beamed at you. 

     “Yeah she does!” Angela called from where she and Arasha were sitting off-set. You hadn’t even known they were watching. “Who’s subtle now?”

     “Should I say ‘I told you so’ now, or do you want it in written form?” Arasha said.

     “Shut up,” you yelled at them, but it was without any conviction. You were too happy to be bothered by their antics.

     “So, it appears we have an update,” Shayne ad-libbed. “Looks like OP is actually not as big of a chicken as we originally thought. And it looks like this girl he talked about must’ve settled.”

     As everyone laughed, you looked at Trevor, grinning. You couldn’t wait for your date—and not just because of the free ice cream. 

     “Well, this has been Crush Reddit Stories. And also Trevor finally getting his first girlfriend.” Shayne joked. 

     You giggled, leaning closer to Trevor on the couch. He wrapped his arm around your shoulder. 

     “And we finally have confirmation that Trevor is, in fact, a Redditor,” Shayne said.

     “Only for you,” Trevor said to you as Shayne continued the outro. “Only for you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ˋ°•*⁀➷ hope you enjoyed my lovelies 💌 trevor is so bbg and more people need to be talking about it !!

[the-californicationist]

Brisance (1/2)

When Johnny MacTavish finds the woman of his dreams, he didn't expect her to be strapped with ten pounds of C-4... but he kinda likes it. Or: How Johnny MacTavish learned to stop worrying and love the bombmaker...

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2

Brisance

— August —

Ghost sighed, knocking his bootheel on the edge of the desk where he was perched, smoking his last cigarette, and scrolling through Reddit threads, bored to death and letting everyone know about it. 

“I can hear ye, Ghostie. I’ll jus’ be a wee bit longer,” Johnny called out over his shoulder. 

His masked lieutenant sighed audibly. He thought Soap looked ridiculous in that lighted, magnifying headset, the plastic lenses making his big blue eyes look like saucers. The sergeant had been hunched over an inert explosive device and its mechanical guts for the better part of four hours now, inspecting every inch of the thing, commenting on technical mambo jumbo that Simon hadn’t ever heard - or cared - about. Bombs were not his forte. He knew how to set one, and he knew how to avoid them, but that was about it. 

Soap let out a low whistle of admiration, and Ghost rolled his eyes, knowing some brainy quip was coming next about the “detonation velocity” or the “elastomer bonding” or whatever demolitionist jargon he was moved to speak on. 

“Innit tha’ the bonniest thing there ever was, mate?” Johnny crooned, sounding like a proud father. 

“Does this one kill us real special-like?” Ghost snarled, tired of Soap’s preening exploration of this device.

“You dinnae understand, LT. This is… well, it’s the bloody Mona Lisa of IEDs.”

“Come off it.”

“No, I’m serious. Come see,” Johnny moved his chair over to show off the open, black box where the device’s innards were housed, pointing to a series of tightly-strung wires and cables, “Ye ken how the last one cut through three layers of concrete at the Kadurin silos?”

“Aye,” Simon sauntered over, peering into the mess of wires, trying to divine what his sergeant was seeing.

“See this block here? It would take ten times the RDX to get a high enough brisance to pound through all three layers at once,” Soap sounded like a kid at Christmas, “But, look at how this bastard staggered his fuse layers. He used a visco fuse, cut it like a flying fish, and only had to send one electric match to charge it! Bloody fuckin’ brilliant.”

“English, MacTavish,” Ghost groaned, “Please…”

“This wee box survived because it contains the initial housing, but the bomb itself was in the fuckin’ room, not the detonation package.”

The lieutenant furrowed his brow, taking one last drag of his cigarette, and begging Johnny to clarify,

“So, you’re sayin’ that the bomber was in the cafe before the device was planted?”

“Aye,” Johnny’s eyes got even wider, comical when set behind his magnified lenses, “And tha’s not it. They made this box to last. Someone is sendin’ us a message.”

“What does it say?” Ghost looked back into the wires, expecting them to spell out H-E-L-L-O or F-U-C-K-O-F-F. 

“I dinnae ken. Not yet. But, I think he left me a clue.”

“A clue? The fuck…”

“See this? This is a visco fuse alright, but it’s Cordtex, and its got traces of collodion.”

Johnny was waiting on the edge of his seat, buzzing with anticipation, praying for Ghost to have the same, nearly-orgasmic eureka moment that he was. And yet, bored dark eyes glared down at him, waiting for the punchline. So, Soap gave it to him,

“He’s makin’ these from scratch. And,” Soap ripped off the headset and stared down into the box in amazement, “I think he’s a Brit. He could’ve just used any old visco fuse, but he didn’t. He went bloody far out of his way to make these, and I wonder…”

The headset slid back on and Johnny returned to the device, picking around the mechanisms like a dog hunting for a treat, sniffing his way around for anything to chew on. 

“British,” Simon hummed, “Hm, I’ll tell Cap. Maybe he can get Laswell to send it off for testing.”

Soap didn’t respond. As Ghost left the room, he called back over his shoulder, 

“Don’t stay up all night, Johnny. Got PT at 0430.”

“Mm-hm…” Soap replied, not bothering to look up when Ghost finally made his exit, too busy making eyes at his one true love: a beautifully crafted bomb. 

— October — 

The ticking was the worst part, but as he stared down into the blackness of a rigged, plastic tote, Johnny almost wished he would have something to keep him company, even some of that infernal ticking sound that should be happening. But, it wasn’t. The room was silent like the grave, and if Johnny made one wrong move, it would become his own. 

A voice crackled through his headset,

“Five minutes, thirty seconds.”

Gaz was keeping count for him, checking in at regular intervals, his voice trembling from the stress. Johnny wished he wouldn’t worry. This was a timebomb, yes, but it needed input. Someone was waiting for something, and if he could figure out what, maybe he could stop it.

“Aye, any movement from overwatch?”

A short pause and then his lieutenant’s voice came through, 

“Negative.”

This bomb was truly a piece of work. There was no indicator, and in fact, no traceable fuse. All of the ignition was internal to the RDX modules, and there were eight of them altogether, each with its own unique housing. Johnny had disarmed five of the eight, and he was working on number six as quickly as he could. 

The bombmaker had a great deal of skill, but so did Soap, and it was less of a race than it was a fluid, complicated, one-sided conversation. With every choice in material and fuse design and chemical agent, the bombmaker was telling Johnny all about himself. 

The Semex block and guncotton in housing three, wrapped in flash paper and copper-coated fuse links? This bloke had access to high-quality chemicals. The wooden housing and saltpeter dusting in number five? When he didn’t have access to those high-quality chemicals, he was resourceful enough to know how to make do without them. The way the fuse line lay independent from the center of each housing, and yet initiated from different grafting points? Making bombs was more than just a hobby. The bastard was designing these devices like challenges, giving Johnny puzzle after puzzle, testing his abilities. 

Soap should have been angry, but he wasn’t. In fact, this particular model of IED hadn’t taken a single life. The bombed buildings were strategically placed against Makarov’s forces, almost as if this terrorist was on a mission of rebellious freedom. The Russian oligarch’s people were fighting back against their own leader, rejecting his authority. This was the work of a highly intelligent man out for justice, not a simple murderer. 

Johnny had spent the last two months discovering more and more about this particular insurgent, and now that he could see the pattern of his behavior, Soap was more likely to label him as a true freedom fighter. Laswell didn’t seem to care about labels, but Johnny felt like he almost had the captain convinced. 

“This might be someone we could pull to our side, Cap’n,” Johnny had suggested.

“Just make sure you end the day with all your fingers still fuckin’ attached, lad. How about that?” Price had sniped, but it was toothless. Johnny knew he was starting to see the pattern, too.

Staring down at his hands, all ten fingers still hard at work, he marveled at the commitment to craft in everything from the fuses to the housing shells. The sergeant cut through blocks of C-4 in cubes six and seven before Gaz had given him a seven-minute warning. As he inspected housing number eight, Johnny almost felt disappointed that he and the maker of these bombs would never meet. The things he could learn from an artist like this… 

A green laser trembled and danced in front of his face, pointing directly to the bottom of the eighth block. Johnny’s eyes shot up, finding the source right away. Through the window, a cloaked figure crouched on the roof, dressed all in black, tucked behind an air vent, their eyes pinned to him as he gaped in disbelief. 

It was him. The bombmaker was here. 

“Overwatch, target at eleven o’clock, south rooftop, copy,” Johnny’s voice gave away their position, and as soon as he heard the confirmation from Ghost, his ears also picked up on a soft, almost delicate ticking sound. Gunshots popped wildly outside, and the bombmaker disappeared, his body lithe and quick, avoiding danger and leaving Johnny to die at the hands of his creation. 

As quick as he could, Johnny cut through the eighth housing, searching for the fuse. But, he came up empty. Then, he remembered where the laser had been pointing. He turned the dark layer over and saw a hole in the RDX material. On nothing but instinct, he cut down into it and hit something solid. The housing broke open to reveal a wristwatch. 

There was no fuse. And all of the other housings had been rendered inert, so there was no danger. 

Why would the bombmaker start the timer without anything to blow? Johnny’s mind swam with possibilities, and then he turned the watch over to inspect the back. Written in big, bold pen, Soap saw the letters JFM on the dull metal. His initials. John Fergus MacTavish. Not even Ghost knew his middle name.

Suddenly, Johnny heard more ticking. It sounded like a collection of clocks had just come to life. He dug around in the box, finding it empty, but he discovered the final clue too late. A small lip on the edge of the crate hinted at another layer of explosive material, hidden from plain sight.

“Shite! Fall back!” He shouted.

There was a false bottom, and when Johnny pulled it up, he discovered ten more tightly-packed Semex blocks that were fused up together with that same Cordtex line, ready to explode. All over the plasticine blocks, the letters JFM were cut into the material, recurring like an endless pattern. As he looked down at his initials littering the bomb he was trying to diffuse, his head swam with confusion. But, there was no time for that.

Johnny slammed the lid shut and bolted, running for cover. His legs burned as they hauled him out of the stone building, his feet sinking into the dirt and sand outside of the door. Soap could see the cover wall, and he dug in, using every bit of strength he had to reach it and scale it before he was just a stain on the dirt. He barely made it, and as he tumbled behind the sturdy wall, he could feel the searing heat of the blast on his back and legs. It felt like needles were stinging his skin; it was so hot. 

A few moments went by, and although the world was quiet for Johnny, he knew that was just the hearing loss. In fact, he understood that the reality was quite the opposite. As he looked up, he saw Price stomping over to him. The captain was yelling something, but his voice couldn’t reach his ears. All he could see was the bearded man hollering and carrying on with a wrathful look on his face. Then, bits and pieces came through. 

“... could’ve… killed… fuck.. thinkin’... Johnny?!”

Price tried again, pulling his sergeant up from the floor by his gear vest, 

“Do you hear me? What the fuck was that? Almost lost you, boy. Jesus Christ!” Captain Price sounded like he was underwater, but at least the words were coming through. 

“Sorry, sir. But, I needed to find the last clue,” Johnny held up the watch as if it was his well-deserved trophy.

“You were almost the last clue, you bloody idiot,” Price ran his hand through his hair and knocked his boonie hat onto his shoulders, totally exasperated. 

Soap knew he should feel guilty, or at least a little fearful, but everything was different, now. After the realization that the bombs were designed specifically for him, Johnny found himself actually looking forward to the next one. 

— November — 

The mission had gone sideways right from the start. Their comms had been nothing but staticky garbage while they were clearing out the Kotovo Blocs, trying their best to evacuate civilians while simultaneously managing Makarov’s squadrons. It was a crapshoot every time they opened another door. Half the time, a mother and her children rushed out screaming, and the other half, they were greeted by bullets. 

Even worse, they’d been separated by a particularly nasty collection of smoke-filled pipe bombs. It was nothing nasty, but it was enough of a hindrance that they’d lost formation. The plan was to regroup at an abandoned fueling station one klick southeast of their current position, and that’s where Johnny was heading. He tried to connect on comms again, but all he got was soft static. 

“Ghost, Gaz come in! Bravo-seven to Bravo-actual. Do you copy?”

No one replied. He was flying solo. His senses were on high alert, and all of his movements were carefully calculated, measured, and aligned to his new mission: survive.

Luckily, Makarov’s men had been retreating, and there was enough gunfire to scare off most of the civilians, but it was still a long way to the fuel station. 

Suddenly, in his ears, he heard a voice loud and clear.

“Bravo-seven, huh? I think we both know that’s not your name, soldier.”

Johnny’s mind reeled. It was a woman’s voice. She had a sort of blended accent, something he’d heard all of Laswell’s spies use so that no one would be able to tell where they were from. 

“Who is this?” He asked, checking his six and making sure to stay tucked below the window ledge. It would make moving through the bloc much slower, but if someone was in a sniper position, he couldn’t take any chances. 

“Mm,” she whined, “You wound me, Mr. MacTavish. I thought you’d know me by now, especially after I left you that little gift basket in Levin.”

Soap stopped in his tracks, whispering even though he was very much alone,

“It’s you…”

Her voice turned sinister,

“Vladimir is mine. Stay out of Kotovo. You’re too handsome to be in more than one piece.”

The noise in his headset went dead and he knew that she was gone. When he saw movement out of the corner of his eye – a flash of a black cloak, tattered and torn like a destitute comic book hero – Soap looked to the rooftop to find her. 

The moment his eyes met her face, she pulled back her hood to reveal her eyes, piercing and furious, and a full, pouting mouth. When she caught him gaping at her, crouching far out of cover and in a state of pure shock, her lips turned up into a slight smile before she jumped down the opposite side of the bloc building, disappearing into the pelting snow.

“... –vish! Co– … John– where ar– … Johnny!”

“LT?” Johnny tried to listen in to his comms, ducking back under the window and rushing out of the building, “I found her. In pursuit west north west to the docks.”

“What? Soap, we need to RV at the fueling st–”

“There’s no time! I cannae let her get away.”

“Wha’dya mean her?” Gaz asked, interrupting their back and forth, “The terrorist is a fuckin’ bird?”

“Aye,” Johnny panted, running flat out through the thick snowfall, chasing her across the parking lot of the bloc complex, “Bonnie as fuck, too.”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind, MacTavish?! Get the fuck back to RV. Tha’s a bloody order!” The captain demanded. 

“Aye, sir. Be there in two shakes.”

Johnny muted his mic and ignored the protests from the other end of the comm line. They were coming for him, predictably, so if things did go south, he knew he’d have some backup. 

Suddenly, just as his wee birdie was making her way down the main road to the docks, gunfire popped across her path. On instinct Johnny raised his weapon and returned fire, getting her attention. She peered over her shoulder at him, surprised that he was not shooting at her instead, and pulled her handgun to help him take down the small group of Makarov’s men who were advancing on their position. 

Enemy squads were in direct pursuit, and it was hard to tell if Soap or the bombmaker was their main target. It didn’t matter, in the end. Johnny took out the first squad in a matter of moments, barely reducing his speed to return fire, but there were two stragglers from the second squad, hidden behind a small electrical shed, popping off stray shots in her direction. 

He altered his course, but she stopped him in his tracks. She’d shot at the ground right in front of him, keeping him away from the shed. Soap slowed, but he changed back to his original path, not understanding her motive. It wasn’t until he saw a blinding, golden blaze of fire erupt out of the electrical housing and felt the shockwave of her bomb rattle around in his chest that he understood why she had stopped him. 

“Holy fuck…” he breathed.

Her teasing voice cut through his comms, silencing the chatter from the 141,

“Did ya like that, baby?”

Soap peeled his gaze away from the fiery explosion and found her perched behind a shipping container about fifty meters ahead of him. She was breathing hard, and her body was tense, but she was looking straight at him, a clever smile pasted across her mouth. 

He smiled back,

“Tha’ was bloody beautiful, lass.”

Then, her eyes left him, turning back to her path towards the boat slips, and her tone became resigned,

“You can’t come with me, soldier.”

The line went dark. She had cut his entire communication. He couldn’t even hear Price barking orders anymore. Soap peeled the buds out of his ears and let them hang down by his throat mic. Still, he pursued her. He wasn’t going to give up that easy. 

He was also gaining on her. She was trying her best to weave between shipping crates and huge piles of knotted ropes, but it was no use. He was faster, stronger, and by the time he was ten paces away, she knew she was caught. Suddenly, she ducked into a rundown storage building and disappeared into the room. 

Johnny followed right behind, ignoring his training to stop, assess, and plan his ingress. 

He came into a large, nearly empty room. At the far end, the ceiling was missing from the roof and it cast pale sunshine down into the open area. It illuminated two large wooden crates where his fiery little bird was sitting, waiting for him. The floor was covered in sand and snow, and he couldn’t see the boards beneath his boots. It was like there was no floor at all. The outside was inside, and the destroyed roof let in the wilderness where there should have been cold, clean civilization. 

Johnny stopped in his tracks, holding his gun at the ready position, staring up at her like she was the winged Nike, shaken by her power and amazed by her beauty. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. Her lips were pillowy and expressive, her eyes full of her sharp intellect, her body soft with curves yet heavy with muscle… to mix her stunning appearance with her phenomenal talent with demolition engineering seemed almost blasphemous. No one woman could be so perfect, and yet…

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Her voice was soft like rain, and it hit his skin in the same way, leaving little drops of its effect behind to remind him of it. 

“Why?” He asked, standing very still as if any movement might scare her off again. 

“I’m going to a place where no one ever comes back from. Alone. Vladimir Makarov killed my sister, and he has to pay for that. I will make him pay.” 

As she finished her explanation, she smiled in a sorrowful, resigned way, understanding that she was on a suicide mission but unwilling to change her course. 

“He will, bonnie. We willnae let him get away this time. You have my word,” Johnny promised her, earnestly. 

“My hero,” she teased. Then, after a short pause, she asked, “Do you have a sister, Mr. MacTavish?”

“Aye. Three wildlings, in fact,” he had taken no truth serum and yet it came pouring out of him anyway. 

“Bridgette, Maggie, and Jenny…” She reported back, “All older than you, right?”

Johnny’s heart stopped in his chest, 

“How’d you –”

“When a handsome, young, black ops soldier comes in and defuses a sixteen stage daisycutter that I designed myself, I make sure to learn a thing or two about him. And,” she unzipped her jacket and began to pull it off of her shoulders, “I also know that a man like that, a man with sisters… is not the kind of man who just gives up.”

“No, lass. I willnae give up. Let me help you. If we… oh, Christ,” Johnny watched in horror as she pulled the jacket the rest of the way off to reveal an intricately woven vest packed with explosives with perfectly laid Cordtex wires winding in and out of each of the housings, live and ready to blow. 

“Hands up!” Price’s voice echoed through the empty room as he, Gaz, and Ghost filled in the space behind their sergeant, guns pointed right at her, their red laser sights dancing on her chest like fireflies. 

Johnny held out his hand with the signal to halt, and everyone froze. She, however, slid off of the crate and walked over to him, little white flecks of snow sticking to her hair and cheeks, taking each step slowly and deliberately. As she got closer and closer, Soap could smell her sweat, heady and musky, and he could hear her breaths, hanging on each of her exhales like it was some heavenly edict, memorizing the pace of them like it would unlock all of the world’s many secrets, a passcode to the truth. 

She whispered, inches from his open mouth, 

“You can help me,” she put her hands on his neck, using her thumbs to rub against the scruff of his five o’clock shadow, letting the stiff hairs burn under her touch, “By staying the fuck out of my way.”

Despite the warning timbre of her voice, she was open and pliant for him, letting her lips hang open slightly, like she was expecting his kiss. Johnny leaned toward her, his mouth slotting across hers, tasting her on his tongue and moving his body into her space. He ignored the danger, well aware of the fact that she was strapped with enough Semtex to blow a city block into a dirty crater, and he kissed her deeply, as if they had been lovers for years, as if this was not their first touch. 

She stepped back, pulling away from him, and he took a step forward to follow. 

Click.

Time stopped. Johnny’s skin flashed hot and then cold, all of the adrenaline he had left flooding his system. 

“Tsk, tsk, tsk…” She chided him, backing away while he remained frozen in place, “Sit… stay…” Then, that same sad smile, “Good boy.” 

She climbed up on the crate and escaped through the hole in the roof before any of them could react to what had just happened. 

Captain Price gave an order to Gaz,

“Go after her!”

“No!” Johnny protested, “All of you, get the fuck out of this room. I stepped on a wee mine, and if I know her, this whole dock will be at the bottom of the bloody ocean the moment I lift my boot.”

Ghost came up behind him, shifting his feet carefully through the sand, searching for secondary devices. Then, he used his pneumatic tool to blow the snow away from Johnny’s left foot to reveal the device. 

“Well, she got you fair and square, didn’t she, Johnny? I’ll tell your mum you died a hero’s death,” there was a joking tone in Ghost’s voice that made Soap peer down at the toe of his boot. 

He had stepped on an empty soda can. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny sighed, feeling the tingle of relief skitter through his limbs. 

Then, panic again as Price’s voice growled darkly behind him,

“I should send you on the first flight back to Glasgow with your papers in your fuckin’ hand, boy. What the hell are you doin’, MacTavish? You’ve got one fuckin’ chance to explain yourself before I replace you with a damn bomb robot. At least then I won’t have to write a letter home when he gets blown to bits.”

“I put a tag in her pocket, Cap’n. Should be able to watch her on the SAT-NAV now. She already mapped where Makarov’ll be next. I think we should help her.”

“What’s your deal with her? Are you…” Gaz asked, bewildered by his friend’s unusually careless behavior.

“I dinnae ken how to explain it, but I need to see this through.”

Price’s exhausted sigh was the only response he received, but Johnny knew that the silence was a form of assent. They would help him, and he would help her, if only he could get to her before she did anything too permanent.

Chapter 2

AO3 Link

[scoutofmymind]

Saw that someone said Luigi’s Reddit had a post where he eluded to a pretty heavy drinking habit in college, which then makes me think about drunk ex!luigi. I’m sorry, but you write angst too well

Unlearn Me — { Luigi x Reader}

Content: SFW, angst, yearning, slight pining, mentions of canon back pain, ex’s reminiscing, heartbreak all over again.

Wc: 4,336 (holy shit)

Notes; Two semesters of carefully crafted distance crumbles at 3AM in the computer lab when your final project implodes hours before the deadline, leaving you with no choice but to seek help from the one person you've been avoiding since the breakup.

Before we continue, I cannot ignore that wildfires continue to ravage Los Angeles, countless families have lost their homes and livelihoods. I urge you to consider supporting those affected through any of these donation links, additionally, Roadogs on Instagram is looking for fosters for mass evacuations of shelter dogs in California.

Foster or donate if you can. xo.

Now, let’s go.

"Mother fucker," you curse, attacking your keyboard with increasingly desperate keystrokes.

Each combination might be the one to salvage this disaster, but deep down you know it's hopeless — your software has corrupted itself into oblivion, taking six months of work with it.

"You can ask for an extension," Emma suggests, her voice carrying the weight of exhaustion that matches your own. Your roommate had burst into the media center still wearing her pink silk pajamas, immediately launching into a nervous tirade about after-hours permissions and potential expulsion risks.

Her constant hovering and worrying grates on your last nerve, and you tell her to leave.

Predictably, she refuses.

"Listen, I'm not just gonna leave you here on your own." She leans across your workspace, her body pressing against your laptop screen until it tilts halfway closed. You freeze, fingers suspended above the keys, terrified of losing what little progress you've made in this digital archaeology expedition. "There's - like - a murderer on campus."

"One girl said she was followed home," you gently remind. Under normal circumstances, Emma's mother-hen routine would be endearing — charming, even. But right now, with your project in shambles and deadline looming, her protective hovering feels suffocating. "Not murdered, Em."

"May as well have been." Emma fixes you with that look — the one that screams why am I the only rational person here? While her nails tap nervously against your desk. "Probably hasn't left her room since. And you know what? Smart girl.”

You scrub your hands over your face, your eyes fixed on the projector's word vomit — an endless stream of error messages and unintelligible code painting the drywall from a tired projector like some twisted modern art piece.

Not exactly what you were going for.

Emma stands mesmerized, "How did you even do this?" She watches the cryptic display crawl across the wall, her eyes tracking each line as if she could decode it. "This reminds me of-" she catches herself, the name hanging unspoken between you. She's learned that lesson the hard way. "This is wild.”

You can't help but notice.

Notice how she almost speaks his name, how these meaningless strings of letters and numbers somehow bridge the gap to memories you've tried so hard to bury — promises whispered under star-sprinkled skies, fingers intertwined beneath the cosmic glow.

Moments that felt eternal then, ephemeral now.

Your gaze drifts to your phone, lying face-down like a surrender.

You blink several times, trying to clear the ghosts from your vision before speaking, your voice emerging barely above a whisper, as if the words themselves might shatter something in the air, "Should I text him?" You ask, offering the idea as if it was something too controversial to be spoken aloud.

Emma shifts her weight, both from exhaustion and the sudden weight of responsibility.

Your night's trajectory now rests in her hands — she who has witnessed every shade of you, from triumph to devastation. Her own memories of him surface: the way he'd raid her ice cream stash only to replace it with a premium pint the next day, how he'd tackle the dish mountain without prompting, those small gestures that made him feel like family.

"He was my favorite boyfriend of yours," she'd told you once, in a moment of wine-honest conversation. "He was a good boy."

A good boy who made a couple mistakes.

But those mistakes had compounded like interest on a debt you never agreed to pay, until the rift between you and Luigi widened into an ocean.

Everything good had been pulled out with the tide — your trust, your shared future — swept away to depths where no light could reach.

"I-" Emma's hand finds the back of her neck, her expression cycling through a slideshow of conflicted emotions. You can see her internal struggle; the desire to crawl into her bed warring with her loyalty to you. And she knows you well enough to realize you'd stay here until sunrise if necessary. "I mean — babe, I love you, but you can't fix this." The admission seems to pain her, as if acknowledging your limitations feels like betrayal. "We aren't techies."

You stare helplessly at your gutted gallery, stripped bare by your own accidental digital vandalism. Your artwork, your portfolio, your future — all reduced to incomprehensible strings of code projected onto an indifferent wall.

"Do you think he'd come?" The question escapes before you can stop it, your eyes magnetized to your phone as if your stare alone could resurrect that old text thread, buried beneath months of careful silence.

"Of course he would."

A soft, defeated whine escapes you as you turn back to glare at your corrupted work, as if you could intimidate it into fixing itself through sheer force of will.

Emma's voice softens, "Hey, he's mature enough to understand you've exhausted your options."

A violent shudder runs through you at the thought of Luigi being your last resort.

You'd managed to exile the visceral memories — the heated arguments that left you gasping for air, the promises that turned to vapor in the morning light.

"Which are?"

Emma looks down at her Pokemon-clad self, then back at you. "Me." She gestures vaguely in your direction, "and you."

The campus sleeps around you, everyone else lost to their dreams or late-night calls home. Just the two of you remain, trapped in this dimly-lit purgatory on a Wednesday night, while error messages mock your existence with their endless scroll.

"Slim pickin's," you mutter as your fingers betray you, finding Luigi's contact with muscle memory that refuses to die.

How many times had you pressed these same digits before?

But this is different.

Different because you haven't spoken since that night in your kitchen, when you stood with your back to him, voice steady despite the trembling in your hands, "So, we aren't going to try to figure this out?" You asked, and he’d responded with some pretentious comparison about your relationship being like corrupted code, fundamentally flawed, destined to fail its own quality test.

The irony isn't lost on you — the very metaphor he used to end things is now the thread that might pull you back into his orbit. Your only connection besides the elaborate dance of avoidance across campus, treating each other's paths like holy ground neither dares to tread.

Opening the thread, you're greeted by your last exchange — your final words to him blazing across the screen in angry blue bubbles: "I want my fucking shit back or I'll make your life a living hell." Such poetry. Your new message hovers in the text box, simpler, desperate in its brevity.

Hey need help with somethin. U up??

You thrust your phone at Emma like it's burning your fingers, watching her eyes widen as they catch on those months-old texts — digital artifacts of your rage that should have been scrubbed before tonight's desperate plea. "Jesus," she whispers, amusement dancing in her expression. "I'd still be licking my wounds if I were hi-"

The familiar buzz cuts through the air, a notification chime that once made your heart leap but now makes it sink.

"What'd he say?" You mumble, gaze fixed on the mocking projection that bathes the room in its sickly digital glow, code continuing its relentless march across the wall.

Emma settles into a chair, hunching over your laptop's makeshift altar. "Said he's at Ruddy's." She squints at a fresh message. "He said 'what do you want?'" She deepens her voice into a cartoonish baritone, making him sound like a caveman discovering text messaging for the first time.

You can't blame him for the cold response — you’d scorched that earth thoroughly.

But a selfish part of you wants to delete the whole exchange, pretend this moment of weakness never happened, go back to the careful choreography of avoiding each other's existence.

But you can't.

The corrupted gallery looming on the wall is a stark reminder that pride is a luxury you can't afford right now.

His icy reception is the natural consequence of your scorched-earth campaign, those venom-laced messages sent in the throes of heartbreak and confusion.

You'd played the role of the woman scorned perfectly, even though you'd written your own tragic script.

"Just send him a picture." You wave listlessly at the wall, where your work continues its digital decomposition, folding in on itself like a dying star. The error messages stretch into an endless serpent of nonsense, each iteration making less sense than the last.

The artificial shutter sound of Emma's photo breaks the silence, followed by the soft swoosh of sending. The wait feels eternal until-

Ding

Emma's attention snaps to your phone resting on her thigh, her eyes widening. "He's typing like he-"

Sorry;m,, I’m fucked uo

Up

I am

fucked up

Emma clicks her tongue and rises, crossing the room to lob your phone into your lap, screen up. "Guess some things don't change." You manage a weak half-grin, memories flooding back unbidden — Luigi stumbling into your dorm in the small hours, wrapped in whiskeys warmth, all soft edges and desperate hands.

"Well, make up your mind." Emma's yawn threatens to unhinge her jaw, arms wrapping around herself like armor. "Are we done here, or are you gonna have him come take a look?"

I’n be there son

I’ll be rherw soo

I’ll be there soon

You stand to wrap your arms around Emma’s shoulders who reluctantly curves her arms upward to squeeze your shoulders. “Go home.” She seems reluctant to listen, staring at your phone screen as if it would take her home itself. “I promise, I’ll be just fine.”

The space between you pulses with that unique warmth reserved for someone who shares your roof, your darkest secrets, and the monthly struggle with Con Edison. "Just don't make any brash decisions."

"Oh, Em." You press a kiss to her forehead. "You think I'm so much cooler than I am."

Emma's laugh follows her as she spins toward the door, collecting pieces of herself like breadcrumbs — the scarf draped over a chair, the coat hung forgotten, the backpack abandoned when the day still held promise.

Each item a marker of how long this digital nightmare has stretched, from sunshine to moonlight.

And as if summoned by cosmic irony, the lab door swings open to reveal Luigi. "Oh - hey, E." The surprise flickers across his face before he schools his features back to neutral.

"Hey, Lu." Her greeting carries the easy familiarity of their old routine, like NPCs in a cozy game exchanging preset dialogue, their paths crossing exactly as programmed.

"You g'na help me with this?"

Emma shakes her head, patting his shoulder as she passes — a gentle handoff. "I did my time." You want to protest, but words fail as you absorb the sight of him, eight months of careful avoidance crumbling in an instant.

"Ahh-" Luigi waves, feigning disappointment through the druken haze. "Need a walk back home?"

Ever the shepherd, guardian of late-night wanderers.

It didn't matter who you were — friend, stranger, ex-lover’s best friend and roommate — his self-appointed mission to ensure everyone's safe return never wavered.

You'd once wondered if it stemmed from some deeper anxiety, his mind unable to rest until every sheep was accounted for in its fold.

Tonight though, the alcohol has mercifully dulled that protective instinct. Emma's potential disappearance into the night ranks lower on his list of concerns than usual, although Emma herself had been the one earlier to warn you of the murderer on campus.

"You still got my location," Emma reminds him — a callback to conversations past, to the day she'd granted Luigi permanent access to her whereabouts, a level of trust you'd wisely withheld.

"Right."

She presses a kiss to her fingers, flashing you a peace sign with the same hand before it briefly lands on Luigi's shoulder. Then she's gone, disappearing into the snow-globe world he'd just stumbled in from. He stands before you now, arms hanging like dead weight, his eyes somehow both wide and narrow.

"Hey," you whisper.

"Hey."

You gesture weakly at the wall where your work writhes in digital agony. "So, uh — remember that time you salvaged Professor Wren’s entire thesis when her drive crashed?"

Luigi's eyes follow your hand, professional interest temporarily overriding the awkwardness. He steps closer, squinting at the corrupted display, "Jesus," he mutters, "what did you do to it?"

"Would you believe me if I said nothing?" The laugh that escapes is more nervous than you'd like. "It just. - it started disintegrating during final checks."

He's already pulling out his laptop, muscle memory from countless late-night tech rescues. The familiarity of it hits you in the chest — how many times had you watched him do this same thing, hunched over his keyboard, bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration?

"I can try," he says finally, not quite meeting your eyes. "But no promises. When's this due?"

"Tomorrow at nine."

"Of course it is." He drops into the chair beside you, close enough that your elbows almost touch, but enough of a distance to still feel far away. “Okay, walk me through what it's supposed to look like when it's not — uh - whatever this is."

For a moment, Luigi stares at the corrupted display where red pixels bleed and stutter across the wall. His fingers hover over his keyboard, then pause. "Wait. This is your circulatory modeling project? The one you were-“ He cuts himself off, remembering this was before the eight months of silence.

"Yeah." You swallow. "It was working perfectly until an hour ago. Real-time hemodynamics, pressure differentials, vessel elasticity. Everything." Your voice cracks slightly on the last word, feeling more helpless when you verbalize it.

He nods, already typing with uncanny precision despite the slight sway in his posture. "Show me the base code. Did you save any backups?"

"Three. All corrupted." You lean forward, careful not to crowd him as you pull up the mangled files. "It's like something got into the core simulation and just - I dunno - started rewriting them."

"Hm." His eyes scan the screen with that laser focus he somehow maintains no matter how much he drinks, that familiar furrow appearing between his brows. "These values are cascading. One corrupted variable triggering a chain reaction through the whole system." He glances at you, slightly overshooting before correcting. "When's the last time it ran correctly?"

You check your phone. "6:43 PM. I have a screen recording from then."

"Good. That's good." He pulls up a second window, his typing still flawless even as he reaches with his free hand to steady himself against the desk. "We can compare the execution logs, maybe isolate where it started going wrong." His fingers fly across the keys with a precision that seems to mock his clearly inebriated state, and for a moment, it feels like those eight months never happened. "I'm going to need coffee for this." He looks up at you from where he sat, “Or more booze.”

You land on coffee, your feet carrying you down the familiar path to the kitchenette.

The fluorescent lights flicker dimly at this hour, casting strange shadows across the linoleum, the lab's overpriced espresso machine hums to life under your touch, its gentle whirring a counterpoint to the distant sound of Luigi's typing.

Suddenly you're back in that first year, both of you hunched over at 3 AM, him teaching you the proper way to pull a shot: “You're murdering it, stop torturing the beans”, your quiet laughter echoing through empty halls.

"Got it.” His voice carries down the corridor, slurred but triumphant, snapping you back to present.

You return to find him illuminated by screen-glow, his tie loosened and dark hair disheveled. The paper cup lands in front of him — double shot, one packet of raw sugar.

He doesn't stir it, never has.

Instead, he tips the cup back, and you hear that familiar crunch of sugar crystals between his teeth, a sound that used to drive you crazy, until somewhere along the way it became endearing.

Still, the jumbled code taunts you from the screen, though its chaos seems less threatening now. Under Luigi's touch — steady despite the alcohol — your final project is slowly remembering its original shape.

"You should have texted sooner," Luigi murmurs, tilting his head back to collect the last sugar crystals from his cup. The movement exposes his throat, his collar wrinkled where he's been tugging at it all night.

"Well," you say, watching the way his fingers dance across the keys, each stroke precise despite his obvious intoxication, "takes a minute to swallow something as big as my pride."

The corners of his mouth twitch upward, eyes never leaving the screen where broken code is knitting itself back together under his attention.

"Oh," he huffs out a laugh, the sound low and dangerous in the quiet lab, "I've seen you swallow far bigger things before."

It strikes like summer lightning — quick, bright, and leaving the air charged in its wake. The innuendo lands with no real bite, yet you find your jaw slack, a startled laugh shaking loose from your chest.

"Kidding," Luigi says, his eyes flicking from screen to you and back again. There’s a ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, softened by the alcohol but still sharp enough to cut. You wave him back to his work, grateful for the blue glow of monitors that hides your flush. "You kinda set that up perfectly, though."

He squints up at the projection where your broken code still bleeds across the wall, letting out a soft grunt of frustration at some digital roadblock. "Just mean — ya know, you could have caught me two beers deep instead of seven."

You shrug a shoulder, watching as the projection slowly crystallizes into something recognizable. "Seems you work better under such conditions."

The lie tastes metallic.

You both know the truth.

Luigi would have come if he was sober as sunrise or drowning in bourbon. Would have come with broken ribs or pneumonia or his heart barely beating. Would have traced these familiar hallways blind, deaf, or dying — because that's what the two of you do.

Have always done.

You've seen him at rock bottom, curled into himself on cold bathroom tiles at midnight, trembling hands pressed against his mouth as if he could physically hold back the pain that wracked his body. Watched him try to explain to puzzled doctors how someone so young could hurt so constantly, the frustration in his voice when they suggested it was all in his head.

You were there through the trials of medications, the nights when existence itself seemed too heavy to bear.

And you've seen him soar; standing tall in that charcoal suit that made him look older, more polished, shaking hands with tech giants who saw in him what you'd always known was there, his future spreading out before him like a golden road, brilliant and boundless.

Now he sits here, seven drinks deep but coding like he's never been clearer, and you realize that maybe both versions are equally true.

Maybe that's what makes him Luigi — the ability to contain multitudes, to be simultaneously broken and brilliant, wounded and wonderful.

He catches you watching him and raises an eyebrow, the gesture slightly delayed, which means you must have been a bit too obvious. "What?"

"Nothing.”

His fingers pause on the keys, and even through the alcoholic haze, his gaze pins you like a butterfly to cork. "No, really. What?" The words have a slight blur around their edges, but his focus is knife-sharp.

You could deflect again, but there's something about 4 AM and code that glows like dying stars that makes honesty feel less dangerous, perhaps you’re finding comfort in the fact that Luigi is drunk, although you’re stone cold sober.

"Just thinking about that time in the Thompson building bathroom." Your voice comes out softer than intended. "When you couldn't stand up, and I had to convince the janitor you had food poisoning."

He doesn't flinch from the memory like he used to.

Instead, his mouth curves into something caught between a smile and a grimace. "You told him it was from the cafeteria." His fingers resume their dance across the keyboard, but slower now. "Got the whole place investigated by health services."

"Yeah, but got us three days off while they checked fucking everything.” you remind him.

"Got me through that week," he corrects quietly, and for a moment, the mask of that brilliant-drunk-techie slips, showing the man underneath who still remembers what it feels like to be held together by nothing but someone else's faith in you.

Then he blinks, and the vulnerability is gone, replaced by that familiar crooked grin. "Though I maintain the cafeteria deserved the inspection anyway."

The projection flickers, another section of code healing itself under his touch, and you wonder if he knows you'd do it all again.

Every bathroom floor, every late-night crisis, every moment of putting him back together - you'd choose it every time.

"Speaking of which," you venture carefully, watching his hands move across the keyboard. "How's the new treatment working?"

His right shoulder shifts in what might be a shrug, but there's a shadow of a real smile playing at his mouth.

Not the sharp, defensive one he wears like armor, but something softer, more genuine. "Six months post-op and I actually slept through the night last week. First time in -“ he pauses, considering, "Fuck, I don't even remember how long."

The admission hangs in the air between you, weighted with the two years of 2 AM phone calls, of nights spent pacing, of pain medications that never quite touched the core of the problem.

Watching him try to code through hands that wouldn't stop shaking.

"Still hurts sometimes," he adds, almost absently. "But it's different now. More like background noise than a scream." His fingers still on the keyboard, and for a moment he looks almost surprised by his own words. "Guess that's what normal people feel like all the time, huh?"

The question carries an edge of wonder, like someone who's lived in darkness suddenly discovering dawn.

You watch him roll his shoulder — a gesture that used to be followed by a wince but now flows smooth and unconscious — and think about how strange it must be, learning to live without constant pain after it's become part of your identity.

"Though I kind of miss having an excuse to drunk-code at 4 AM" he adds, but you both know it's a lie.

The code blurs on the projection as silence settles between you, charged with something that's been building for ages — through bathroom floors and hospital visits, through triumphs and failures, through pain and healing.

The alcohol has stripped away Luigi’s careful boundaries, leaving raw honesty in their place.

"You know," Luigi says slowly, finally turning from the screen to face you fully, "I never thanked you properly. For all of it."

"You don't need to-"

Your diagram pulses back to life, the holographic heart rotating lazily against the wall.

Its red glow bathes the room in a surreal warmth, catching on the sharp angles of Luigi's face, softening them into something almost dreamlike.

The light flickers across his cheekbones, turns his eyes to amber, makes the whole moment feel suspended between reality and imagination.

"I do." His voice is quiet but firm, steadier than someone seven drinks deep should manage. "Because I've been thinking — now that I can actually think clearly without-“he gestures vaguely at his back, at all the years of pain, "I've been thinking about how you're the only constant. The only person who never-“ He trails off.

You lean a little closer, drawn by the vulnerability in his voice. "Never what?"

"Never saw me as broken." He turns himself toward you, and there's something desperate in his eyes, something the alcohol has finally given him the courage to show. "Never treated me like I needed fixing. Just stayed. Through everything."

Your lips part, but the words catch in your throat. He takes your silence as a sign, turning back to the screen with a sharp exhale that might be resignation or relief — you're not sure which would be worse.

"Lu,” you say softly, and something in your voice makes his fingers still on the keyboard. "Look at me."

He does, slowly, like he's afraid of what he might find.

The neon bathes half his face in crimson, leaving the other half in shadow, and you see the moment his carefully constructed walls start to crumble.

"Time hasn’t changed that much about me.” you say, each word deliberate, heavy with meaning.

His breath catches audibly. You watch the impact of your words ripple across his face — surprise, understanding, and something else, something that makes your heart race against your ribs.

"Hasn’t it?” Luigi is focusing on you now, the reason he really came here now practically completed but pushed aside until further notice. “Eight months is a long time to hold onto -“ he gestures vaguely between you, as if he can’t quite say what it was. Hopeless devotion, the right person, wrong time.

“Not long enough to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“You.”

His breath catches again, a sharp inhale that seems to pull all the oxygen from the room. When he speaks, his voice is rough and ragged, “Maybe that’s the problem.” His gaze drifts down to watch as you lick your lips, and back up again. “Maybe you should have.”

[rivkae-winters]

Edit: the app launched and Is down- I have the initial apology video in a post here and I’m working on getting a full archive of their TikTok up ASAP. I’m letting the rest of this post remain since I do still stand by most of it and also don’t like altering things already in circulation.

Warning for criticism and what I’d consider some harsh to outright mean words:

So I’ve just been made aware of the project known of as ‘lore.fm’ and I’m not a fan for multiple reasons. For one this ‘accessibility’ tool complicates the process of essentially just using a screen reader (something native to all I phones specifically because this is a proposed IOS app) in utterly needless and inaccessible ways. From what I have been seeing on Reddit they have been shielding themselves (or fans of the project have been defending them) with this claim of being an accessibility tool as well to which is infuriating for so many reasons.

I plan to make a longer post explaining why this is a terrible idea later but I’ll keep it short for tonight with my main three criticisms and a few extras:

1. Your service requires people to copy a url for a fic then open your app then paste it into your app and click a button then wait for your audio to be prepared to use. This is needlessly complicating a process that exists on IOS already and can be done IN BROWSER using an overlay that you can fully control the placement of.

2. This is potentially killing your own fandom if it catches on with the proposed target market of xreader smut enjoyers because of only needing the link as mentioned above. You don’t have to open a fic to get a link this the author may potentially not even get any hits much less any other feedback. At least when you download a pdf you leave a hit: the download button is on the page with the fic for a reason. Fandom is a self sustaining eco system and many authors get discouraged and post less/even stop writing all together if they get low interaction.

3. Maybe we shouldn’t put something marketed as turning smut fanfic into audio books on the IOS App Store right now. Maybe with KOSA that’s a bad idea? Just maybe? Sarcasm aside we could see fan fiction be under even more legal threat if minors use this to listen to the content we know they all consume via sites like ao3 (even if we ask them not to) and are caught with it. Auditory content has historically been considered much more obscene/inappropriate than written content: this is a recipe for a disaster and more internet regulations we are trying to avoid.

I also have many issues with the fact that this is obviously redistributing fanfiction (thus violating the copyright we hold over our words and our plots) and removing control the author should have over their content and digital footprint. Then there is the fact that even though the creator on TikTok SAYS you can email to have your fic ‘excluded’ based on the way the demo works (pasting a link) I’m gonna assume that’s just to cover her ass/is utter bullshit. I know that’s harsh but if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck it’s probably a duck.

I am all for women in stem- I’ve BEEN a woman in Stem- but this is not a cool girl boss moment. This is someone naive enough to think this will go over well at best or many other things (security risks especially) at worst.

In conclusion for tonight: I hope this person is a troll but there is enough hype and enough paid for web domains that I don’t think that’s the case. There are a litany of reasons every fanfic reader and writer should be against something like this existing and I’ll outline them all in several other posts later.

Do not email their opt out email address there is no saying what is actually happening with that data and it is simply not worth the risks it could bring up. I hate treating seemingly well meaning people like potential cyber criminals but I’ve seen enough shit by now that it’s better to be safe than sorry. You’re much safer just locking all your fics to account only. I haven’t yet but I may in the future if that is the only option.

If anyone wants a screen reader tutorial and a walk through of my free favorites as well as the native IOS screen reader I can post that later as well. Sorry for the heavy content I know it’s not my normal fare.

[cool-and-grizzled]

i’m thinking about writing a reddit socmed oneshot w lance asking for help how to deal with the aftermath of kissing his roommate (keith) casually after coming home from work dead tired and how said roommate is avoiding him now and then describing their relationship so far (like idk, getting a bigger bed so they can be in one room and use the other as guest room/office, not caring about whose clothes are whose, etc you get the gist), and comments are like ‘bro. you realize you’ve been practically dating the whole time right?’

and then keith also posting about the situation like ‘help what do i do my roommate kissed me and i’ve been in love with him for years but now i think i fucked up’ and writes down his side of the story and comments are like ‘okay first of all you two need to talk and second of all isn’t this the same story as from this post?’ and then one of them makes a new post as an update that they got together and their friends laughed themselves to tears when they told them they weren’t dating before

[kireilien]

need maki to teach me german except every time i get it wrong, he smacks my ass ☺️

BIG HUGE ENORMOUS BRAIN……… WHAT ABOUT MY PANTIES WTF THEYRE RUINED NOW i might need to write a scene where maki fucks you and you have to only say what you want in german.................. panties ultra ruined

tw/cw. nsfw content, cursing; dom!maki, sub!reader, fem!reader, race neutral reader, reader is a little dumb, spanking, germlish, use of “schatz”

if the german is ass (and most importantly NOT hot) it is literally bc i am not german no german genes in sight reddit and google have my back LMFAAOOAOA spare me pls if anyone is willing to be my german translator for maki i will give u head

he has you over his lap, sweetly grazing over the skin of your ass. at first you’re laying there, all pleasant before maki smacks a harsh slap on the plump flesh. squeezing the flesh, he hums, “do you remember last week’s words?” you squirm in his lap, “like a few…” maki quirks a brow, “like which ones?” you ponder for a second, “ja… nein… hallo… tschüss… danke–!” another harsh slap came from maki’s hand. 

two spanks in and your ass is already warm to the touch. “y/n,” maki sighs before soothing the flesh, “those are basic words. what are the words that i taught you last week?” your hands are pathetically pawing at the sheets, you had no clue. 

it wasn’t always like this though. you simply wanted to ask maki for some german tips, since you wanted to learn for him. but it started getting slowly more insane when you started forgetting some of the words. you distinctly remember the time where you accidentally said “guten abend,” instead of “guten mittag” when maki asked you what “good afternoon” was in german– that was where maki started having the habit of putting you over his legs. you kept on forgetting each and every word maki told you, he had to have you somewhat remember. 

“i don’t… i don’t remember.” you mumble. maki sighs once more, “do you remember how many words i tried teaching you?” you purse your lips, usually maki would try teaching you ten words every week, but last week maki taught you twelve since maki forgot to tell you what “mom” and “dad” were in german. “it was twelve.” you hum before maki chuckles, “that’s right. i’m glad you could remember, but do you now know what that means?” 

you pause for a moment.

he wouldn’t, right? 

you were trying your best for him.

“six spanks on each, yeah?” 

you’re kidding. 

“n–no! maki–!” you cry out, trying to wiggle out of his grasp, but you couldn’t leave. one harsh smack on one ass, repeated on the other. that was two. he repeats. one slap on on ass cheek, followed by a slap on the other. maki still wanted to be a little nice to you. the carefully thumbs the heated skin, smoothing over the darkened skin after each harsh slap. he didn’t want to do this to you! you were just being so dumb, you forget everything maki has been trying to teach you! you were the one who wanted these lessons! 

as maki lands the next set of spanks, you grab his forearm to prevent the next few, “maki–! ple– bitte–! bitte, bitte, bitte–! es tut– est tut mir leid! maki– bitte!” maki arm eases up as he quirks a brow, “oh… mein schatz… you only remember when you’re being spanked silly? du bist niedlich… what am i gonna do with you?” he hums sweetly as he grazes the hot skin once more. your knees are bent, your feet pressed up against your ass, desperately trying to avoid the other half of the spankings– and surprisingly, maki lets you.

du bist niedlich? eher so, sie sind süß. 

german translations!

ja, yes

nein, no

hallo, hello

tschüss, bye (informal)

danke, thank you

guten abend, good evening

guten mittag, good afternoon

bitte, please

es tut mir leid, i’m sorry

mein schatz, my treasure (a petname)

du bist niedlich eher so, sie sind süß, “you’re cute (romantic) more like, you’re cute (condescending)”

back 2 maki catalog

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 8: Silver Lake]

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, a tiny bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, Aemond Alert™️, fake dating but both Jace and Mason don’t know, a fun lil side quest to Minnesota!

Word count: 6.8k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

You are hiding in your Honda outside Aegon’s office because you don’t want to see him. You slump way down in the driver’s seat when pedestrians walk by and eye you suspiciously: a teen mom pushing a stroller, an old man with a wiry grizzled mutt, a guy trudging home in a stained and unbuttoned chef coat. Still stalling, you flip down the sun visor and check your makeup in the small rectangular mirror. You randomly remember reading somewhere—a Reddit post, a TikTok video, an Instagram story—that it’s stupid to coordinate your eyeshadow with your outfit, but you’ve been doing this since high school and today is the very first time you can remember feeling self-conscious about it. You wear dull, earthy shades to match your brown floral sundress, the same color the leaves will turn when autumn arrives in Minnesota: Volatile by Anastasia Beverly Hills, Undone by Urban Decay.

You glance at your phone. It’s 11:04 a.m. on Wednesday, July 23rd, and you are officially late. With great reluctance, you drag yourself out of the car and clop up the concrete steps in your wedges. As if to remind you of past transgressions, your formerly-sprained left ankle gives a twinge of complaint.

Inside the rundown half-duplex, Brandon is not at the reception desk. He’s not here at all. From Aegon’s office you can hear that he is talking to someone, a familiar voice that you can’t immediately place, hushed but heavy, gravity in each word like a black hole. Then you realize who it belongs to. You hover just outside the doorway, listening.

“You can’t avoid me forever,” Aemond is saying.

There is spirited clicking, what you assume are Aegon’s thumbs on his transluscent orange Nintendo 64 controller. “Sure I can. I’m doing it right now.”

“Aegon…is everything okay?”

“Yup.”

“Are you…are you afraid you might—?”

“Nope.”

Aemond is exasperated. “Well did you ever take a test?”

“No, you know I didn’t.”

“But, I mean…are you experiencing…do you have some reason to suspect that…? Because you’re still pretty young, but with anticipation...”

“Shh,” Aegon cuts him off, spotting you in the threshold. His Nike Killshots are up on the desk, the Nintendo 64 controller in his hands; he’s wearing a seafoam green button-up shirt and khaki cargo shorts. He looks very retired. “Hey, sunshine.”

“Hi,” you say meekly, stepping into the room. You’ve been caught eavesdropping.

Aemond glares at you. He’s overdressed for Los Angeles: black suit, emerald green tie, shoes that shine like dark mirrors. “Go away.”

“Don’t snap at her,” Aegon flings back. “She’s the one with an appointment.”

“And you’re always so concerned with protocol!” Aemond shouts, and Aegon at last relents and pauses his game—Mario, his ubiquitous red cap adored with two white wings, is flying through clouds high above the castle—and sets the controller down on his desk, cluttered with gum wrappers and loose papers and framed photographs. There’s something else too, a homemade bento box situation with steamed broccoli, slices of tamagoyaki, and onigiri that look like miniature pandas.

Aegon peers wearily up at his brother. “I’m fine, Aemond. Really.”

“Don’t act like you had some sudden realization that Los Angeles is shallow and ridiculous, you’ve been bitching about that your whole life. That’s why you’re working all the way out here in this dump.”

Aegon stretches his arms lazily, pulling one across his chest and then the other. “I’ve been in the game for a long time. Now I’m ready to pack it up.”

“What are you going to do all day in Houston? Swing in a hammock while Becca hand-feeds you barbeque and cornbread?”

“Sure. Maybe.” Then he grins. “She makes fantastic cornbread. Warm and fluffy and slathered with honey butter, I believe you’ve had some.”

“You didn’t tell any of us you were leaving,” Aemond says, and there is more than just annoyance and suspicion in his scarred face. There is hurt. There is betrayal.

“I figured you’d freak out.”

“You were correct.”

“And your concern is both noted and appreciated, but it’s unnecessary.”

Aemond—hovering in his dark suit like a storm cloud—stares at Aegon, hands on his waist, furious, helpless. He notices the blue china bowl full of fresh Honeycrisp apples on the edge of Aegon’s desk. “And you don’t eat fruit!”

“Yeah I do. Guacamole is a fruit. Strawberry ice cream is a fruit.”

Aemond snatches an apple and hurls it at Aegon, who laughs and bats it away with one hand. Then Aemond moves like a gale of wind to where you stand by the door, and he towers over you, and he radiates dizzying heat like midsummer asphalt. “How’s he been?” he demands.

And you are so startled and bewildered by the question that you blurt out the first thing that pops into your mind. “Perfect.”

New creases appear in Aemond’s brow. He turns back to glance at Aegon, who shrugs like he’s just as perplexed by it. Then Aemond huffs an aggrieved sigh and leaves the office, the lobby, the building. You hear the front door slam as he yanks it shut behind him.

“What was he talking about?” you ask Aegon.

He is nonchalant. “Nothing. Industry stuff.”

“Aemond said something about a test…?”

Aegon sets an elbow on his desk and rests his chin in his palm; and as he gazes up at you with those overcast blue eyes, a little pathetic, a little wise, you have a terrifying thought that seems to come out of nowhere: Am I in love with him? “Aemond is worried that I’m leaving because I’m in some kind of trouble,” Aegon says. “Professional trouble. But I’m not. I’m leaving because I hate this place and everybody in it.” And then, when you wince: “Not you. I didn’t mean you.”

“But I’m not enough of a reason for you to stay.”

“Nobody would be, sunshine.”

From out in the lobby comes the noise of the front door opening, and then Brandon sails into Aegon’s office with a tray of three drinks from Starbucks.

“Hi, Brando,” Aegon says, sounding tired.

“Hey, superstar! I saw your brother outside. He looks as stressed as usual.” Brandon gives Aegon his drink, a Frappuccino with whipped cream and chocolate syrup swirled on top, and then passes you a venti-sized iced latte. You take a sip, cold and sweet and with several generous pumps of vanilla syrup, not sugar-free. “Did I get that right?”

“It’s wonderful,” you assure Brandon, smiling. He smiles back and leaves carrying his own selection from Starbucks, a grande-sized Pink Drink. He closes Aegon’s office door as he departs.

“So,” Aegon says, examining a list he’s made on a yellow legal pad. “The Maroon 5 music video is coming out in early August. They’re doing a little premiere thing at a place in Downtown, some fans who won tickets will be there. You’ll walk the red carpet, I’ll be hanging around as usual. It sounds like your Grey’s Anatomy episode will air in November, so that’s on the horizon too. And you got a callback for the vampire movie.”

You slurp your vanilla latte and stare at the mint green wall. “They’re not going to pick me.”

Aegon tosses the legal pad onto his desk; it lands with a thump. “Why would you say that?”

You shrug morosely, still not looking at him. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you? You’re here because you’re trying to be an actress. And it’s working.”

You shake your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “I’ve had two jobs in the five months since I moved to Los Angeles. You lied to get me the first one, and I basically had a mental breakdown at the second and you had to save me. And I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done for me, Aegon, I really am. But everyone else told me I was insane to do this and I think they were right.”

“I’m your agent,” Aegon says. “I’m supposed to get you jobs. But I didn’t make you talented. You did that yourself.”

“I’m not like these people. I don’t look like them, I don’t think like them.”

“And that’s okay,” Aegon insists vehemently. “You can still be an actress.”

“I can’t handle it.” Now you’re sobbing, dabbing your eyes with a Starbucks napkin that Brandon handed you with your latte. It comes away tattooed with dark smudges from your eyeshadow. “I can’t get told that I need a new body or a new face all the time and keep pretending it doesn’t bother me. I can’t assume everyone has the worst intentions. I can’t be naked around strangers and not care. I can’t…I can’t…” I can’t stop wanting him. You stare down at the napkin, humiliated. “I can’t do horrible things like sleep with an almost-married guy and still believe I’m a decent person. And this isn’t fun anymore, and I don’t feel like it’s working, and when people tell me I’m just wasting time and money by being out here I can’t think of reasons why they’re wrong.”

Aegon gets up and comes to you, leans against the edge of the desk where the china bowl of apples rests, lifts your chin and forces you to look at him. “You’re really, really good at this. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“You were good,” you whimper, remembering all the hours you’ve spent watching his films and his shows and his interviews, all the times you’ve fallen asleep to the deep melody of his voice. “And you hated Hollywood so much you gave up on acting and ran to Elysian Park. And now you’re running all the way to freaking Houston, Texas.” And I’m never going to see him again.

“Just because it didn’t last for me doesn’t mean it won’t for you.”

“I don’t belong here—”

“You want this for the right reasons,” Aegon says with such force you don’t dare to interrupt him. “Not for attention, not to get rich, not so people you’ve never met will want to fuck you. And I can’t even begin to tell you how rare that is. You’re going to see this through. You’re not giving up yet. I won’t let you. Because the world is better with you in it the way you are now—bright, brilliant, hopeful, and yeah, naïve sometimes, sure, but real—than as the bitter, soulless person you’ll become if you walk away because someone else told you to. And I believe in you, and I’m fighting like hell for you, and I—” He stops abruptly, and whatever he was going to say next is lost like a sandcastle to the waves, because when he begins again it is a different line of thought entirely. “Your callback is next Tuesday on the 29th. You’re going to it.”

You sniffle into your napkin, but you’d be lying if you claimed you weren’t at least somewhat inspired. “Okay.”

Aegon plucks an apple out of the bowl, goes back to his chair, flops down in it and watches you as he takes a bite, juice glistening on his lips. “I’ll get you the script once they send it over. It sounds like it’s just a conversation with your on-screen mother. They want to make sure you can do the boring scenes too. Should be pretty easy, I’m optimistic. They’re trying to decide between you and one other actress.”

“Okay,” you say again, rallying. I can do this? I can do this. Maybe.

“You liked the guy, right? The vampire?”

“Santi? Yeah, he was great. Friendly and professional.”

“Awesome,” Aegon says, gnawing on his Honeycrisp apple, a tad preoccupied.

A potential conflict occurs to you. “You said the Maroon 5 music video comes out at the beginning of August?”

Another bite. “Yup.”

“What day?”

“Um…” Aegon checks the legal pad. “Friday the 8th. Why?”

“Because I have to fly to Minnesota. But I’ll be back on August 5th, so it’s fine.”

Aegon raises an eyebrow. “Missing your ex-boyfriend?”

You laugh, wiping away the last of the dampness from your eyes with the napkin and then shoving it in your purse. “No, definitely not. I’ve been summoned for bridesmaid dress shopping. My sister is getting married.”

He chomps on his apple. “Not looking forward to it?”

You hesitate, taking an evasive sip of your vanilla latte. “I always like seeing my family. I miss them. But they don’t take the California thing seriously and I’m going to have to spend like ten hours listening to them trying to convince me to become an entertainment lawyer, and I really don’t have the heart for that right now.”

Aegon admires the bitemarks that riddle his apple. “Do you think your family would take it more seriously if I talked to them?”

You are mystified. “How would you do that?”

“By flying home with you.”

You gape at him, stunned. “You can’t go to Minnesota.”

Aegon smirks. “I’m not on a leash. It’s just a few days, right?”

“Well…yeah. I’m leaving Friday the 1st. My mom wanted a full week, I negotiated it down from there.”

“Would they care that I’m a Targaryen?”

You recall how your dad had recognized the name, how your mom gasps over celebrity tabloids at the grocery store. “Probably.”

“Then send Brando your flight information and he can buy me a seat on your plane, or at least on one that’ll land at the airport in Minneapolis around the same time. And I’ll reimburse him in cash.”

“So Becca won’t know where you’re going?”

“Exactly,” Aegon says like there’s no emotion attached to it, just pure logistics.

You finish your latte as you mull this over. It’s wrong for him to lie to his fiancée. It’s wrong for him to abandon her to fly across the country with me. But soon they’ll be married, and she’ll have him forever, every night, every day, every vacation, every holiday, and I won’t even have scraps like the one lunch a week you’d grab with a casual friend. I’ll have nothing but Becca’s agonizingly idyllic posts on Instagram, glimpses into their sun-drenched filtered forever. “We can’t hook up or anything like we did at the gala. Even if it wasn’t…successful.”

“Agreed.” And then Aegon tilts his head to the side. “I hope you don’t think you were at fault.”

You shrug. Of course you do.

Aegon sighs, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Don’t overthink it.”

“I’ll try not to.”

He stands up. “Let’s go grab something to eat. In-N-Out Burger?”

You look at the homemade bento box on his desk, and you don’t need three guesses to figure out who must have assembled it with such practiced, painstaking care. “Isn’t that your lunch?”

“I’m craving something worse for me.” He offers you what’s left of his Honeycrisp apple, one lone island of gleaming cream-colored flesh marred around the edges with notches left by his teeth. You consider the apple, then take a bite: chewing slowly, licking saccharine juice from your lips. Aegon holds out a hand, asking for one of yours. When you acquiesce, he places your palm on the front of his shorts so you can feel that he’s hard. “Just so you know you weren’t the problem,” he says cavalierly. Then he puts on his sunglasses and leads you outside into the daylight.

Aegon has gotten his white Sebring convertible repaired: no more dent in the front passenger’s side, no more broken headlight. He drives with the top down and the wind in his hair, and the air is hot and golden, and you can’t stop looking over at him.

I can’t want him. He’s getting married, he’s leaving, he’s a mirage, he’s a time bomb.

Aegon’s iPhone is plugged into the aux. One song ends and another begins, Keith Urban’s You’ll Think Of Me. You immediately recognize it because your dad is a Keith Urban fan; he once dragged you to a concert in Saint Paul when you were in high school. Both Clara and Tripp flatly refused. Aegon frowns and skips it. Next up is You Oughta Know by Alanis Morissette.

You ask: “Why do you have a song on your playlist that you don’t want to listen to?”

“I have to be in the right mood for it,” Aegon says. You watch him curiously, and after a moment he adds: “It was my dad’s favorite song.”

“Oh.” His dad who died of a long illness when Aegon was a teenager. His dad who is a ghost that still—I feel, I know—haunts the Targaryen family like a generational curse. “Aegon, what did your dad die of?”

A pause. “Cancer.”

“That’s awful,” you say gently, but in the back of your mind you remember: I searched ‘Viserys Targaryen cancer’ on Google, and nothing came up. Not one article, not one photograph, not a single post on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter. Is that possible? “What kind?”

Another pause. “It metastasized all over.”

“But where did it start?”

“That’s a rude question,” Aegon snaps, and you are immediately repentant. He’s right, it is.

“I’m so sorry. Never mind.”

Aegon pulls into an In-N-Out Burger’s parking lot, orders two cheeseburger combos with Cherry Cokes and Animal-Style fries, pays with cash like he always does.

~~~~~~~~~~

In your bedroom closet, the sunflowers that Aegon once bought for you in the Flower District hang upside down as they dry, becoming perpetual, becoming eternal like a bloodline or a star. On the calendar affixed to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like pineapples, you write reminders for yourself in red ink: a callback on July 29th, an eastbound flight out of LAX on August 1st, a music video premiere on the 8th. This is more of a habit than a necessity. You have a good memory for dates.

You assume that Jace will be thrilled when you tell him you’ll be home in Minnesota for a few days—no one will be here to ask him to turn the television volume down or not to pound on his Yamaha keyboard at 2 a.m.—but instead he seems sad, like you’re a cat he’s gotten used to having around. Jace’s mood improves drastically when Baela informs him that she’ll be stateside for a visit soon. He doesn’t say it, but you know: he misses her like hell.

Brandon finds Aegon a ticket for your flight, and when Aegon boards he pays a teenager with a hoodie and earbuds a hundred dollars in cash to switch seats with him so he can sit next to you. You aren’t sure why, as Aegon doesn’t talk much; he slides on his sunglasses and naps for most of the three and a half hour voyage. As he dozes, his right leg bumps against yours and rests there, benign pressure, corporeal warmth here at a frigid altitude where nothing should survive. You try not to move so Aegon won’t wake up and reposition himself. And although you alternate between staring out the window at clouds and imagining yourself as the heroine in the murder mystery novel you’re reading, your thoughts are very much contaminated by him, poisoned, drugged, irradiated, enlightened.

I’m in love with him, you think calmly at 35,000 feet. It’s wrong and I wish I wasn’t. But I just am.

The plane hits turbulence during the descent, and Aegon jolts awake. “You’re okay,” you soothe, and he gives you a drowsy, grateful smile, his sandy blonde hair falling in his eyes. There’s a family travelling with a toddler in the row in front of you, and the little boy in a blue t-shirt with a shark on it keeps peeking back between the seats and giggling as you entertain him: a tongue darting out like a frog’s, hands over your head like a moose’s antlers. Aegon watches this, fascinated, wistful, and you think to yourself: That is not the face of a man who doesn’t want children.

Your brother Tripp picks you and Aegon up from the airport in his Land Cruiser. He spends most of the ride asking Aegon about various celebrities lawyers he’s met, Robert Shapiro and Shawn Holley and Harvey Levin. At their ornate three-story home in Apple Valley, Minnesota, your parents are dressed like they’re going to a job interview, because being a Targaryen in Hollywood is like being a Kennedy in Washington D.C. and even the very least of them has a certain glitter that people are always hoping will rub off. Aegon thanks them for their hospitality and offers to sleep on a couch. Your parents laugh and show him the guest bedroom.

While he’s in there unpacking his suitcase, you hear Aegon through the closed door chatting on his iPhone. His voice is cheerful and warm and harmless, the same way it often is with you. You are abruptly struck—as if with a blade or fist—by the reminder that none of this is real. A mirage. A time bomb.

“Hey, babe. Yeah, I just made it to Chicago. Oh my God, it’s incredible, my hotel room has a view of the river. That’s the same one they dye green every Saint Patrick’s Day. Uh huh. I will. How are the dogs…?”

You grab your own phone out of your purse and text Mason: Hey, I’m home. Take me to Target?

He replies after a few minutes: I’m kind of talking to this girl at work…

No, it’s literally just Target, you type. Mason agrees. Thirty minutes later you’re jogging down the driveway to climb into his Chevy Silverado as Aegon glares out of the living room window. Clara is busy pinning wedding inspiration photos on Pinterest, Dad and Tripp are watching CNN, Mom is in the kitchen with Angela the housekeeper preparing dinner. They’re making prime rib.

You purposefully take your time at Target, leisurely perusing the makeup aisles and buying an iced vanilla latte from Starbucks. Mason tells you about how his job is going. You tell him about California. When you run out of things to say, you ring up your items at the self-checkout. Then you hide the shopping bag in the bushes outside your parents’ house so Aegon won’t see it and know where you’ve been.

~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s a middle child thing,” Mom says as she nurses her third glass of red wine, her eyes sparkling, her Ann Taylor skirt suit formal but her mannerisms unusually relaxed. She likes Aegon, perhaps too much; she seems to be flirting with him. Your dad, meanwhile, dissects his bleeding slab of prime rib to excise every globule of fat. Clara is scrolling through her phone and picking at her glazed carrots. Tripp is blithely wolfing down mashed potatoes.

Aegon smiles politely, but he doesn’t know what your mom means. “Middle child…?”

“Clara was the oldest, and Tripp was always so clever and so confident, such a natural leader, and so…you know…she was always scrapping for attention.” Mom gives you a fond pat on the back of your hand. Across the table, Aegon’s brow furrows as he eats a homemade yeast roll plastered with butter. You shoot him a dull, resigned glance. This is how it goes. “That’s the only way I can explain her penchant for acting. No one else in the family is like that. We’re…we’re professionals, you know? We’re serious people.”

Tripp snorts. “Mom, you were a waitress.”

“Only until your father was done with medical school, dear!” Then she turns her attention back to Aegon. “And obviously I don’t mean to say that your family members aren’t professionals, Aegon, no no no, but surely you’d agree that there is a world of difference between being an accomplished producer or agent or screenwriter, and doing this…” She waves her glass around, searching for the right word. Red wine sloshes thickly like blood.

“Dabbling?” Dad suggests.

“Yes!” Mom says. “This dabbling that she’s doing out there in Los Angeles. It’s filling some void for…for…oh, I don’t know, praise or identity or something. But eventually she’ll get it out of her system and she’ll come home and grow up. And we’re all looking forward to having her here again, aren’t we?”

Your dad and Tripp grunt in agreement. Clara continues scrolling.

“I actually think she’s pursuing acting for the right reasons,” Aegon says, cordial yet firm. “And that’s pretty rare, in my experience. I mean, I’ve seen her act, she’s a natural. She’s really good. And I can’t picture her doing anything else for a living.”

Your dad forks a tiny, perfectly square morsel of prime rib into his mouth. “Aegon, you are clearly taking your job as her advocate very seriously, and we’re appreciative of that. But even you have to admit, the odds are just…it’s unrealistic, isn’t it? The competition is so fierce. Our little Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis is nothing compared to Hollywood.”

“Guthrie?” Aegon says, intrigued. “Like Woody Guthrie?”

“No, everyone makes that mistake,” you explain. “A completely different Guthrie.” But didn’t I tell him that already? On the day we first met?

“And you did very well there,” Dad says to you. “But the industry out west is cutthroat, I mean you can’t just be competent, you have to be exceptional.”

“I know, Dad,” you reply softly. You keep trying to eat your prime rib, but you suddenly have no appetite. You push the pieces around on your plate, leaving trails of blood and grease.

“She’s found work,” Aegon says, like he’s pointing out something obvious. “It’s not like she hasn’t made any progress. She was in a Grey’s Anatomy episode. She was in a music video for Maroon 5.”

“Oh, I love Maroon 5,” your mom sighs dreamily. She’s barely eaten anything, which isn’t helping with the wine situation.

“But those projects…they haven’t been released yet, have they?” Dad asks.

“Not yet,” Aegon concedes reluctantly. “But they will be soon. We have dates.”

Your mom hums sympathetically. “It all just seems so uncertain, doesn’t it? Maybe she’ll be on tv…maybe she won’t…things can always get shelved at the last minute. Distribution rights can be litigated. Actors can be recast.”

“She’s up for a big part,” Aegon says, like he can’t understand why none of this is penetrating, like he’s trying to convince someone of the color of the sky or the fact that the planet is round. “She has a fifty-fifty shot of being the lead in a movie.”

“A real movie?!” Tripp exclaims. “Damn, that’s lit! What kind of movie? Marvel? James Bond?”

“It’s an independent film,” you say.

His enthusiasm fades. “Ohhh. So like a student film.”

Dad is nodding, vindicated. “Hm. A student film. Hm.”

Tripp begins: “One of my law school friends made student films back in undergrad—”

“It’s not a student film,” you say. “It’s just not funded by a major studio. But it’s still an actual movie.”

“That’s great, honey,” Mom tells you. “Clara, did you figure out what kind of cake you’re going to have at the wedding?”

“This could be her breakthrough,” Aegon says. “Like Winter’s Bone was for Jennifer Lawrence. Little Miss Sunshine was an indie film, and Juno, and Moonlight, and Good Will Hunting, and The Blair Witch Project, this is legit, okay? And if she gets the role, she’s going to be fully committed. Production, press tour, everything. She’ll need your support throughout all of it.”

“You’d need to stay out there in California longer?” Dad asks, looking concerned. You aren’t sure if he’s more worried about his family or his wallet.

“If she’s getting roles, she should stay forever,” Aegon says. “That’s where she wants to be.”

There is an uncomfortable silence that falls over the dining room table. Your parents are frowning, you are shrinking, Tripp and Clara are exchanging a look, some kind of telepathic concurrence on the subject of how ridiculous you are.

Finally, your mom titters woozily. “We’ll just have to see what happens, won’t we? We can cross that bridge when we get there.”

“I knew Kinsley should have been my maid of honor,” Clara mutters, and your parents rush to reassure her that you’ll make time for wedding-related obligations, just like you are now by flying home for dress shopping. Clara resumes scrolling. Tripp scoops himself more mashed potatoes. Beneath the table, one of the Akitas growls at you until you buy its forbearance with a dropped hunk of prime rib.

In the lull between dinner and dessert—Mom and Angela have made an authentic Watergate salad, allegedly invented in Minnesota in the 1970s—you take Aegon out back to show him the patio, the rolling hills, the paddocks of horses grazing as dusk begins to turn the sky the color of gore or flames or love. You are each clasping a glass of wine in your hands; your mom insisted on pouring them. She is in good hostess mode, her own tipsiness notwithstanding.

“And I thought my family was a tough crowd,” Aegon says, gazing at the horses distractedly. “Well, what the fuck am I going to do now? I can’t retire and leave you alone with these people.”

“Guess you aren’t allowed to run away to Texas after all,” you say, smiling weakly. You’re glad he’s here. You hadn’t been able to imagine it before, but now you see it too clearly: trips home with him, holidays with him, a life with him you aren’t entitled too. “Thank you for those things you said.”

“They weren’t favors. They were the truth.”

You look at him, awed, heartbroken, trying to disguise both. “You’re the only person who has ever believed in me.”

“And I don’t even believe in you that much,” Aegon teases, grinning, and he makes you laugh, even here, even now. “If I really am the only one who believes in you, that just means everybody else is stupid. Super stupid. Incurably stupid. Try to remember to mention me in your Oscar acceptance speech.” Then his hand shakes violently and he drops his wine glass, and it shatters on the stones of the patio, and he is mortified. “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, I’ll clean it up—”

“It’s okay. I’ll help you.” You run inside and return a moment later with a broom and dustpan from the kitchen closet. Aegon takes the broom and you hold the dustpan as he sweeps. “Are you okay?”

“Huh? Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You hand,” you say. “I thought it was a…I don’t know, like a spasm or something.”

“I saw a bug in my glass. I panicked.”

The dustpan is filling up with jagged nuggets of glass that remind you of something, and then you remember: the broken glass on the floor of his office the night you were together there, the first time, the only time. “So guess what,” you say.

“What?”

“When Mason picked me up, we went to Target. Just Target. And I bought a bunch of makeup and we didn’t even hug.”

Aegon looks down at you from where he’s sweeping. “Seriously?”

“I swear to God.”

He is pacified, you think; and yet he doesn’t understand. “Why?”

“I’m a one-dude kind of girl, unfortunately.”

He smiles, puts the broom aside now that the mess is dealt with, and sits down with you on the stone patio stained with red wine. You both gaze westward to where the sun is setting, and when you rest your head on Aegon’s shoulder, he lets you do it. Then you feel his arm circle around your waist, gentle safe insubstantial weight. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. About his marriage? About his retirement? About what he’s done to me?

“Aegon, why can’t you break up with Becca? Why can’t we give this a real shot?” It’s a question that sounds more like a plea, soft and clandestine.

“You’re very young, and you’re idealistic, and you’re happy. And I wouldn’t be good for you.”

“You leaving Los Angeles won’t be good for me.”

“I told you. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

And he has nothing more to offer, and you can’t bear to ask again, so what’s left say?

Late at night, you try to fall asleep knowing that Aegon is just down the hall in the guest room, and you can’t banish the visions in your skull of you padding across the hardwood floor and climbing into his bed, knowing that he would not reject you, knowing that he would take anything you were willing to give like a vampire drains a victim of blood.

I can’t do it. He’s not mine.

To strengthen your resolve, you open Instagram and go to Becca’s account, once private, now a window she has opened to show you exactly what you can’t have. You scroll through hundreds of photos of her beautiful beachfront house in Malibu that she shares with Aegon, of her beautiful cooking and baking, of the beautiful scenery she has captured in snapshots, of her beautiful face and body. Then, for the first time, you click on the link in her bio to her blog: rebeccawilsonwrites.wordpress.com. Most of her entries are recipes or DIY hacks or accounts of her life with Aegon, and her love for him bleeds from the screen. She writes about their anniversaries, their holidays, their vacations, their rituals that all couples have like religions in miniature. She knows his favorite foods and colors. She is forever stumbling upon trinkets that remind her of him and are gingerly ferried home. She calls him her best friend, the world’s greatest dog dad, the love of her life.

You read from this almanac of their relationship until your tears blur the text and you don’t want to walk down the hallway, don’t want to touch Aegon, don’t want to see him, wish you could go back in time and never set foot in his unassuming little office in Elysian Park, a place named for paradise and yet so hellish, sinful, cursed.

You spy a tab at the top of the blog labeled Poems, and you are puzzled. You had no idea Becca was an actual writer. You browse through a dozen poems, mostly about nature, none particularly gripping or revealing. Then you stumble upon one that catches on you like a fang through flesh. Six Weeks, it is titled. And immediately you are dragged back to Venice Beach where Aegon confessed that about a year ago Becca got pregnant, and then she told him about it—this very wanted child, at least from her perspective—and very soon afterwards she wasn’t pregnant anymore. And if that baby had been carried to term, it could have been born around the start of this summer, if your math isn’t wrong. The poem reads:

Summer

was supposed to be our

savior, the tree limbs arced with fruit

and brimming, pumping xylem-flush

through pinstripe veins the width

of a spider’s leg—and the space between

plates weeping—as the world bellied out

and we recalled the taste of indiscretion

on our spines. The Earth revolved

to frost, and our passion

smothered in brown-upholstered, sterile

heat creeping through the office

vents, the paper sheets, the biting

gleam, my own cells pumping anesthetic

and fate, where every cloud has a scarlet

lining and there is nothing

in the trees but

air.

You put your phone down on your nightstand, curl up beneath the blankets, believe wholeheartedly that you do not deserve to have your name written in the stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

Silver Lake has been a haven for counterculturalists since the early-1900s: communists, bohemians, artists, musicians, civil rights activists, Asian and Hispanic immigrants, people who are gay or trans or otherwise incongruous with mainstream American society. It’s Wednesday, August 6th, and you are here—just northwest of Downtown, Chinatown, and Elysian Park, just east of Hollywood—with Baela and Jace. Baela is briefly home from Paris, and she has a million stories to share; everything she sees and does seems to spawn a new one, ever-multiplying like the heads of a hydra. She buys a coffee and gushes about café au lait. She points out all the words that have come from French, roughly one-third of the English language. She laments the lack of public transportation. She decries fast food.

You are clearly in need of cheering up, and so Baela insists you come along to a shabby little club with a storied history. There are photographs covering the walls, portraits of musicians who have performed here over the past century and writers who have read their works aloud. There is a Red Hot Chili Peppers tribute band playing live. You wish you’d known this in advance so you could refuse to attend. Their music reminds you of Aegon. Your dress is a glittery indigo, and your eyes are painted with shimmering bruise-like shadow to match: Huda Beauty and Anastasia Beverly Hills, Big Dreams and Dark Matter.

It’s crowded and loud, low ceilings and floors wet with spilled drinks. As you wait in line with Baela and Jace by the bar—people are pushing their way to the front to place their orders—you study the photographs on the wall. Right beside where you stand is a massive black and white picture of Woody Guthrie playing an acoustic guitar. According to the plaque below it, he once performed here back in 1941.

“Hey, it’s Woody Guthrie!” you say. “Everyone thinks the theater I worked at back home in Minnesota was named after him.”

Baela nods, a bit forlornly. “Yeah. It’s a shame what happened to Woody.”

“Why? What happened?”

“He died of Huntington’s disease,” Baela says, and then finally sees an opening and surges up to the bartender. She orders beers for herself and Jace and a lemon drop for you. She knows you like them.

“What’s Huntington’s disease?” you ask when she returns.

“Oh, it’s horrible. You lose control of your body and go insane and then you die.”

Viserys? you think, the dread dawning red and primal. “Is it genetic?”

“What?” Baela shouts over the music.

“Huntington’s. Do you inherit it from a parent?”

“I think so,” she says. “Arlo Guthrie didn’t get it. But Woody had two daughters who died pretty young. Around forty.”

Viserys? Aegon? “I’ll be right back,” you tell Baela.

“Don’t you want your lemon drop?!” she calls after you, but you’re already gone.

You sprint into the bathroom, packed with women and drag queens checking their hair and makeup in the mirrors, and barricade yourself in a stall. The light is neon, blue and cold. You yank your phone out of your purse and start Googling. Through the walls, you can feel the quaking reverberation of the bass guitar. You can hear the Red Hot Chili Peppers tribute band starting a new song.

“I got a bad disease,

Up from my brain is where I bleed,

Insanity, it seems,

Has got me by my soul to squeeze…”

Yes, according to Wikipedia, Huntington’s is genetic. A parent with the disease has a fifty-fifty chance of passing it on to each of their offspring. It is incurable. It is invariably fatal.

“Well all the love from me,

With all the dying trees I scream,

The angels in my dreams, yeah,

Have turned to demons of greed, that’s mean…”

You type Viserys Targaryen Huntington’s disease into the Google search bar and wait for the results to load. When the glowing screen starts trembling, you realize your hands are shaking.

“Where I go, I just don’t know,

I got to, got to, gotta take it slow,

When I find my peace of mind,

I’m gonna give you some of my good time…”

And you find a photo you’ve never seen before, not in all your prior Google searches, not in your five months here in Los Angeles. It’s from the early-2000s. It was taken at a fundraiser for the Huntington’s Disease Society of America. In a wheelchair is a twisted greying man identified by the caption as Famed Hollywood producer Viserys Targaryen. His wheelchair is being pushed by a much-younger Alicent, and he is surrounded by faces you recognize, although they were only children then: tiny beaming Daeron, shy Helaena, Aemond, solemn and stoic and already scarred…and Aegon, lurking in the corner of the frame, hands in the pockets of his black suit, gazing hostilely at the photographer from beneath a shock of unruly blonde hair.

Viserys didn’t die of cancer, you realize with horror so visceral it rips the air from your lungs. He died of Huntington’s disease. And that means Aegon could have it too.

[positively-mine]

You’re a girl?!

how the twst boys find out you’re a girl & their reactions

tags: afab, accidental touches

a/n: very much self indulgent BUT I COUNDNT STOP THINKING 🤔 what if because it was a boys school that they didn’t have skirts and basically Crowley just made you wear the uniform & you didn't tell anyone. Like epel and lilia’s case, they just thought you were a feminine guy (p.s I just started and I haven’t read any spoilers, except for some info from reddit so I’m very sorry if this has already been covered/ revealed) very gacha coded but PLSSSSS bear this brain rot with me

Some spoilers: until book 3

Series: ❤️ 🧡 🩵 💛 💜 💙 💚

Ace

This can go two ways. Firstly, is that he was chasing deuce or Grimm around and you happen to be walking around the corner. And BAM. You’re both on the ground with him on top of you, caging you into his arms. With both his hands conveniently placed on two lumps on your chest. It takes him a good 3 seconds of staring and squeezing before he realises what they are. What you are. Immediately feels embarrassed and starts screaming and scarmbling to get up.

Orrr he has gotten so used to coming into ramshackle house as he pleases and barges into your room without knocking. You’re both guys, so what’s the problem? Big mistake. Because you’re changing and literally only in your under garments. He’s all red and hot faced before he’s running out of your room and the house into the walkway to calm himself down.

The next time he faces you, he’s apologising while avoiding eye contact. He knows you’ve been through thick and thin together but it really did feel as though his whole world view was shattered when he found out. When he’s hanging out with you, he’s much more careful of where he places his hand and tries to look out for you. Definitely tried to act more manly as well, like when there's an overblot about to happen he either pushes you behind him or blocks you with his body..

Deuce

The way i see this going down is that he’s got his gangster mode on from whatever trouble he’s gotten himself into (or for convenience sake; the broken eggs in book 1). And he’s trying to push you away to stop you from stopping HIM from picking a fight. And something soft hits his forearm. He turns to look at you chest before he quickly realises. He’s screaming like a banshee while moving as far away as he can from you. The initial quarrel was forgotten and now his head is spinning. Thoughts like “what would my mother think if she knew what i did??”, “HES A GIRL?! I MEAN SHE” and so on. The walk back to the kitchen is so quiet that you could basically hear Grimm’s grumbling all the way from Heartsbyul kitchen. Once you arrived back at the kitchen, the guys are wondering why its so quiet between you two but pay no mind to it.

He gets awkward around you every once in a while when realises how close the two of you are but still tries to make up for it. Also becomes more diligent in trying to withhold his gangster personality. He doesn’t want to show anymore of his nasty side to you when he can show you how well he can treat you. Lest he wants to lose you to some other guys…

Trey

This one's tough. I don't know if he has sisters so let's just say that he has. He's one of the first few to realize that you're a girl, being the ever observant person that he is. He sees the pattern when you start getting a little bit more emotional than you are. Snapping at Adeuce and Grimm when you're usually much more patient, getting upset at small things or when he catches you tearing up when you talk about returning to your own world. Yeah he definitely knows.

So it's no surprise when you start to receive more baked treats from him and he's piling up all sorts of nutritious food onto your plate when you sit together. The others are wondering why he's doing that when you're capable of doing it yourself. It's only after several months of this treatment that you realize he knows that you're a girl. And when you confront him about it, "I can't help but want to take care of you when I see you".

Riddle

I like to think that you’re having tea together. He’s invited you to another one of their dorm’s many reason to have tea. Grimm and Ace are fighting for the last cookie and accidentally knock into you as you pick up your teacup. Splashing the liquid all over your dress shirt. Riddle is of course, furious. Rule #363, never spill your tea. Especially on a Tuesday. He’s screaming at them both when his eyes move to check if you’re okay. And that’s when he sees some blue peeking out at the wet area of your shirt. It takes him a quick second to march over to you and drape his blazer over you. “You should go back and change. Make sure to take a warm bath unless you want to catch a cold.” You nod at him confusedly. He watches as you make your way down the steps. He turns to the rest of the members with pink tinted cheeks. “Unfortunately this tea party will have to be cancelled,” and he quickly turns back to walk to his dorm before anyone can say anything.

The next time you see him, his cheeks are tinted pink and he’s trying very hard to not make eye contact with you. Overall, most of your relationship stays the same except that he’s inviting you over for tea more often. But this time its just the two of you. And his excuse? It changes every time. Sometimes its because he says he wants to talk about Adeuce and Grimm’s behaviour, and sometimes it’s because he wants your thoughts on which tea set is better.

Cater

For his case, it's not that he found out, rather he overheard it from a rowdy pair of first years and a cat. He was walking to his next class and about to turn around the corner when he overheard their not so very hushed conversation. His eyes widen very similarly to the saucers that they use for tea. He's kind of upset that he didn't find out himself, but learned it through someone else. Oh well. It's a win-win situation for him anyways.

So when he starts being much more clingier to you and offering to walk you to your classes do you start to get suspicious. He’s always coming over to sit together at your table and visiting you at Ramshackle more. Lounging on the beaten up sofa while you do whatever work you have to. Keeping you company for as long as he can. Or at least until Riddle calls him back or you kick him out. Whichever comes first.

Now imagine there’s a celebration of some sort and he’s excitedly running up the steps to Ramshackle to formally invite you as his date. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he smiles cheekily. And from behind him he pulls out a beautiful dress. “Will you be my date?” No misunderstanding his gestures now.

reblogs appreciated!

[m00nsbaby]

AITA for texting my fiancé that "this isn't working"?

Steven Grant x reader.

Tags & warnings. None. Yes, this literally is just a silly little thing that I read on reddit and I thought it was so funny lol. Reader is gender neutral!

Word count. 823.

Moving in with Steven was one of the best decisions you could make in your life, right after saying 'yes' when he proposed.

The only inconvenience came at a precise time between morning and afternoon, sometimes even at night, all depending on the mood of his boss. Waiting for Steven to return from work was such a headache, boring hours and dead time as you tried to find your own job.

The upside was that you now had complete freedom to organize his apartment to your liking, and if anything needed a complete makeover, it was Steven Grant's dark and disorganized home.

You had just made a completely necessary expense, a gigantic mirror that was clearly bigger than your capabilities. Worse yet, considering that if there was something you despised with all your heart, it was the mere idea of reading an instruction manual.

When the mirror arrived, the Amazon delivery guy mocked you to your face for your difficulty in handling the box and getting it into the house.

You: Baby, the new mirror just came in!

You hit send after the message.

You: I’m going to try to put it together but I may need your help later.

And just as you said, you got to work with the phone by your side, waiting for a response from Steven.

You assumed Donna was in a terrible mood because at least two hours went by without a reply, although you were really too busy to worry about that.

For a moment, you insisted on the idea of finishing assembling the darn mirror before Steven arrived home, but that clearly didn't happen because for the two and a half hours of effort you put in, you didn't feel like you were really getting anywhere.

Plus, you had extra screws that shouldn't have been left over.

You: This isn’t working and at this point, I think I need to just give up.

You put the phone aside and lazily lay down on the carpet. Why was assembling furniture so hard? Although not as difficult as having to accept that you couldn't finish it on your own.

You stayed there not knowing how long, but you estimated it was a few hours because you heard the front door indicating that Steven was home. The smile lasted only a short while because as you straightened up to greet him, he walked past you without even looking at you, heading straight to the bedroom.

"Steven?" you questioned, slightly furrowing your brow. You stood up slowly, giving him time to exit the room.

When you finally confronted him, your heart almost jumped out of your chest. His eyes were red, completely filled with tears.

"What happened, baby?"

"Why?" he asked, his voice breaking. It shattered your heart into pieces.

"Why what, Steven?" He sniffled, and you searched his gaze when he started avoiding you.

"Why are you giving up on me?"

You nearly killed him right then and there.

"What are you talking about?"

He didn't take long to pull his phone out of his pocket and shake it a bit in front of your face; he was on the verge of sobbing.

"Y-Your messages, you were breaking up with me."

The moment Steven mentioned your text messages, you had to press your lips together to keep from laughing in his face.

Your expression almost made him cry harder. Were you making fun of him?

"Steven." Your voice came out in a playful tone as you almost burst into laughter. "I was talking about the mirror."

"Huh? What mirror?"

"The new mirror, it arrived." Your eyes were almost watering from holding back laughter. "I'm guessing that the previous messages didn't send; I was talking about not being able to assemble it on my own."

You stepped aside to let him see the mess you had made on the floor, with the mirror halfway assembled.

Steven exchanged glances between the things and you.

He looked at the things.

He looked at you.

He looked at the things.

He looked at you.

Realization hit in seconds, and you couldn't say anything more when you felt Steven's arms squeezing you against his chest. You couldn't stop laughing even though your laughter sounded odd, muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

"Bloody fucking hell, love!" Steven cursing was definitely a special event. It only made you laugh harder. "You almost gave me a heart attack!"

He lifted you off the ground, and tears were already streaming down your face. It took much longer than expected to calm down from the laughter.

Still breathless, you let him kiss your face, as well as embrace you with his strong arms that refused to let you go.

"Still, I need you to check the mirror." You took a deep breath, your cheeks already reddened, one of your hands held onto him, and the other wiped the corners of your eyes. "I think I damaged it."