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leriexoxo · 3 months ago

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Pretty Boy, Asshole

Husband! Leeknow x Reader (arranged marriage au)

Tags: Arranged marriage AU, Strangers to Lovers, Slowburn, Enemies(ish) to Lovers, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Domestic Feels. Jealousy, feelings realization, Minho is an asshole

Word count: 7.8k

Summary: You never even met Lee Minho before your wedding was arranged. Your parents’ companies had been tied together for decades, so it made perfect business sense—merge the heirs, secure the legacy. At first, you both thought it was a joke. But then came the legal documents, the moving trucks, and the cold stares from a man who’d just lost the love of his life. He hated you for it. And you? You wanted to burn the whole marriage down.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’d been on the plane for thirteen hours, and somehow, your anger had survived every single mile.

It burned low and hot in your gut, simmering as the taxi pulled up to the towering glass building in the middle of the city. The kind of place with concierge desks and private elevators and probably a robot that sorted your mail. All of it screamed money—his money, their money—not yours. You dragged your luggage through the marble lobby with a scowl stitched into your face and your earbuds shoved in deep, just to drown out the sound of your own thoughts.

The elevator opened on the thirty-fourth floor with a quiet chime. A long hallway stretched out in front of you, lined with pale wood and tasteful lighting. Minimalist. Cold. And then—

The door.

Suite 3401.

Your new “home.”

You punched in the code the assistant had emailed you—because of course there was an assistant—and stepped inside.

And there he was.

Lee Minho.

He didn’t even look at you when you entered. Just sat there on the expensive-looking couch, one ankle crossed over his knee, phone in hand, posture relaxed like he wasn’t currently ruining your life by existing.

You stood in the doorway, suitcase wheels stuck on the lip of the entrance, staring at him like a ghost. The place was massive, all glass walls and open spaces, but the air felt tight, suffocating even, with him in the middle of it.

He didn’t say anything.

You cleared your throat. “Hi.”

A beat passed. Then he looked up. Just once. Just barely.

“You’re late.”

That was it.

Not welcome or did you have a good flight or hey, sorry we’re both being held emotionally hostage by our families right now. No. Just you’re late, like you were a bad intern and he was your condescending CEO.

You stared at him. “Sorry. The whole being-forcibly-uprooted-from-my-life thing kind of threw off my schedule.”

Minho blinked, bored. “Right.”

You wheeled your suitcase past him with more force than necessary, the rubber wheels thunking hard over the lip of the living room rug. The sound echoed too loudly in the silence. You didn’t care. Let him be annoyed. You were annoyed too.

No—furious.

You’d had plans. You had a studio apartment back home, a job you didn’t hate, friends who didn’t make you want to set the room on fire just by breathing near them. You had a life. And now?

Now you had Lee Minho.

Stranger. Fiancé. Asshole.

“I’ll take the room farthest from yours,” you muttered, already dragging your luggage down the hallway.

“No one’s stopping you,” he said.

Of course he wasn’t.

The guest room—no, your room now, apparently—was spotless and cold, like no one had ever breathed inside it. You dropped your bags, sat on the edge of the pristine white bed, and buried your face in your hands.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t even sigh.

You just sat there, skin prickling, spine tense, your body still humming with the quiet, ugly disbelief that this was real. That your life was no longer your own.

All because of a deal your parents made before you were old enough to spell the word contract.

A knock on the door frame.

You didn’t look up.

“There’s food in the fridge,” Minho said. “Don’t touch the top shelf.”

Then he walked away.

And you?

You smiled.

It wasn’t a nice smile.

If he wanted to play like that?

Fine.

Let the games begin.

—

It started with the oat milk.

Well, no. Technically, it started with the marriage contract your parents signed before you were even born, but the oat milk was the spark that lit the fuse.

You opened the fridge that morning, bleary-eyed and cranky, and stared at the single, sad carton sitting on the shelf. It was empty. Not a drop left. You shook it just to be sure, even though you already knew.

That bitch drank your oat milk.

You stood there for a second, hand still gripping the fridge door, mentally running through your options.

1. Scream.

2. Cry.

3. Commit a minor act of violence.

4. Be civil.

You chose none of the above.

Instead, you slammed the door shut and poured yourself a glass of water like a goddamn adult. Then you sat at the island counter and waited.

He appeared ten minutes later, fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, T-shirt hanging loose over his frame like he hadn’t even tried.

He glanced at you, then at the empty carton now placed—strategically—in the middle of the counter between you.

Silence.

“You drank it,” you said finally.

Minho looked at the carton like it was a science project he wasn’t particularly impressed by. “You didn’t label it.”

“It was oat milk.”

“So?”

You blinked slowly. “You think I bought oat milk for you?”

He shrugged. “I thought you bought it for the apartment.”

“The apartment didn’t drink it.”

He smirked, just a little. “Well, technically, I live here, so—”

You stood up, chair scraping back. “Okay. Ground rules.”

Minho raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. You grabbed a notepad from the drawer—because of course this penthouse had notepads—and started writing with aggressive, stabbing motions.

1. Do not eat my food.

2. Do not drink my things.

3. Do not speak to me unless necessary.

4. Do not assume anything is “for the apartment.” It’s not.

5. This is not a home. This is a hostage situation.

You slid the paper across the counter.

Minho didn’t even blink. “You done?”

“Rule six: Don’t be a smug little prick.”

He laughed. Laughed.

Low, amused, like you were a puppy nipping at his ankles. “That’s not very professional, fiancée.”

“Neither is stealing milk.”

He folded the paper neatly, tucked it under his phone, and leaned against the counter. “Alright. My turn.”

Your jaw tensed. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Too bad. I’m negotiating.”

He grabbed the pen and flipped the paper over.

1. Don’t slam doors.

2. Don’t use the speaker in the bathroom—I don’t want to hear your playlist at 7 a.m.

3. Don’t cry where I can hear it.

4. Don’t touch my closet.

5. Don’t mess with my routine.

You stared at the list, then at him. “You think I’m crying?”

He shrugged. “Heard something last night.”

“I was unpacking.”

“Right.” Another smirk.

You hated him. You hated him.

But not in the way you could do anything about. Not in a way that fixed anything. He wasn’t cruel, not exactly. Just… cold. Detached. As if he’d already made up his mind that you weren’t worth the effort of pretending.

And honestly?

You weren’t sure he was wrong.

“You’re a dick,” you muttered, turning away.

“You’re in my house,” he shot back.

Your house. The words rang in your ears long after you’d slammed your bedroom door behind you.

Not our house.

Not even the house.

Just his.

And that, somehow, pissed you off more than anything else.

—

You’d decided to make pasta.

It was a petty decision. Loud, messy, sauce-splattered pasta. Not some dainty meal for two. This was war food. Battle carbs. And you made sure to cook it at the worst possible time—right after Minho’s usual post-gym shower, when he liked the kitchen empty and the air quiet.

Too bad.

He walked in right as you started blending the tomato sauce. The noise ripped through the apartment like a chainsaw in a library.

Minho stopped in the doorway.

You didn’t turn around.

“Seriously?”

“Can’t hear you,” you said, raising your voice over the blender. “Domestic goddess things.”

He waited. You could feel it—the weight of his stare, the way his presence filled the room even when he didn’t move.

When you finally switched the blender off, the silence felt personal.

“You used my garlic,” he said flatly.

You turned. “Is garlic suddenly yours now?”

“It’s from my stash.”

“Oh my God, what is this, culinary class wars?”

He moved to the fridge, ignoring you completely, and opened it like he didn’t want to breathe the same air as you. But you saw it—the tightness in his jaw, the twitch of annoyance in his eyebrow. He hated this. Hated you, probably. And that should’ve stung, but—

Honestly?

You hated him too.

He grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and finally looked at you. Really looked this time. The kind of stare that peeled skin. “How long do you plan on sulking?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“This whole act. Slamming things. Writing rules like we’re in middle school. Throwing tantrums over oat milk. How long do I have to deal with this?”

The rage came hot and immediate, crawling up your throat like fire.

“I didn’t ask to be here,” you snapped.

He leaned against the counter, cool and clean and somehow infuriatingly calm. “Neither did I.”

“No, but you’re acting like I ruined your life. I didn’t do this, Minho. Our parents did. Go be mad at them, not me.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Something raw and real and unguarded. But it was gone before you could read it, buried under that same sharp indifference he wore like armor.

“I had someone,” he said quietly.

You froze.

“I was going to propose,” he added. “Two weeks before I got the call. I had the ring. We had an apartment lined up. She thought I was joking when I told her. She laughed. And then she cried.”

You said nothing. The room felt suddenly smaller.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said, voice low now. “Just like you didn’t. But don’t act like we’re the same.”

And with that, he left.

Not stormed out. Just left, like he always did—quietly, cleanly, like emotion was something he refused to be caught feeling.

You stood there, spoon still in your hand, staring at the door he’d walked through.

And for the first time since you’d arrived, the anger didn’t feel quite so simple anymore.

—

It was past midnight when you came out of your room.

Not because you were hungry. Not even because you needed anything. You just couldn’t sleep. The walls felt too white, too quiet, and the sheets felt like someone else’s skin.

So you padded out barefoot, hair a mess, wrapped in the hoodie you’d “accidentally” stolen from Minho’s side of the laundry basket. (Sue you. It was warm. And it smelled better than your room.)

You didn’t expect to see him.

But there he was—on the couch, passed out, phone still in his hand and a drama paused mid-episode on the screen. A glass of water sat half-full on the coffee table. One sock was halfway off his foot. His hair was a mess. A real, actual mess—not the kind he curated to look effortless. And his mouth was slightly open.

He looked… normal.

No expensive cologne. No pressed shirts or glinting watches. Just a guy in sweatpants, legs tangled up in the blanket he probably tried to pull over himself and failed halfway through.

You stood there, blinking.

This man—this insufferable, rude, arrogant, milk-stealing demon—looked like a person when he slept.

That was the most annoying thing of all.

You grabbed the remote off the floor, turned the volume down on whatever he’d been watching (some crime doc with bad voiceovers), and went to walk away.

But something stopped you.

Maybe it was the frown between his brows, the kind you only got when something hurt. Not pain-pain. More like… emotional bruises. Things he didn’t talk about. Things that lived under his tongue.

Maybe it was the way his hand was curled slightly around his phone, thumb pressing against a message thread he hadn’t opened yet.

You inched closer.

The screen lit up just enough for you to see the name.

“Hannie.”

You froze.

She’d messaged him.

The girl. Her.

The one he’d told you about.

Your chest felt strange. Not jealousy. Not pity. Just… tightness. The kind that came from remembering this was real. That all this wasn’t a drama. That someone really lost someone else. That somewhere out there was a girl waiting on a message that’d never come.

You sighed, then gently reached down to fix the blanket over his chest. Not out of kindness. Not really.

Just because it was cold.

And because even if he hated you—and you definitely hated him—he was still a human being.

You turned back toward your room, hoodie sleeves too long over your hands, and whispered into the dark:

“You look like a person when you sleep.”

He didn’t hear you. Probably.

—

Minho knew something was off the second he opened his eyes.

Not just because his neck was stiff or the TV was still on. It was the blanket.

It had been over him. Neatly. Tucked up under his chin like someone had stopped, looked at him, and—

He sat up slowly, glancing around the dim living room. Nothing. No sign of you. Just the faint smell of tomato sauce lingering from the pasta war the night before and a hoodie hanging crooked off the back of the couch.

His hoodie.

Fucking hell.

You’d touched his blanket. His clothes. You’d touched him, probably. And he’d slept through it like an idiot.

He hated that he didn’t hate it.

By the time you finally emerged from your room the next morning, half-wet hair twisted into a bun and sleep still crusting your eyes, Minho was already standing in the kitchen—freshly showered, coffee in hand, and unreadable behind his black tee and tired stare.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at you.

But the air was different.

He cleared his throat. “You’re up late.”

“I’m always up late.”

Right. Of course. You two weren’t going to talk about it. The blanket. The hoodie. The fact that, for once, neither of you had gone to bed vibrating with rage.

So you sipped your own coffee and stayed on opposite ends of the kitchen. Separate islands. Cold continents. Two strangers with matching rings they didn’t ask for.

Then your phone buzzed.

You didn’t answer it at first, but the second buzz turned into a full-blown call. You picked it up, eyes narrowing as you glanced at the screen.

“Oh, fuck me.”

Minho arched a brow. “Don’t offer things you don’t mean.”

You glared. “It’s my mother.”

He took a slow sip of coffee. “You’ve said enough.”

You answered on speaker, too tired to pretend today. “Hi, mom.”

“Sweetheart!” her voice was shrill and sugary. “I hope you’re both dressed—we’re expecting you at lunch!”

You blinked. “Lunch?”

“Yes, darling, we’ve arranged a little brunch at the family villa. Just a few friends. And, well… a few investors. It’ll be casual, of course. Just something to show how beautifully our children are adjusting to married life.”

Minho choked on his coffee.

“Married life?” you mouthed at him.

“Lovely,” you lied into the phone. “Can’t wait.”

—

You barely had time to fight over what to wear. Minho had shown up to the front door in a gray button-down and slacks like he was filming an ad for luxury timepieces. Meanwhile, you stood barefoot, mascara wand in hand, in a half-wrapped dress with a look of absolute murder on your face.

“Don’t even start,” you growled.

He smirked. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

“…You look nice.”

You blinked. Looked down. Then up. “You trying to seduce me into not stabbing you in front of your mother?”

“I wouldn’t need to try.”

You threw your brush at his face.

The car ride was quiet.

But not cold.

Tense, yes—but not the same kind of tension as before. Something new. Something that buzzed low in your spine. Like your bodies were talking even when your mouths weren’t.

He kept glancing at your legs. You pretended not to notice.

You picked imaginary lint off your skirt. He pretended not to watch.

The world outside flew by in soft gray blurs, and still—you felt that shift.

The one from last night.

The one you weren’t supposed to think about.

⸻

The villa was a lie.

It looked like a Tuscan postcard and smelled like money. Overgrown vines curled around white stone arches, and the sunlight streamed through polished windows like someone had bottled golden hour.

You hated it immediately.

Minho hated it more.

You could tell because he didn’t hold your hand until someone was looking.

But when he did?

Oh.

That bastard sold it.

He slid his fingers through yours like it was natural. Tugged you closer by the waist when cameras popped out. Whispered things into your ear that made you laugh, even when he was threatening to strangle you under his breath.

“Smile,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re making me look like a villain.”

“Gee, wonder why,” you said through your fake grin.

But God, he looked so good when he did it. Like a real husband. Like someone who knew your perfume by name.

And worst of all?

You looked good next to him.

There was a photo taken at one point—someone’s assistant caught it. You didn’t even realize. But it got passed around between the wives and board members, passed around with murmurs like:

“Look at how in love they are.”

“She fits him perfectly.”

“They’ll have beautiful children.”

And you saw it, later. On someone’s phone. A candid of you mid-laugh and Minho mid-glance—eyes soft, mouth twitching, hand grazing your waist like it belonged there.

You looked like the picture of a happy marriage.

And for a second, you hated how good it felt to pretend.

—

The real first shift started with dinner.

Just some leftover rice, a pan-fried egg, and the remains of whatever frozen veggies you’d tossed into a pot earlier. You didn’t cook it for him. You just made too much.

But then Minho walked into the kitchen, towel still on his shoulders, hair wet from a shower, and blinked at the plate you’d pushed aside like you weren’t saving it.

“I’m not eating your food,” he said.

You shrugged. “Didn’t ask you to.”

“…But that egg looks good.”

You didn’t answer. Just sat down at the counter and kept chewing.

He stood there awkwardly. Then grabbed a fork. And sat down next to you like it wasn’t a crime.

The silence wasn’t heavy. Not even thick. Just… quiet.

Like both of you had run out of excuses to hate each other loudly.

Then came the next slip.

The couch.

It was late. You were scrolling through nonsense on your phone, half-dozing to a playlist you wouldn’t admit was full of sad lo-fi love songs. You didn’t even notice him sit next to you until his shoulder brushed yours.

You didn’t flinch.

That was the worst part.

You just let it happen.

You told yourself it was fine. The couch was huge. You were tired. It wasn’t a thing. He wasn’t even talking. Neither of you were.

And then, you woke up.

Warm. Comfortable. Safe.

Your cheek was against his chest. His arm was around your shoulder. Your legs were tucked under a blanket you definitely didn’t pull over yourself.

You froze.

He was still asleep. Breathing steady. Mouth parted again, hair fluffing against the pillow like a halo he didn’t deserve.

You moved slowly. Too slowly.

And he blinked awake the second you shifted.

His voice was low. Sleep-rough. “Don’t freak out.”

You already were.

“I didn’t mean to stay,” you whispered.

“I didn’t mean to let you.”

You stared at each other in the dim glow of the TV.

Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Then his phone buzzed.

And the bubble burst.

He looked down at the screen. His jaw locked. The softness vanished.

You saw it. You felt it.

Because you recognized the name.

Hannie.

Three words.

“Can we talk?”

Minho didn’t say a thing. Just stood up, grabbed his phone, and walked away.

He didn’t even look back.

—

You didn’t sleep.

You didn’t eat the next day either.

Minho wasn’t in the apartment when you woke up. No note. No text. Not even a plate of passive-aggressive toast crumbs to let you know he’d been there.

The silence was suffocating.

The warmth from last night? Gone.

Your hand kept drifting to your phone, but you had nothing to say. What could you even say? Sorry for sleeping on your chest and pretending you weren’t still in love with someone else?

You sat in the kitchen for hours.

He came home after sundown. Quiet. Unbothered.

You hated him for that.

But what broke you—what really split you in half—was the fact that he looked at you, said nothing, and headed straight to the shower.

Like you weren’t even worth a fight.

—

The front door slammed.

You didn’t even realize you were waiting for it until the sound made you flinch. Made your fingers clench around the glass in your hand.

Minho had come home.

Past midnight. Again.

Third night in a row.

And this time, he didn’t pretend to be quiet. He stomped around the kitchen without a care. Tossed his keys too hard on the counter. Opened the fridge, stared, closed it again. Then turned to find you standing there at the edge of the hallway, arms crossed, eyes tired.

You said nothing.

He said less.

And that was it. That was the moment something snapped.

“Don’t you wanna go back out?” you said, voice sharp. “Or was three nights with your ex enough?”

Minho froze.

Slowly, he turned to face you, and his expression made your skin crawl.

Cold.

Hard.

But this time, mean.

“You spying on me now?” he asked.

“You left your phone on the counter the first night. You think I wouldn’t see her name?”

He scoffed, like you were the one being ridiculous. “It’s none of your business.”

You stepped forward. “Really? That’s funny. Because you made it my business the second you decided to disappear without a word while I stayed here, alone, pretending everything was normal!”

“I never asked you to pretend.”

“No, you just let me.”

Minho’s jaw ticked. His hands were fists. “So what? You want a gold star? For playing house for three days like you actually give a shit?”

Your chest seized. “I did give a shit.”

Silence.

You said it. You couldn’t take it back.

He stared at you. Unblinking. Breathing heavy.

And then he laughed. Soft. Cold. Mocking.

“Oh, that’s rich,” he muttered. “You act like the victim, but let’s not forget—this is your parents’ idea. You’re just as much a part of this mess as I am.”

That hit.

Hard.

But you weren’t done.

You stepped closer. Eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare act like I had a choice in any of this. I left my life behind. My friends. My career. My freedom. For what? So I could be treated like a stranger in my own house?”

“It’s not your house.”

Those four words.

Like knives.

You didn’t even realize you’d thrown the glass cup until it shattered against the floor two feet from his head.

And still—he didn’t flinch.

He smirked.

“That’s more like it,” he said. “There’s the brat my parents warned me about.”

You stepped forward. Your voice dropped.

“You’re such a coward, Minho.”

The smile fell.

“You’d rather run to the past than even try to make this work. You don’t want a wife? Fine. You don’t want to play pretend anymore? Neither do I. But don’t fucking punish me because your little fairytale ended and now you’re stuck with someone who didn’t beg to be here.”

His mouth parted. But he said nothing.

Coward.

He turned.

Started walking away.

And something in you broke.

“You’re so goddamn cold,” you said. “Do you even feel anything anymore, or are you just playing numb until she takes you back?”

He stopped.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t speak.

Just walked into his room.

And slammed the door.

—

You left that night.

No text. No calls. No dramatic slamming of doors.

Just your phone on the kitchen table, screen facedown like a corpse.

You packed a bag with nothing but essentials—some cash, a few clothes, your favorite perfume. The soft hoodie you slept in when you actually felt safe here. Just a few things to remind you that you were still you.

Then you got in the car and drove off.

Minho never saw you leave.

The hotel was three towns away. Coastal. Quiet.

The concierge didn’t ask questions. Just smiled when you booked the penthouse suite for a week and asked if you wanted a bottle of wine sent up. You said yes. Then requested a second.

The view was stunning.

The ocean glittered like it didn’t know how to be cruel. The room was wrapped in clean linens and silence. There was a rooftop pool. A bar with men who looked like they’d never heard the name Hannie in their lives.

It was freedom.

For three days, you existed like you were never married. Never shoved into a life you didn’t want. You slept with the balcony door open. Drank rosé for breakfast. Let strangers flirt with you in the elevator. Let a bartender ask for your number and smiled when you didn’t give it.

You lived.

And for the first time since this all started—you didn’t cry.

—

Minho, on the other hand?

He unraveled.

The first morning, he found your phone and rolled his eyes. Thought you’d storm back in eventually, full of righteous rage and a tantrum he could ignore.

You didn’t.

By evening, he’d checked every room in the apartment.

By midnight, he’d texted you twelve times even if your phone was turned off on the kitchen counter, he hoped you had your ipad or something with you.

By the next day, he was on the phone with your mother.

“I don’t know where she is.”

“Well, maybe if you treated her like a human being, she wouldn’t feel the need to vanish!”

Then came his father.

“If you screw this up, Lee Minho, so help me God—”

“Dad, she ran off—what do you want me to do?!”

“Get her back. Or don’t expect a damn cent when I die.”

That one stuck. So he stopped sleeping.

Started calling your friends. Your old number. Even checked your socials, which you hadn’t posted on in weeks. He scoured local hotels under fake names. Drove around aimlessly, gripping the wheel like it might help him understand where the hell this all went wrong.

He missed the scent of your hair in the hallway.

The hum of your voice talking to yourself in the kitchen.

The sound of the apartment feeling like someone lived in it.

And he hated himself for noticing.

But what gutted him? Was the dinner plate in the fridge.

The one you left by accident.

The rice and egg and veggies he didn’t eat.

Still there.

Still waiting.

Like you.

—

The door clicked open at 2:17 p.m. on a Wednesday.

No announcement. No warning.

Just the soft creak of hinges as you strolled in like you owned the place—like you didn’t leave it barren and echoing for four days straight.

Minho was in the kitchen.

He froze mid-step, glass in hand, mind blank.

Then he saw you.

Hair soft and glowing. Sunglasses perched on your head. One of those stupid seafoam shopping bags swinging from your fingers. A small, content smile on your lips like you didn’t just drop a goddamn nuke on his life and disappear off the grid.

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just breezed past like summer wind. Like perfume. Like a woman who hadn’t spent a single second wondering how he felt.

Like you hadn’t missed him at all.

He followed you. His jaw tightened. Voice low.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

You stopped. But didn’t turn.

“I went out,” you said, breezy. “Needed some air.”

“For four days?”

You finally looked at him and smiled.

“Oh, you noticed?”

That was it. That was the match.

Minho slammed the glass down—hard. Sharp enough to crack.

“You think this is funny?” he snapped, storming after you as you made your way to the bedroom. “You think disappearing without a word is some kind of fucking joke?”

“I think disappearing was the smartest thing I’ve done since saying I do.”

You tossed your bags onto the bed.

His eyes were on you—scorching. Dark. Possessive. And furious.

“Do you know what I’ve been through looking for you?”

You raised a brow. “Did you try your ex’s place?”

Minho exploded.

“Don’t fucking bring Hannie into this!”

“Why not?” you shot back. “Thought she’d already in our house.”

“She never came here. She only wanted closure—”

“Closure? You couldn’t send a goddamn text, but she gets closure?”

“You ran off!”

“BECAUSE I’M SICK OF THIS, MINHO!”

Silence.

Breathing. Heavy. Yours trembling, his uneven.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

“I didn’t sign up for love,” you said, quieter. “But I also didn’t sign up to be humiliated. To be ignored. To be left behind like a mistake.”

Minho looked at you, really looked.

And for the first time in days, his voice dropped to something that almost sounded like regret.

“You were never a mistake.”

You scoffed.

“Funny. You’ve been treating me like one since the day we met.”

Another silence.

And then—

“I looked for you,” he said. “I fucking panicked. I called everyone. I barely slept.”

You stared at him.

And something in your voice cracked, finally.

“Why?” you whispered. “Because your little doll went missing? Or because your inheritance did?”

That hit home.

Minho stepped forward.

Eyes sharp. Wild.

“I looked for you,” he growled, “because the silence was louder than the fights.”

You didn’t blink.

“I left because I needed space.”

He stared at you. Unmoving.

“And now?”

You met his gaze and said nothing.

—

You didn’t say anything else that night.

You’d stood in the middle of that bedroom—his fists clenched, your expression empty—and said absolutely nothing. Not “I forgive you.” Not “I understand.” Just… nothing.

And for Lee Minho, that silence was worse than screaming.

The next morning, he cooked breakfast.

Not well. Not gracefully. But enough that the scent of burnt toast and eggs greeted you when you walked into the kitchen at ten a.m., still in the hoodie you’d brought back from your coastal escape.

You blinked.

He stood at the counter. Jaw tight. Hair messy. A single plate waiting at your spot.

You stared at it.

He didn’t look at you.

“I didn’t poison it,” he muttered.

You sat. Ate half of it. Didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t ask why you only took one bite of the toast.

Later that day, a package arrived.

Shopping. Another one.

You’d clearly picked up the habit while you were gone.

He watched you slice the tape with a box cutter and pull out the sexiest red dress he’d ever seen.

You looked at it like it was an old friend. Then walked off humming.

Minho sat on the couch for three full minutes staring at the now-empty box like it personally offended him.

Then he googled the brand.

It cost more than his last pair of sneakers.

You hadn’t even flinched when the bill hit your card.

That night, you wore the dress.

Not for him. Of course not.

You didn’t even tell him you were going out. Just strutted through the apartment like a model on her way to kill a man with her bare hands. Hair done. Lip gloss gleaming. Legs out. Eyes sharper than any knife he owned.

Minho nearly choked on his water.

You grabbed your purse.

He stood.

“Where are you going?”

You didn’t stop walking. “Out.”

“With who?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He gritted his teeth.

“You’re married.”

You glanced over your shoulder.

“So are you.”

The door clicked behind you.

And Minho?

He stood there, fists clenched, heart thudding, and for the first time in his life—

he felt like he was chasing something he’d already lost.

—

You didn’t go far.

A lounge downtown. Some live music. Some harmless flirting.

You didn’t give anyone your number, didn’t accept the free drinks—but you smiled. You laughed. You felt something. Even if it wasn’t joy.

It was freedom.

And when you came home past midnight, heels in your hand and a lazy smirk on your lips, Minho was waiting.

Still dressed. Still awake. Eyes dark.

“What, did he not take you home?”

You blinked, unbothered. “Did you want him to?”

Minho moved so fast you barely saw it coming—slamming his glass down on the table, shattering it instantly.

The sound echoed through the apartment like a gunshot.

You didn’t flinch.

“You want to be angry, Minho?” you said coldly. “Then be angry. But stop pretending you have any right to be.”

His voice dropped. Low. Dangerous.

“You think I don’t care?”

You scoffed.

“I think you care about the idea of me. You care about your control.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re my wife.”

You took a breath.

“And I was yours. Until you treated me like furniture. Until you let your ex back into our home. Until I left, and you didn’t even call—”

“I DID.”

You paused.

That… stopped you.

“I did,” he repeated, quieter. “I called. I looked. I… I panicked. Okay? I couldn’t sleep.”

You stared at him.

“You called because you were worried?”

“No,” he bit out. “I called because I thought I lost you and I didn’t even know when you became something I didn’t want to lose.”

…

Silence.

The air was thick with heat, fury, confusion.

His chest heaved. Your lashes fluttered.

And then—

“Too bad,” you whispered. “You already did.”

You turned.

Walked down the hall.

Closed the door to the bedroom behind you.

Left him with nothing but guilt.

And the sound of his own breathing.

Minho stood in the hallway like he was losing it.

Because he was.

He’d asked. Nicely. Calmly. Even with that aching thing in his chest that he refused to name.

“Dinner with me. Just us.”

You hadn’t even looked up from your phone.

“No thanks.”

Just that. No explanation. No hesitation.

And that might’ve been fine—should’ve been fine—if you hadn’t left the house an hour later in a goddamn silk top, with your lips glossed and your earrings dangling, smiling at your phone like you were excited.

Excited for someone else.

Minho snapped.

He didn’t think. Just grabbed his coat, keys in hand, following the subtle perfume trail you left like it was instinct.

He wasn’t even trying to be sneaky.

He wanted to see.

He needed to see.

And when he found you—sitting at a trendy restaurant downtown, laughing across a table at a guy in a slim black button-up who wasn’t him—he felt something inside him break.

Minho stood outside like a ghost.

Watching.

Your smile looked different here.

Your laugh was real.

Your hand brushed the guy’s wrist when you reached for your wine glass and he laughed too—and Minho? He was already crossing the street.

You saw him before he reached your table.

That same thunderstorm scowl, the same black shirt he wore when he was ready to fight fate itself. You blinked, caught mid-sip, and your date raised an eyebrow.

“Friend of yours?”

“Unfortunately,” you muttered.

But it was too late.

Minho was there.

Next to your table.

Looking between you and the man across from you like he was barely holding himself together.

“Hi,” you said flatly.

He ignored you.

To your date: “She’s married.”

The guy blinked. “She said she was separated.”

“She’s not.” Minho’s voice dropped low. “She’s mine.”

Your jaw dropped. “What the fuck—Minho, you can’t just—”

But he didn’t listen. Didn’t care.

He grabbed your wrist. Not hard, not rough—just firm.

Like he was anchoring himself to you before he drowned.

And then he leaned in—and kissed you.

In front of everyone.

In front of him.

Not a soft kiss. Not a question.

A statement.

Minho kissed you like he was starving. Like he hated you. Like he loved you. Like you were air, and he’d been suffocating.

You pushed him back.

Staring. Shaking.

“What the fuck was that?”

He exhaled hard. “I ended it.”

You blinked.

“My ex. I ended it. For good. She never came to the house. She never stayed. I didn’t want her. I just didn’t know how to let go of something that already left me.”

You stared at him.

“That wasn’t fair to you. None of this was. But if you think I’m gonna sit back and watch you fall for someone else, you’re insane.”

The guy at the table stood awkwardly. “I should probably—”

Minho looked at him once and he quietly slipped out of the table and headed towards the exit.

You bit your lip, eyes blazing.

“You don’t get to be jealous.”

“I am, though.”

“You don’t get to kiss me.”

“I did.”

“And you don’t get to—”

He kissed you again.

This time, slower. Fuller. Like the world was ending and your mouth was his salvation.

When he pulled away, breathless, voice shaking:

“I get to love you. If you’ll let me.”

And for the first time, you didn’t have an answer.

—

The silence in the car was loud.

Unbearably loud.

You stared out the passenger window, heart still racing, brain trying to make sense of anything. You were vaguely aware that Minho had parked a few minutes ago, engine off, but neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

You were still dazed.

Still feeling his lips.

Still tasting him.

You brought your fingers up, brushing against your lower lip in disbelief.

Because what the fuck just happened.

Lee Minho—Mr. Iceman. Mr. I-hate-you-and-this-marriage. Mr. This-isn’t-what-I-wanted—had kissed you. Twice.

In public.

In front of your date.

And worse… You let him.

No. Worse than that— You wanted more.

Minho, on the other hand, sat in the driver’s seat, watching you like he was trying to solve a math problem. Like he couldn’t figure out if he’d just destroyed something or unlocked it. His jaw was tight, his hands still gripping the steering wheel.

Inside his head?

Chaos.

Why did he kiss you?

Why did it feel that good?

And why the fuck did he want to do it again?

He exhaled harshly through his nose, eyes flicking to you. Still staring out the window. Still lost in your thoughts. Still tracing your mouth like it betrayed you.

Something snapped.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, and before you even realized what was happening—

He leaned across the console.

Grabbed the back of your neck.

And kissed you. Again.

But this time, it wasn’t to prove a point.

It wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t performative.

This time, it was heat.

It was raw and hungry and messy.

His lips crushed against yours, mouth parting without hesitation, and your gasp disappeared between his teeth. His hand stayed at your nape, thumb brushing your jaw as he kissed you like he needed it. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered.

You froze for a second—confused, overwhelmed—

Then you kissed him back.

This time with fire.

Your hands gripped the collar of his coat, yanking him closer across the gearshift. His tongue slid against yours and you moaned before you could stop yourself—and that only made him growl low, deep in his throat, and tilt your head so he could kiss you deeper.

He pulled back just enough to speak, voice ragged.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

You were breathless. “Then why’d you?”

His eyes searched yours. “Because you’re my wife.”

“That didn’t mean anything to you before.”

“It does now.”

That stunned silence settled again—but this time, it pulsed with electricity.

You sat back slowly, lips swollen, heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

“What changed?”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then, quietly, “You left.”

You blinked.

“I woke up and you weren’t there. Left your phone. No note. Nothing. And the house was just… quiet.”

You waited.

“And I didn’t realize how much I hated the quiet.”

Your throat tightened.

Minho leaned his head back against the headrest, staring up at the roof.

“I told myself I didn’t want this. That it wasn’t supposed to be you. But then it was, and I just—” he paused, eyes squeezing shut. “I don’t know how to do this. I’ve been angry for so long, I forgot how to feel anything else.”

Your voice was soft. “So what now?”

He turned his head slowly. Looked at you like he hadn’t stopped thinking about your mouth since the first kiss.

“What do you want?”

You swallowed hard. The air between you was thick with unspoken things. With need. With possibility.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

Because the truth was—

You didn’t know.

You just knew one thing:

Minho was finally looking at you.

And you didn’t want him to stop.

—

The morning light spilled across the room in soft gold.

You blinked awake slowly, disoriented at first. Sheets tangled around your legs, the faint scent of clean linen and cologne still lingering in the air. It was quiet. Peaceful. Too peaceful.

Until it hit you.

Last night.

The car.

The kiss.

Both kisses.

His mouth on yours like he couldn’t breathe without it.

Your fingers instinctively touched your lips again, brushing over them like you could still feel the imprint of him there. And you could. It was annoying how vivid it all was—the way he grabbed your neck, the groan that slipped from his throat, the way he said you’re my wife like that meant something now.

You sat up too fast, the motion tangling your thoughts even more.

There was no note. No coffee waiting. No sound in the hallway. If you hadn’t known better, you’d think last night was a dream. A delusion you conjured up from all the tension snapping in your spine since this marriage started.

You padded out of the bedroom barefoot, oversized tee hitting just below your thighs. You didn’t expect to see him. You were just headed to the bathroom, like a normal person, to brush your damn teeth and try to reassemble your scrambled dignity.

You reached for the door.

Swung it open.

And there he was.

Minho.

In the bathroom.

Shirtless. Toothbrush in mouth.

Eyes going wide like a deer caught in fuckery.

You froze. So did he.

Toothpaste foam halfway down his lip. Water still running. The mirror fogged from his recent shower and his hair slightly damp, sticking to his forehead in soft, tousled strands that were so unfairly hot you actually wanted to scream.

It was like time stuttered for a second.

Your eyes met, and neither of you said a word.

Not about the kiss. Not about last night. Not about how this exact bathroom was where you’d once screamed at each other just weeks ago—and now you were both standing in it like strangers with secrets on your skin.

He stepped aside slowly, giving you space to reach the sink. “Didn’t know you were up,” he said finally, voice rough with sleep and awkwardness.

You cleared your throat. “Didn’t know you were either.”

A pause.

He spit.

You grabbed your own toothbrush, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.

You could feel his eyes on you though. Like heat.

“So…” he started, voice quieter now. “About last night—”

“Nope,” you said quickly, mouth full of mint. “No talking until after brushing.”

It was a lame excuse.

But you were panicking.

He didn’t argue.

The next two minutes were filled with brushing. Swishing. Spitting. Rinsing. You were trying to play it cool, but your heart was going insane because his arm had just brushed yours and oh god, was that a shiver?

He reached for a towel to dry his face. His fingers passed yours again.

“About last night,” he said again, this time firmer. “I don’t regret it.”

You froze mid-rinse.

He glanced at you, towel hanging around his neck.

“But I get it if you do.”

Your gaze finally met his in the mirror.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you don’t?”

You were quiet for a second.

“I don’t know what I feel.”

His jaw twitched. “Fair.”

You wiped your mouth and turned toward him, crossing your arms over your chest. “But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to pretend we’re suddenly okay now.”

“I wasn’t going to pretend,” he said evenly. “I just—meant it. That’s all.”

A pause.

“And if I kissed you again,” he added, “I’d still mean it.”

Your stomach flipped. “You’re not going to kiss me again.”

“I’m not?”

You looked up at him, heart hammering, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re my husband, Minho. Not my boyfriend. This isn’t dating. This isn’t normal. You don’t get to just kiss me like we didn’t hate each other last week.”

His eyes darkened. “I didn’t hate you.”

You blinked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch—but close enough that you could smell the clean spice of his skin. The kind of proximity that made your breath catch.

“I hated the situation,” he said quietly. “Not you.”

And for the first time… you actually believed him.

You stared up at him, blood rushing in your ears.

And then, before either of you could speak again—his phone rang in the hallway. The sound broke whatever spell was swirling around you. Minho stepped back, exhaling hard through his nose.

“I’ll get that,” he muttered.

And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving you in the bathroom.

Staring at your reflection.

And still tasting his kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: part two is linked at the top of the fic, for my new readers 😏 WELCOME

#leeknow angst #leeknow x reader #leeknow fluff #leeknow x you #skz lee know #skz imagines #straykids lee know #leeknow smut #lee know #skz smut #skz minho #skz fanfic #skz angst #skz fluff #stray kids minho #stray kids x reader #my husband #arranged marriage

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skzophreniic · 4 months ago

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⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content. use of vibrator. bit messy.

⍣ ೋ notes: hullo guest of room 801. i see you have requested a personal communication line with our general manager christoper. i'll have to forward him your request and see. don't worry though, i'm not sure he is capable of denying you anything :)

INTERNAL INVESTIGATION REPORT Filed by: Concierge Aeryn Subject: Staff Conduct – Unauthorized Use of Executive Amenities Staff Member Under Review: General Manager Bang Chan Requested by: Guest (Room 801)

[Location: General Manager Christopher's office, 2:12 p.m.]

The door to General Manager Bang Chan’s office clicks shut behind her—quietly, purposefully.

It always unnerves Aeryn, how the soundproofing works. How the outside world cuts off so cleanly, as if the very walls themselves conspire to protect him. Or hide him.

She’s holding the letter in one hand—folded precisely once, no wrinkles, no smudges—and a soft pink clipboard in the other. Because aesthetics matter, even in war.

Bang Chan looks up from his laptop, brows raised slightly, not in alarm but in a kind of cool anticipation. He’s in his tailored charcoal suit, shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest he’s had a long morning—but not long enough to explain the state of his tie (missing) or the faint imprint of someone’s lip gloss on his jawline (left side, cherry red).

“Concierge,” he says smoothly, standing. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Behind her, the door opens again.

“Sorry,” Seungmin mutters, stepping in with a deadpan expression and a steaming cup of black coffee. “Figured you’d need this.”

His gaze flicks to Aeryn’s clipboard. “Ah. Suite 801.”

A pause. Bang Chan exhales through his nose and reaches for the coffee, the very picture of composed.

“I take it this is about the... formal enquiry?”

Aeryn offers him a smile far too polished to be kind. “That’s correct, sir. The guest has raised some questions regarding the nondisclosure terms surrounding your last... engagement. Specifically as it pertains to any equipment added mid-stay.”

Seungmin coughs.

Chan’s lips twitch, dangerously close to a grin. “Is that so?”

“She’s also requested a formal investigation and a full reconstruction. For documentation and research purposes.”

There’s a silence. The kind that only exists in a very expensive room, built to contain very expensive secrets.

Chan sets his coffee down. Rolls up his sleeves. Unbuttons his cuffs.

And then—finally—meets her eyes.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice low and just a little rough. “I suppose I’d better walk you through it.”

[Location: General Manager Christopher's office, 12:12 p.m.]

It starts with an extension request.

A polite one. Professional. You even knocked on the General Manager’s door like you hadn’t shown up in nothing but a barely-tied robe and a mischievous smile. As if the slight sway in your hips wasn’t deliberate. As if your bare legs weren’t a test he was already too aware of.

He opens the door himself—of course he does—and looks at you like he knows. That stare of his: sharp, calculated, interested. Always in control.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside. His tone is polite. Neutral. But you catch it—the flicker of something darker beneath the words. Something curious.

You sit. He doesn’t.

“What can I help you with, Miss…?”

You tell him your name, lips twitching.

There’s a pause. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Right.”

You explain your request—wanting to extend your stay, preferably in the same suite. He listens attentively, nodding, folding his hands like a proper manager. But his eyes… they never leave your thighs.

“I’m afraid there are procedures for that sort of thing,” he says finally, walking around his desk. “Especially if it’s… a special room like yours.”

And then, almost casually: “Have you signed the NDA yet?”

You blink. “I—no?”

He nods like he expected that. Like this was part of the script.

“Then we’ll need to take care of that first.” His drawer opens. A sleek document appears on the desk, printed on pale pink letterhead. “Sign here.”

The pen he hands you is gold. Heavy.

You sign without reading it.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, quiet enough you almost miss it.

Then: “Would you mind standing for a moment?”

You do. Confused, but intrigued.

He circles you slowly. Looks you over like you’re an art piece. No, a luxury amenity. Then, he brushes your robe off your shoulder, lets it fall slightly—no resistance from you. He hums when he sees the lack of anything underneath.

“No undergarments?” he asks, voice silk.

You smile. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all,” he says. “In fact… I think it helps speed up the process.”

Before you can ask what he means, he nudges you gently backward—until the backs of your thighs hit the edge of his desk.

“Lie back,” he instructs, already loosening his tie. “We’ll keep this… efficient.”

You’re halfway reclined before he reaches for something in another drawer—velvet-lined, discreet, and utterly not standard issue. He holds up a slim, blush-pink vibrator. High-end. Sleek.

“Just a small evaluation,” he says, tone mock-professional. “To assess your suitability for extended accommodations.”

And then he turns it on.

The first contact is a whisper against your clit—barely-there, maddening. He watches your hips twitch, listens to your breath hitch, and smiles like a man who has all the time in the world.

“This setting is for guests requesting late check-outs,” he murmurs, dragging the toy in slow, steady circles. “It’s gentle. Teasing. Nothing too disruptive.”

You’re already panting, your thighs falling open wider for him.

He presses a button. The vibrations intensify.

“This one’s for those staying more than three nights. More persistent. Demands patience.”

You gasp, legs trembling, fingers digging into the edge of the desk.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. “Shall we see what happens when we activate the ‘executive suite’ tier?”

He clicks it again.

It pulses deep. Relentless. Your hips buck, and he places a hand firmly on your stomach to keep you still.

“Now, now,” he soothes, voice low and cruelly calm. “Stay still for me. You wanted to extend your stay, didn’t you?”

You try to speak—try to say yes—but it breaks into a whine, breathless and high. He slides the toy lower, dragging it up and down your soaked folds before circling your clit again with a precision that makes you see stars.

“You’re soaking my desk,” he remarks, almost fondly. “I should write you up for that.”

You can feel it building—fast. Too fast. You lift your hips for more, chasing it.

He pulls the toy away.

Your whole body arches in protest. He tsks.

“We’re not done evaluating.”

He brings it back, lower speed this time. Draws it up slowly. Watches you squirm.

Then—without warning—he slides two fingers inside you, slow and deep. Your body shudders, clenching around him instantly. He groans low, the sound almost reverent.

“So responsive,” he mutters, pumping them in time with the toy. “You don’t even realize how much you’re giving me.”

You’re close. So close.

But he doesn’t speed up.

He keeps you right there, on the edge—over and over, until your body is trembling, sweat slicking your skin, whimpers spilling from your lips.

“Please,” you gasp.

He raises a brow. “Please what?”

“Let me—fuck, please—I need to cum—”

“Hmm.” He leans in. “I suppose we can add that to your amenities.”

And then he does it—cruel little circles with the toy while his fingers curl just right and your whole body locks up, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. You sob out his name as your legs shake, thighs clenching around his wrist, your back arching off the desk.

But he doesn’t stop.

Keeps going through your orgasm, holding the toy against your overstimulated clit as you twitch and moan and try to wriggle away.

“Too much?” he asks, feigning innocence. “Then maybe we need to reconsider your extension—”

You whimper something incoherent, begging, panting, desperate.

He finally clicks the vibrator off.

Removes his fingers. Watches your slick drip down them.

Licks them clean.

“I’ll approve your stay,” he says, straightening. Adjusting his cuffs. Then, without hurry, he reaches for the top button of his shirt. Undoes it. Then another. His eyes, dark and knowing, never leave yours.

“But I’m going to need a more… thorough evaluation.”

A pause. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, and he smirks.

“Let’s discuss the premium package.”

______________________________________________________________

🗒️ INTERNAL SERVICE MEMO From: Concierge Aeryn To: SKZotel Staff – All Departments Subject: Incident Debrief – Suite 801 / General Manager Conduct Classification: Staff Eyes Only / Group Chat Archive

Team,

Per guest request (and because Seungmin couldn’t keep his mouth shut for five minutes), below is the transcript of this morning’s staff group chat regarding the… situation in Suite 801 involving General Manager Bang Chan.

Please note: The following messages have not been edited for professionalism, confidentiality compliance, or emotional damage. Names have not been redacted because frankly, if I had to be in that room with him and Seungmin, you all get to suffer with me.

Proceed accordingly. – Aeryn Concierge, SKZotel

series taglist: @nightmarenyxx

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larkral · 6 months ago

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Happy WIPsday! I have been wanting to post for approximately 2 weeks, but it's been chaosville at my house, so I haven't done it. I'm not seeing any tags, so I'm going to start us off this week!

So.... in the past two weeks I've written almost 2,000 words on Simon's Two Mums AU and about 4k words on Firstprince Soulmate BS. This is a lot for me! I'm excited about both of them! Soulmate BS is marinating after having had a very important scene written, so finally (already, always) got some overdue attention, and I'm really enjoying where it's going.

Simon's two mums:

Then, mum says, "Is it standard practice to cast spells on students without their agreement or parental assent?" "I'm sorry?" [omitted for spoilers] says. "Mum," I hiss at her. "I'm sorry, Simon, but I'd be very curious to know if this is a common experience for students here, or if it's something that's happening particularly often to my son." Her voice is hard and angry. Her lawyer voice, the one that knows she's going to win, and doesn't mind letting you know as well. "It's…" [spoiler again] sits back down. "It is, actually, quite common, but it is also very likely that it's happening particularly often with Simon." Mum seems surprised at how easily he goes along with her. "I'd appreciate if you would draft a policy document that provides students and their parents with more explicit knowledge of circumstances in which they may be subject to magical correction or intervention." "Of course, yes," [this person's name would spoil you] says. "Absolutely." He moves to stand again, and then sits back down. "Is there anything else before Simon returns to class?" "No," Mum says. "Unless you have anything you'd like to talk about, Simon?" Mummy asks, and I could cry. I almost do.

Soulmate BS and tags below the cut because I know what y'all here for.

BRILLIANT SHIT I say. Welcome to some soulmate lore knowledge.

"Mmm, yeah," Henry says, then with a little more clarity. "Sorry, what are we having a hard time believing? It's been quite the night in that regard." [quip removed for spoilers] Alex says. Henry hardly gets in his demure Indeed before Alex says, "I don't think it's that hard to believe that I'm a better dancer than you.” "No," Henry says, and then he presses his thumb into his phone and turns the screen towards Alex. You're Linked! the Heartlink banner reads, overlaying an illustration of red, pink and brown confetti. "Oh, shit." Alex says. Congratulations! Your bandmatch was calculated at a 97.82% level of synchronization. That's well above the threshold at which we recommend a parallel re-sync. Your concierge, Alana, will be in touch within 24 hours to facilitate contact with your soulmate. "Quite," Henry says. Alex can feel his heartbeat in his stomach, suddenly. It's a little bit nauseating, like he might throw up.

Thanks to @talentpiper11 for the name inspiration for the soulmate matching app. Which obviously every soulmate universe must have.

Tags and hugs to all my fandom friends. I hope you're making it through this week, lovelies.

@stitchyqueer @confused-bi-queer @facewithoutheart @whogaveyoupermission @cutestkilla

@hushed-chorus @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @ileadacharmedlife @bookish-bogwitch @artsyunderstudy

@captain-aralias @petedavidsonscock @artsyunderstudy @martsonmars @nausikaaa

@chen-chen-chen-again-chen @that-disabled-princess @shrekgogurt @palimpsessed @fatalfangirl

@blackberrysummerblog @valeffelees @youarenevertooold @emeryhall @run-for-chamo-miles

@talentpiper11 @orange-peony @thewholelemon @wellbelesbian @mooncello

@aristocratic-otter @roomwithanopenfire @monbons @kiwiana-writes

#BS stands for Brilliant Shit #at this point I might just name the fic that #I won't (probably)#but I could!#is it relevant to the content of the story?#nah #but like #Alex is in it #so #snowbaz #finally (already always)#simon's two mums #carry on #simon snow #simon stephenson-shaw #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #firstprince #red white and royal blue

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deliciouskeys · 1 year ago

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Cozy Corner Domaystic prompts #16: Going through immigration and #24: Identity theft.

Guys. Guys, I’ll be honest. I have no idea what possessed me. I think I found these two prompts as some of the most challenging to imagine as a domestic fic, and… my thinking got a little bit too outside the box.

This fic will have an intended audience of about 1 (me). But I want to give major major props to @olliveolly who introduced me to this game and was the one who came up with this That’s Not My Neighbor / Boys crossover AU (with a couple lovely art pieces on the theme). The “lore” of this horror game is very simple. Tell me you don’t see it:

Butchlander. That’s Not My Neighbor crossover/AU. Rated E (why). 3.3k words (why). 2nd person to allegedly reflect the feeling of first-person gameplay (why). Is this domestic fic? Welllllll. It takes place in an apartment complex so it counts, right? Lax interpretation of ‘going through immigration’ but honestly that’s what this game really reminds me of 😂 AO3 link

Another day, another interminable shift working as the concierge in the dreary lobby of this apartment complex. It was exciting at first, sure, what with getting to play the first and last line of defense against the doppelganger monsters that attempt to sneak in every single day. But you’ve just gotten too good at noticing discrepancies. Nothing gets past you anymore. You know every single feature- hell, every single freckle! -of every single resident in the building. By this point you’ve got all their phone numbers memorized, for no better reason than there is simply too much tedium to this job. You find yourself wishing you could actually watch the D.D.D. ‘decontaminate’ the lobby, as they so euphemistically put it, instead of just sitting there twiddling your thumbs behind a pulled down rollup metal shutter after summoning them. You could still make out screams without seeing the brutality, and you knew the D.D.D. employed flame throwers and other serious weapons to deal with these monsters. Sometimes you caught yourself feeling just a little bit of sympathy for the doppelgangers, even though their main goal in life appeared to be to imitate people to blend in and then feed upon human flesh, and your main goal in life was supposed to be to ensure none of them would ever get let in through the locked inner door.

John Gillman comes in through the first door and gives you a tired, nominal wave before fishing around in his pockets for his documents to gain entry. He might be your favorite resident— always polite, always in that clean-cut milkman uniform at least when you happen to see him, because no one really leaves the apartment building outside of work obligations. There’s no nightlife in New York anymore, not with everyone nervous of dark alleys or being alone on the street, especially after dark. When you came over here from London, you certainly didn’t expect to get stuck here during a worldwide apocalyptic event like this that has resulted in curfews and lockdowns. You certainly didn’t expect to get zero action and get a mindnumbing job just to make ends meet. It was probably still more interesting than your gig working as a bouncer back in London, but at least you got fresh air there, and sometimes a date to go home with after closing time. Maybe that’s why you’ve started hyperfixating and daydreaming about one of the residents— the involuntary celibacy is getting to you.

John just always looks uncannily attractive. Maybe it’s that silly uniform that’s easy to fetishize. Maybe it’s because his tired eyes also look like bedroom eyes, or the dark circles function the same way eyeliner would. Why is he always so tired anyway? You know he lives alone up there in F03-02. He never gets any visitors either. How much can a person masturbate, really? There’s a rumor around the building that Becca Saunders’ tyke might be his, but you don’t really see the resemblance, and have your doubts that this didn’t just start as a “sleeping with the milkman” joke that got out of hand. People just like to gossip about single mothers. Things like this shouldn’t be considered scandalous. It’s 1955 for god’s sake!

“Sorry, William,” John says, hurriedly shoving his ID and entry request form underneath the glass so you can take take a look. “Almost thought I left my ID at work.”

“Long day, huh?” you ask without expecting a reply, pretending to scrutinize the documents while making small talk. You know this is John. You’d know him from a mile away. But it doesn’t mean you can’t have a little bit of fun. “Looks okay, and you are on the list of people authorized to come and go today. But can you take off your cap?”

John grabs his milkman cap off his head, exposing a mop of blond hair, looking mussed after being under the hat all day. You really wish you could test him, see how far you’d be able to take things before he refused to cooperate. Take off your shirt, John. Gotta make sure it’s really you. You never know these days. But of course you don’t. All you’ll have is your fantasies about breaching every code of ethics and using your master key to gain entrance into his apartment, seducing him, ravishing him right in the middle of what must be a depressing bachelor pad. Give him much darker undereye circles by keeping him up all night. Give this apartment complex a more interesting rumor to spread about the milkman in their midst.

“You’re good to go,” you say and press the green unlock button to let him in. He gives you a wan smile and walks out of view, and you listen to his footsteps ascending the stairs.

The rest of the afternoon is uneventful, only a few people coming and going, and a couple of doppelgängers with laughably strange appearance or bad credentials being dispatched quickly. Or at least it’s uneventful until John walks in, just a little bit past curfew.

“Hey William,” he says, sounding distracted, rummaging in his pockets for his documents as a cold sweat breaks out on your forehead. This better be a doppelganger, you think to yourself. But he has both his ID and the entry request filled out correctly. He looks identical to the John that passed by here a couple of hours earlier. This can’t be.

You start dialing John’s number, not taking your eyes off the man in front of you.

John’s eyes widen with alarm when he sees that you get an answer from the other end of the line.

“Yes, hello? John here. I’m not expecting any visitors.”

You hang up pretty abruptly, staring at the John in front of you, searching his appearance for any subtle defect or inconsistency but finding none. Your finger is hovering over the alarm button.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, you think I’m someone else? It’s me, William! I swear to god it’s me! I don’t know who you let in earlier, and who’s answering the phone now, but it’s not me up there!”

And shit, you believe him. You must have fucked up. Gotten smug and sloppy. Maybe the doppelganger handed you a fake ID but you didn’t notice because you were too busy daydreaming about fucking him.

“William, please believe me, please!” John is pressing up against the glass at this point, clearly scared that you’re going to quarantine him in the lobby and sic the D.D.D. on him. They don’t tend to ask questions. You’ve never had it happen, but you’ve heard of innocent people getting snuffed out on the mere suspicion of being doppelgangers, the D.D.D. rarely admitting to such mistakes even after the fact.

“Alright, alright, I believe you. I just have to think…” you mumble. “I’ll let you in, but don’t go up to your flat. We have to figure this out.”

John nods frantically and slips into your office after you buzz him in.

“What are you going to do?” he asks, and if you weren’t scared shitless at the moment, you’d probably get a kick out of how vulnerable and scared his expression is compared to his usual tired, impassive one.

“I should call the D.D.D. and get them to go up there,” you think out loud.

“Won’t you get reprimanded?” John asks, and oh how sweet of him to worry about your job when you’ve fucked up so royally and almost gotten him killed with your negligence. Maybe already gotten some of his neighbors killed.

“I just don’t want you losing your job over this— you’re the best concierge we have,” he says and then looks down shyly, as if realizing how strange that concern is.

What is this? Are you dreaming? Maybe you’re just out of your mind with adrenaline, but John sounds like he’s got feelings for you.

“Let’s just go up there and see what’s going on,” he says, and damn he’s persuasive as fuck. You want to go and deal with the mess you made, and protect him.

“I’ll go up there and just check,” you say, hardly believing yourself as you grab the fire extinguisher from the wall as a makeshift weapon. Everyone who was scheduled to return to the building has, so you shouldn’t get any more legitimate people coming through, but you still tape up a note that you’ll be back at your post in a few minutes. “Right then. You just stay down here and wait. I don’t want you putting yourself at risk. If I’m not back in five, call the number on the post-it.”

John shakes his head and follows you up the stairs. “I’m not letting you go up there alone,” he says in that quiet irresistible voice and you start to wonder if there’s something strange going on. Why are you going on this potentially suicidal mission to deal with a doppelganger on your own? So what if you get fired? No job is worth your life, right? But you probably wouldn’t see John ever again if you lost this job and that’s clouding all your judgment right now.

Knocking on John’s apartment door is probably not a good idea, and will just give the monster inside time to prepare or hide. So you take out your master key and turn it in the lock as quietly and quickly as you can. The door swings opens with an ominous creak, revealing a dark living room with no sign of anyone there. Did he hear you coming up the stairs? You try to keep John behind you and shield him in case anything sudden happens from within the apartment, but then you feel a strong push from behind and both you and John are in the flat now.

You’re so stupid, so critically, fatally stupid. The John you let in earlier was the real one. You’ve let a doppelganger convince you that you made a mistake, and now you did let one in. You whirl around, try to hit him upside the head with the fire extinguisher you’re brandishing, but he blocks the move with little effort.

“I thought we agreed,” he says, and you realize he’s speaking not to you but past you to someone else in the room.

“Thursdays are my days,” an identical voice answers from behind you and you step back and try to make sense of what you’re seeing. Two John Gillmans, both in the same uniform, neither one looking the least bit spooked, both looking mildly irritated if anything.

“Since when,” the John who came up behind you asks of the other one. “I get to be here every other day, doesn’t matter what day of the week it is.”

“So now what are we going to do about him?” the John who was in the apartment asks, pointing to you. “Why didn’t you just leave once he called me? Are you stupid?”

Your heart may be racing, but your thinking feels as slow as molasses. They’re …. both doppelgangers?

“What have you done with the real John Gillman?” you whisper hoarsely. The twins turn to look at you and you’re creeped out by the very similar smirk that spreads across both of their faces. They’re really impeccable facsimiles of the real person, but this is an expression you’ve never seen on John.

“You’ve never met the ‘real John Gillman’,” one of them says.

There’s enough cold sweat that’s broken out on your back that it starts to trickle down as drops.

“We like you William. It would be such a shame for our friendship to end.”

You hold up the fire extinguisher in front of yourself defensively, but you’re not sure you can really do anything against two of them. You’ve never noticed before, and maybe the real John’s teeth didn’t look like this, but the two doppelgangers have sharp looking canines when they’re grinning. It’ll serve you right to get devoured in this dark flat for making so many mistakes and bad decisions in a row today.

“So you’re just going to kill me then?” you ask.

“We’d really rather not,” one of the twins says. “A murder would bring a lot of snooping law enforcement if not the D.D.D. Itself.”

“And it’s so hard to find good lodging to spend the night.”

They must be joking. “You really expect me to believe you’re not just here to eat people?”

One of the twins rolls his eyes. “Eat people! Yeah, that’s why we’re here, clearly.”

“Has anyone in this apartment building ever disappeared in all the months you’ve worked here?” the other one asks.

“How should I know?” You’re beginning to feel like this has to be some sick nightmare. You can’t possibly be having a civil conversation with a couple of cannibal monsters. This thought has a strange calming effect on you. “If I didn’t know you lot were masquerading as John Gillman, how am I to know how many other residents are real people?”

The twins turn to each other, still smiling and shrugging.

“We’ve been on a vegetarian diet for a while,” the other says and you can’t help but bark out a laugh.

“Laugh all you want,” the other one says, spreading his hands in concession. “But milk is more than enough to sustain us. We do think people are delicious, but there’s one thing we like much more than eating them.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, emboldened by the possibility that you’re just in a ridiculous, paranoid, bad dream of a worst case scenario at your job.

“We’ve been watching you William. We think you’ve been interested in us.”

“We’ve never fucked anyone from this building, and never fucked together, but there’s a first time for everything, right?”

You just stand there, fire extinguisher still raised up defensively. No question about it, this must be a nightmare that’s slowly but surely twisting itself into a sexual fantasy.

“Come on, William. Let’s make you comfortable.”

You can hardly protest as one gently pulls your makeshift weapon out of your loose grip, and the other one sweeps you off your feet with preternatural superhuman ease and carries you over to the couch in this sparsely furnished apartment.

Gentle but insistent hands undo the buttons on your trousers and then maneuver you so they can pull them off completely and free your legs.

“Humans are such fun creatures,” one of the Johns comments when he sees that despite your fear of the situation unfolding right now, you are sporting a half-hearted hard-on. It somehow only gets harder when you hear them talk about people as another species.

Both Johns are still fully dressed, situating themselves to kneel on the floor on either side of you. It’s wild. You must be dreaming. And as you watch both Johns lean forward, extending their tongues and licking your cock up and down from opposite sides, you realize that if this is a dream, you never want to wake up.

They know what they’re doing. They bring you right up to the edge of orgasm and then pull away, leaving you feeling desperate and even annoyed. You’re not annoyed for long though as they both strip down, and you see that their human-mimicking powers are perfect, down to the most minute details that would never be seen under clothes. Granted, you don’t know what John Gillman looked like naked, so maybe they’ve taken artistic license and embellished. Whatever it is, they’ve compared notes, because they still look indistinguishable to you.

“Like what you see?” one of them asks and you realize you I’ve been staring, maybe even with your mouth hanging open. You never imagined you’d hook up with a doppelganger, let alone two of them at once. But you have imagined foisting yourself on John in this very flat, and you’re about to live that daydream.

You end up doing things with the two of them beyond what you’ve ever dreamed of. You fuck one of them, and at the same time get fucked by the other one from behind, the cheap bed’s metal joints creaking and moaning from the motion of three bodies rocking against each other. You let them suck your cock and rim you to get you back in the mood for another round, trying not to think about how unsettlingly hungry they both look, and who they really are underneath the human-looking exterior. The exterior slips periodically when they’re in the throes of pleasure. You wince when they betray just how strong they really are, whenever they flip you over or change positions, as if you weigh nothing. You try not to pay attention when their eyes start glowing red when they’re particularly turned on, but it’s impossible to ignore in the darkness of the bedroom.

“William, you are fucking delicious,” one of them declares, licking his lips obscenely after swallowing down your cum, and all you can do is emit a short nervous chuckle, and think that even if they do decide to eat you at the end of all of this— either to cover their tracks, or just because they might start feeling peckish after all this is over— it will still have been worth it.

You don’t get eaten. In fact, you’ve had the time of your life, and as you get up from the bed and mumble that you have to get back to your post before your shift is over, the two Johns lie languid, naked on the bed watching you, each enjoying a post coital glass of milk (that’s all they have in the fridge— you saw when they opened it), like perfect mirror images.

“You won’t be making any unnecessary phone calls, right William?”

“We can count on you to be discreet and keep a secret, right?”

Through the combined haze of being scared for your life and then having the time of your life, there’s still one thing that bothers you, and you ask about it, against all your best self-preservation instincts.

“So what have you done with the real John Gillman?”

They turn to look at each other, not exactly conspiratorial but it still makes you uneasy.

“Oh, John Gillman never existed. We’ve been around a lot longer than you humans think. Many of us never tried to replicate and replace real humans.”

“Yeah, and a lot of good that did when some of us started! The ones who are doing it are the reason we’re being hunted now. Unoriginal hacks. And so bad at mimicking too.”

“So many embarrassing ones out there.” They both nod at each other.

You’d like to believe them. You really would. “So why choose this persona?”

“The milkman gets free milk and gets around in your society! And humans seem to like this look,” one of them says, grinning and gesturing with his hand over their naked bodies.

“But we only ever get to enjoy bored housewives.”

“And why are there two of you?” you ask hesitantly, glancing at the clock on the wall to verify that you’re not late yet.

“Oh there’s more than two of us,” one of them says and they laugh in unison in a way that sends a chill down your spine.

~~~

You think you’ve got it all worked out. You’re letting the John Gillmans stay in the apartment undisturbed, and you let them through even when it’s obvious that there’s more than one of them coming and going. You figure it’s a win-win. They promise to protect the building from any rogue doppelgangers who infiltrate and intend to harm the residents, and in return get a place to stay the night peacefully. You get to visit apartment F03-02 after your shift ends and have mind-blowing sex. They seem to enjoy the orgies as well. They know your shift hours and try to only come and go during those times. There doesn’t seem to be a problem with this arrangement.

Or at least not a problem that you’re going to make into your problem. When one of the Johns walks in, visibly smeared in blood, you do give him a hard time.

“Come on, John. Just because I’ll let you in, doesn’t mean you can just stop trying to look decent. God forbid I call in sick and someone else is here.”

John shrugs and goes through the formality of pushing his ID and entry request under the glass window.

“And get a new ID…” you tell him when you see bloody fingerprints all over the worn paper.

John shrugs, doing his usual tired act, despite how ridiculous it looks to be so bored and nonchalant when he’s smeared in blood.

“Whose blood is that, anyway?” you ask, wondering why you’re not more disturbed.

“Someone who was of no consequence and who won’t be missed,” John replies, terse and cool as a cucumber.

“I thought you said you were vegetarian?”

“I’ll take a cheat day if I run into a wifebeater,” John says, shrugging.

You buzz him in, telling him to get washed up before someone sees him, wondering if you’re being colossally naive to believe his story, and wondering if you’ve got a death wish because you’re still looking forward to going up there once your shift ends in a few hours.

(What in the world. 💀)

ETA: now with another art piece by @olliveolly

#cozy corner domaystic #lol #butchlander #that’s not my neighbor au #homelander #billy butcher #the boys #the boys tv #fic #mystuff

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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 1 day ago

Text

Just a call away (part 1)

OPLA Shanks x reader; this is part one of two. (Moodboard)

A few animanga-exclusive characters are mentioned and one -Ghost Princess Perona- makes an appearance. This fic is a John Wick AU, but requires no prior knowledge of the JW universe to be understood and -I hope- appreciated.

Warning for blood, violence and mentions of a child being physically abused.

*****

It’s a slow day at the Continental.

Inaba keeps you company on the reception counter as you check the large ledger resting on the polished metal surface in front of you, and on which all the activities of the hotel are registered: guests checking in and out, payments, receipts of supplies for the various departments -from the bar to the armory, from the taxi fleet to the infirmary- and whatever other information needs to be kept for posterity and then submitted to the meticulous eyes of the hotel’s manager.

As the Continental’s concierge, it’s your responsibility to make sure that the daily business of the hotel runs smoothly; furthermore tomorrow is the last day of the quarter, on which the hotel’s manager, Dracule Mihawk, is to review the business and activities of the previous three months, and your principal is endowed with the power to instantly localise any minuscule mistake in a document or a spreadsheet you have spent hours polishing and triple-checking. You know he approves of you and your work, otherwise he wouldn’t have hired and kept you in his employment for the past five years, but you’re still determined to do your best.

The hall is almost empty at this time of the day, except for a couple of guests enjoying a drink on the plush armchairs near the lift and another who walks you by as he heads towards the bar, as usual manned by Perona. The soft notes of a classical piece fill the air, almost drowned by the murmuring of the rain that has been falling on the city since dawn; the floor to ceiling windows frame a vaguely melancholic landscape under an iron-grey sky, only glimpses of blue visible among the clouds. You smile to yourself, pleased with the state of your ledger once you have added a few final touches and annotations; your meeting with Mihawk is tomorrow, and you’re sure he will be satisfied with your work.

Inaba approaches to sniff at your fingers, and you scratch the spot between her long ears, where you know she likes it, before running your hand over the soft midnight-black fur of her back. “I think we have earned a drink, what do you think?” you ask as your beloved pet, probably the only rabbit to have ever crossed the threshold of one of the seven Continentals around the world, rubs her head against your hand in agreement; you always keep a bowl full of water on the floor behind your post, which Inaba can easily reach jumping down the counter whenever she gets thirsty, but you know she and Perona are extremely fond of each other, and your friend always has a treat put aside for her.

“Come on then.” you say as you come out from behind the counter, but before you can take Inaba -who is used to roam the hotel freely, since she has spent the vast majority of her days over the last five years there, but still prefers to be carried around- with you something attracts your attention on the other side of the window, something that appears to have been abandoned near the hotel’s large automatic doors.

At first you think it’s a garbage bag -which makes no sense, because the solicitous, discreet maids of the hotel are always careful to dispose of the waste and would never leave it where the guests can see it, but still- or, when the dim light of the late afternoon allow your eyes to catch a glimpse of black fabric made soaking wet by the rain, a blanket or a coat, maybe owned and lost by one of the many homeless people of the city; then you see a hand, a bloody one, emerge from under the fabric, as if searching blindly for help, and a voice reaches your ears, the crying voice of a child begging someone to wake up, to stand, because they’re almost there…

“Oh, my God…”

Already suspecting you’re going to need your arms free to carry someone inside, you leave Inaba on the counter and quickly cross the hall to reach the hotel doors, which silently open in front of you.

The man lying on the sogging wet carpet outside the entrance has an arm stretched in front of him, as if he had fainted as he attempted to drag himself inside. His body is wrapped in a black coat, drenched in something that is part rain and in part something else, but before you can ascertain the nature of his wounds your eyes fall on the child, equally drenched in rain as he kneels by the man’s side; he can’t be older than seven or eight, an old straw hat on his head, and when his gaze rises to meet yours, the fear, guilt and desperation expressed by those bright brown eyes touch you more deeply than anything has been able to in years.

“It’s all my fault.” the child sobs “Can you help him? He said this was a safe place, but… he fainted, I don’t know what else to do… he gave me this…”

A moment passes as the child rummages in his shorts pocket, looking alarmed and then relieved as he offers you the result of his search: a single, large coin, a sort which most establishments and businesses in the city would not accept or know what to do with, but that at the Continental… at the Continental, it represents safety.

Salvation, even.

You smile, a warmer and more reassuring variation of your usual, professional one as you kneel in front of the child and gently take the coin from his shaky fingers. “It is alright; you are both safe now, and you will be as long as you remain. What is your name? Is this man your father?”

“Luffy. And no, he’s my friend; his name is Shanks.”

You blink, taken aback, as you turn to gaze at the man lying motionless on the hotel’s front steps, his red hair turned darker by the rain but still bright enough to deserve the moniker its owner is mostly known by in the criminal underworld of the city.

Red-Haired Shanks has come to the Continental. This is unexpected, as well as something you should quickly warn your principal about, but accepting the coin you have formally granted him the protection he clearly sought for himself and his small companion, and it will not do to have a guest bleed to death three feet from the door.

You act quickly, walking back inside for the time strictly necessary to call one of the waiters, who helps you carry Shanks inside, Luffy trailing anxiously behind; in the meantime, someone else goes call the doctor, a professional figure which most hotels don’t keep on their payroll but who at the Continental is always on call. It is only as you help your newest guest inside that you have a chance to see the source of his bloodloss, the wound he sustained and which led him to seek refuge at the hotel, and that is much worse than anything a bullet or a knife might have caused: Shanks’ left arm is completely missing from the deltoid down, and it appears to have been bitten off rather than amputated surgically. The sight is enough to make you, a former assassin who between that and her career as a concierge has seen more violence and blood than most people might experience in a lifetime, slightly queasy, but you soldier on, ordering yourself to focus on the well-being of your guests, as befits the concierge of a high-standing hotel.

You and the waiter accompany Shanks to a free room on the first floor, where the doctor joins you a couple of minutes later. You have towels and clean clothes delivered to the room, and, since it would be inappropriate for you to take personally care of it, you task the waiter, a male, to make sure your guest doesn’t catch pneumonia before he regains consciousness.

“Is he going to die?” Luffy asks, the tears on his face running more abundant than the rain falling from his clothes and body to form a puddle on the room’s parquet floor. The child is clinging to your side, anxiously observing the deathly pale face of the man lying on the king-size bed, the stench of his blood already filling the room. His head lolls to one side, a soft groan escaping his lips as the doctor cauterizes the wound to stop the bloodflow, and for a moment you’re sure to see Shanks’ eyes open -they are brown, you notice, the shade different from Luffy’s but equally bright- his gaze meeting yours, but a moment later the man has fallen unconscious again.

“Why don’t we let the doctor do their work?” you tell Luffy gently, deciding that deflecting the question is at the moment your best option, as you rest your hand on his shoulder in what you hope is a comforting gesture “Your friend needs to rest most of all, and I think I can find some dry clothes for you as well.”

“Can I at least stay with him when he wakes up?”

“I am sure he will appreciate your company. Now let’s go, shall we?”

You wait for the child to take your hand before gently leading him outside; at the door, Luffy turns to glance at Shanks one last time, and you do as well, struck by the contrast between the snow-white sheets of the bed and the bright red head resting among them. He’s not going to die, you think in what is both a hope and a certitude; you ignore what has led Red-Haired Shanks, head of one of the most dangerous criminal associations of the city, to your door, but you know it wasn’t so that he can bleed to death in one of the rooms of the Continental.

“Why don’t we drink something warm together? I’m sure our bartender, Perona, can prepare a hot chocolate for you.” you say, and follow Luffy out of the room as Shanks fights for his life, assisted by the hotel’s staff.

The birth of the Continental hotel chain dates back to almost a century ago; the first was built in Loguetown, birthplace of the “King of the Assassins” Gold Roger, and from there they spread worldwide, with a presence that today touches some of the most important cities in the world, from Alabasta to Dressrosa, to Amazon Lily. The hotels are a neutral territory for members of the criminal underworld; assassins, mercenaries and other professionals in the field visit them when travelling abroad, to discuss -and only discuss- business, or simply take advantage of the various amenities, which include a well-stocked bar and a gym, but also an armory and a tailor shop selling the sort of clothes able to stop bullets.

The hotels function as a safe haven for whoever needs it: no matter how large the bounty on their head, or how many armed to the teeth hitmen are pursuing them, anyone who walks past the door and can pay for their stay will not be harmed as long as they remain within the premises. The rule, of capital importance, is well-known to every member of your community, and no one, no matter how powerful or desperate, would dare ignoring it: absolutely no business can be conducted at the Continental, which means no fighting and no killing, if not in self-defense. When it happens, retaliation is swift and implacable; in the past, even members of the Four Emperors -that is, the council composed by the four individuals at the head of the world’s most powerful criminal organizations, that function as the supreme authority for those who work in your field- were punished for violating the rule.

After a respectable career as a killer-for-hire, five years ago you started working as concierge at one of the Continentals under Mihawk, the manager. The job is not always easy, but you enjoy it and feel accomplished, never regretting abandoning your previous activity as a mercenary. There have been many memorable days ever since you have taken up service, but you know that you will remember today for many years to come - the day on which, for the first time, the Continental has welcomed a minor among its guests.

You are not quite sure how your tailor was able to find clothes that fit Luffy’s small body at a moment’s notice, but you're grateful, since you couldn't very well let the child roam the hotel in his undies. Luffy is now sitting at the hotel bar’s counter, warmth having returned to his tanned complexion as he plays with Inaba, who seems to have taken a shine to the child, and drinks the hot chocolate that Perona -who claims not to like children but immediately got to work when you brought a still crying, soaking wet Luffy in, offering him her own bagel sandwich after the child had admitted to being hungry- has prepared for him.

“So, Red-Haired Shanks, eh? I hear he's pretty handsome.” your friend mentions as she observes you, a smile dancing on her pink-painted lips. Today she’s wearing a new dress, black as is her wont, with lace and a bat print, pink platform boots adding several inches to her height. You sigh, both amused and vaguely tense; what if Mihawk heard you discuss such a personal matter during working hours?

“You know perfectly well we are not allowed to pursue personal relationships with guests.”

“I’m just saying that I wouldn’t tell if you were to visit him in his room…”

Thank God Luffy is too young to pay attention to your conversation; the child, who has insisted on keeping his straw-hat after putting his new clothes on, asks again if he can see Shanks later once the man has rested, and once you have reassured him in this regard he smiles and focuses on Inaba once more, marvelling at the softness of your beloved pet’s fur, and who knows if you’d be good to eat…

“We are not going to eat her! Inaba is my friend.”

Luffy shrugs, as if in his mind the two things didn’t have to be mutually exclusive. “Can I have another chocolate?” he asks Perona, who immediately gets to work; you consider whether you should object, since the beverage’s high sugar and calorie content could be harmful to his health, but after what Luffy has been through today his comfort should be your first interest.

“It’s alright; I’ll take care of him.” Perona reassures you with a smile which you return with one of yours, full of gratitude. You say goodbye to Luffy, entrusting Inaba to his care and promising you’ll come back later to check on him; you stand from your stool, ready to turn and walk back to the counter… and then you stop, almost freezed to the spot.

Manager Dracule Mihawk is standing on the threshold of the hotel’s bar, the dampness lingering on the shoulders and sides of his long black coat suggesting he has just returned from the engagements that have kept him away from the hotel all afternoon… and he found you away from your work station, something that had never occurred in five years!

He doesn’t speak, electing to simply call you to him with a brief gesture of his hand, an invitation you obey -“Uh-oh”, Perona murmurs behind you- after squaring your shoulders and ordering yourself not to walk like a woman on her way to the gallows.

Neither of you speaks until you have returned to the counter, the red light signaling a missed call flashing on the telephone. You’re in trouble, but unlike what would you expected to happen if you were to displease Mihawk -a stern, unforgiving man, who you admire deeply and enjoy working for- you don’t regret anything of your actions today; rather you wish you could have done more, even if it meant neglecting your duties.

“Good evening, sir.”

“(name), would you mind explaining to me why you were not at your post behind the counter? And why is there a child in our bar? I seem to remember minors are forbidden to enter the hotel.” he points out, displeasure evident in the deceptively soft tone of his voice, as he takes off his coat to hand it to you.

“I am aware, sir; it is a bit of a… unusual circumstance…”

You tell him about Shanks’ arrival, of the critical condition he was in, and of the child you simply could not turn away at the door, despite the orders you had received, and Mihawk’s expression softens imperceptibly… and then tenses again, as his gaze turns in the direction you came from just a minute ago.

“How are Shanks’ conditions?”

“The doctor says he will live, sir, even though he has lost an arm, and quite a lot of blood. I apologise for having left my post, but I wanted to make sure the child was… well, safe.”

Mihawk nods in response, silently accepting your actions as at least reasonable. “What is his full name? The child, I mean.” he asks again, which gives you pause for a moment; what an odd question, you think, while out loud you admit you don’t know, since Luffy failed to mention his family name when you met.

“Would you like me to ask him?”

“No, there’s no need. I am going to talk to Shanks, if he’s awake.” Mihawk announces “And, (name)... don’t let him out of your sight. Tell Perona as well; I do not care if she dislikes playing baby-sitter, the child must be guarded at all times.”

You nod mutely, keeping all the questions pressing behind your lips to yourself. Mihawk disappears in the direction of the corridor leading to the rooms on the first floor, while you go hang his coat in the wardrobe, quickly walk to the bar to ask Perona not to let Luffy out of her sight, and finally return to your usual position behind the counter. What is happening today?, you wonder as you scan the hall to make sure everything is in order and no one among the guests needs your assistance; you feel you are missing something, which is almost unbearable for a person like you, used to keep everything under control to ensure the hotel’s business runs smoothly. Who is Luffy? What relationship exists between him and Shanks, since they’re not related? And why is Mihawk worried -because he is; few would notice it on such a stoic, unflappable individual, but you have worked for him long enough to be able to decipher any emotion on his face- about? Shanks himself? Or Luffy? Or the hotel, its staff included?

You don’t know, but you can’t help wondering. Mihawk returns from his visit to Shanks a while later, and then tasks Perona to accompany Luffy to him since your guest is as anxious to meet the child as his young friend is to make sure he is still alive; Luffy returns a while later looking relieved, the straw hat still firmly fit on his head.

“He said I can keep it! Isn’t it amazing?!” he tells you, jumping excitedly in place, and you tell him that the hat looks wonderful on him, happy to see the child so happy.

Soon it’s dinnertime, and many guests move towards the hotel’s restaurant to enjoy their meal; usually at this time you’re allowed to take a break as well, which you spend in the kitchens having dinner with your colleagues, but today, on impulse, you decide to improvise.

You walk to the kitchen and ask the staff to prepare a meal, light but nourishing, to deliver on a tray, and then carry it to the lift leading to the first floor. Having reached the door of the room you helped carry Shanks to only a few hours ago, you place the tray on the floor to quickly check your hair in the mirror hanging on the wall nearby -after all you’re still in service, and Mihawk wouldn’t want you to present yourself to a guest looking anything less than perfectly in order; really, no other reason, but coincidentally you have a stick of lipstick in the pocket of your jacket, to reapply quickly and make sure your smile is on point as well- and then knock softly at the door.

“Mr. Shanks? It is the concierge; I brought you dinner.” you say, already expecting not to receive an answer since your guest does need rest most of all, but a moment later…

“Come in.” you hear.

You enter, deftly closing the door behind you with your elbow as Shanks struggles and then manages to sit up on the bed pulling on his sole surviving arm. You’re pleased to see that, while clearly still exhausted, some colour has returned to your red-haired guest’s face, and he has even the strength to smile as you carefully set the tray in front of him.

“This looks delicious; thank you, I am starving.” he says, but his gaze lingers on the food only for a moment before setting on you; his brown eyes are full of warmth despite the pain he must be experiencing, and when he smiles you feel yourself reciprocating with a smile of yours, genuine rather than the professional, detached sort you usually reserve to guests “Your name is (name)? Luffy told me you’re taking care of him. Thank you, truly.”

“It was a pleasure, sir.” you sincerely answer; while your experience with children has until now been limited, you can’t deny you have quickly grown fond of Luffy, and were sincerely happy to make sure he was safe and comfortable “How are you feeling?”

His smile wavers for a moment, as Shanks observes the stump that has taken the place of his left arm. “I still can’t believe it’s gone.” he murmurs, and then, awkwardly enough to make you suspect the one he lost was his dominant arm, he retrieves something from the bedside table to then offer it to you: it’s another of the coins used as currency in the Continental hotels “For Luffy’s room.” he explains “I meant to give it to Mihawk but I forgot.”

His fingers brush against yours as you receive the coin; your eyes meet again, and there’s something in that moment -the shared gaze, the chaste but accidental contact of your hands- that makes your heart accelerate for a moment.

“Y-you are a friend of the manager?” you ask, well aware that you shouldn’t, since the matter doesn’t concern you, but unable to stop yourself.

“I am; we have known each other for many years… even though he never mentioned what an attractive concierge he had hired for his hotel, which is clearly a shame.”

“Mr. Shanks!” you exclaim, pressing a hand to your lips to stop yourself from laughing. You know you should disapprove, since it’s highly inappropriate for a guest to flirt with a staff member, but you can’t deny how flattered you feel, both because you perceive Shanks is sincere, and doesn’t mean to make you uncomfortable… and also because he’s a very, very attractive man. Not exactly your proudest, most mature moment, you chide yourself; and yet, once more, you can’t bring yourself to mind.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.” Shanks says, trying his best -and failing- to look apologetic.

“It is quite alright. So, uhm… is there anything you require?”

Shanks tells you he’d appreciate it if you kept him company for a little while as he eats, if you’re not too busy with work, and you spend a few pleasant minutes sitting by his bed, discussing your job at the hotel, which Shanks seems fascinated by.

“You were a killer before becoming a concierge? That’s quite a career change!”

“I know. But after a while I felt the need to do something else; I had been the guest of another Continental years ago and had enjoyed the experience, so I thought it would be nice to work here. I have learnt a lot from mister Dracule.”

“Mihawk appreciates you very much as well; he told me.”

“Really? Well, that’s nice to hear…”

You smile to yourself, pleased to hear that your principal praised you, but a moment later your expression turns serious. “May I ask you a question?” you murmur, sitting next to the bed with your hands folded in your lap “What happened to you today? The director stressed the need to protect Luffy, which in part I can understand given his young age, but… is he really in danger?”

Shanks doesn’t respond immediately, but not, as you feared, because he’s annoyed at your inappropriate question. “Do you have children, (name)?” he asks, studying your face as if trying to read the answer on it before you can utter it.

“I do not, sir.”

“Me neither. But the truth is I love Luffy as if that little scoundrel were my own, and… well, let’s say I might have gotten in trouble for it, and not only because it cost me my arm; but sometimes one has to do the right thing whatever the cost, don’t you think?”

You nod silently, your desire to know more battling the knowledge that you have no right to ask, because the matter does not concern you. “I think there are things in life worth risking everything for.”

“I agree. I was lucky, all things considered; Luffy is safe, and I have one spare arm after all.”

He smiles again; he has the sort of face that seems used to do it often, but he’s tired, and while when your eyes meet there’s a twinkle in his gaze most women would be flattered to receive from a handsome man, his shoulders sag with exhaustion rather than relief, as if the pain and fatigue of his recent ordeal had finally, fully caught up on him, and Shanks were struggling to simply keep his eyes open.

He looks at the tray in front of him, and blinks, as if unable to believe all the food on it has disappeared. “Damn… I’m afraid I haven’t enjoyed it as much as I should have.”

“It was my fault; I distracted you with my chatting, mister Dracule does tell me I am too loquacious with guests.”

Shanks shakes his head, reminding you it was him who asked you to stay and keep him company, and he’s sorry he didn’t do the dinner you brought him justice, and kept you from your duties. You take the tray and prepare to take your leave.

“If there’s anything, anything, I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please let me know.” you insist; those words feel dirty somehow, filled with an ambiguous meaning you didn’t mean to give them, and to your great shame you feel yourself blushing again “I mean, if you were hungry, or needed the doctor, or…”

“Yes?”

“You know; someone to talk to. I’m just a call away; just press one on the phone on your bedside table.”

“I promise I will; I’m lucky I have you here taking care of me. (name)... thank you.”

“It is alright; Luffy is a very sweet child…”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Shanks interrupts you; a moment later, his surviving hand has reached out and taken yours, the feel gentle and attentive, as if he were touching something delicate and fragile to take care of at all costs, as he pulls it gently to him to press his lips to the back. He’s looking at you again, and you don’t even want to imagine what state -and what colour- your face is in as a result of that deep, warm gaze, but you don’t care, too engrossed as you are on the feeling of Shanks’ lips against your skin. You know he’s not actively flirting with you right now, and that is exactly what makes remaining impassive so hard at the moment… “You saved my life.”

“Well, I would not go that far…”

“I would. I was only half-conscious, but I remember you coming out of the hotel to help me, and comforting Luffy who was terrified. You could have ignored me, since I was formally not inside the hotel at the time and you couldn’t know I had the coin to pay for a room; but you came. I could have bled to death there on the pavement, and Luffy… I don’t even want to know what might have happened if he remained out in the open alone, he could have found him… so yes, you did save both of our lives. So thank you, (name); thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

You could answer that you would have done the same for anyone, since while the Continental has strict rules -that its equally stern manager never fails to apply to the letter- you couldn’t very well leave a wounded man and a child on your doorstep without helping them; you could tell him that since he did have the coin to pay for a room, you had the duty to help him and grant him access to the hotel - which is not the whole truth, since you would have done all you could for them in any case, but still.

But you don’t; after five years in which you have never failed to keep your professionalism, facing any emergency and unforeseen event with a pleasant smile and a perfect cool, ready to act in order to protect the Continental and its guests… after five years in which being a concierge has been the better part of your life -a life you enjoy and feel fulfilled in, even though at times it does feel slightly lonely- you allow yourself to just be (name), and speak with sincerity, no matter that you’re still on duty, and talking to a guest.

You can still feel the warmth of his kiss on your hand. “It was a real pleasure, sir.”

Your hand slips from his; a last smile is shared, and then with a slight head bow you take your leave, silently exiting the room to leave your guest to his rest.

It is by now quite late; having wolfed down a sandwich Perona has prepared for you -”I thought you’d be hungry, since you skipped dinner; did you have a nice chat with the handsome mister Shanks?” she asked with a wink as she put it in your hand- you return to your post behind the counter exactly one minute before the end of your dinner break. Everything is fine and under control, you think with satisfaction as you open your ledger to pass the time for what is left of your shift reviewing once again the data you will submit to Mihawk’s judgement tomorrow, Inaba munching on a carrot on the counter next to you; the next hours pass slowly but peacefully, and finally, finally it’s time for you to get off work.

You have been informed that Luffy has dined in the hotel’s restaurant room -eating enough food to satiate a whole football team; clearly the child is not the sort of person who loses their appetite under shock!- and has been accompanied to his room for the night. You have no reason to doubt he’s alright, but an uncertainty hidden deep in your heart makes you decide to check one last time; after all, while the Continental is a safe place whose sanctuary has never been broken in his many decades of existence, but Luffy is under your care at the moment, and one can never be too sure.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” you tell Inaba, and your beloved pet nibbles at your finger, as if to urge you not to dawdle because she wants to return home.

Having reached the first floor room assigned to the child, you open the door just enough to peek inside… and then to walk in when you notice the bed is empty, unmade but devoid of its small occupant. Terror takes over as you enter to search the room thoroughly, including the ensuite bathroom and the wardrobe, large enough for a small body like Luffy’s to hide inside.

Nothing. The child has disappeared, and while you’re almost sure he’s still in the hotel -the windows are too high for him to jump out and you have remained at the counter, which is right in front of the main door, ever since Luffy went to sleep- which means he’s most likely safe, not knowing where he is at this very moment is enough to make your heartbeat accelerate. What if he has gotten lost? What if he gets hurt somehow…?

Given the late hour all the guests have already retired to their rooms, but you’re a moment away from calling the night porter and whoever else is on the premises to start a top to bottom search of the hotel when suddenly you’re struck by a thought that makes you freeze, and then leave the room, and finally move a few steps down the corridor to reach another door, one you have walked through just a few hours ago.

While Luffy was a special case, entering a guest’s room while he is asleep would be a highly inappropriate behaviour, intrusive in the best of cases and positively predatory in the worst, and you don’t even want to know what Mihawk would think, and do, if he heard about it, but for once in your life you don’t care. Your hand gently, silently pushes the door open, allowing you to look inside.

The curtains haven’t been drawn, bathing the room in the silver moonglow filtering through the windows. Luffy sleeps soundly, his small body curled up under Shanks’ arm, the man’s red hair still bright in the relative darkness; his head is resting on the pillow near the child’s as if sleep had taken him as he kissed Luffy’s forehead.

You should leave now, having made sure that Luffy is safe, and leave them both to their rest and privacy; there’s nothing else you can do for them, nothing they need, and either of them could wake up at any moment, finding you there. But you don’t; you can’t, for some reason you wouldn’t know how to explain, and so you linger at the door, observing that scene, a child and a parent -if not biological, one who has willingly taken on the role- something that you remember experiencing once, and that you still miss.

You feel a single tear fall down your left cheek; you don’t bother to dry it, but close the door before either Shanks or Luffy can hear you sob. Walking silently away, you return to the ground floor to retrieve your bag from the wardrobe, put Inaba in her carrier and finally go home.

When you arrive at the Continental the next day, even earlier than you’re meant to take service like you are wont to do, you are disappointed to discover that Shanks and Luffy are no longer on the premises, having departed at dawn.

“I’m sorry you had to take care of it personally, sir.” you tell Mihawk when you meet him at the counter; the manager occupies a set of rooms on the hotel’s top floor, and while he doesn’t usually concern himself with the Continental’s daily business, including checking guests in or out, he assures you it was no bother to make sure Shanks and his young friend left the hotel safely.

“They both asked me to convey their thanks for your help.” he adds, and while you know you have done nothing wrong, nothing to feel guilty or embarrassed about, you can’t help but fidget as Mihawk’s penetrating gaze lingers on you a little longer than necessary, as if he could perceive your not sufficiently detached thoughts, and feelings, about the hotel’s most recent guests. Who knows if, apart from sending his thanks, Shanks told him something about you…

“Of course, sir. I’m ready to take service, and here’s the ledger for your inspection.” you answer as you square your shoulders and order yourself not to cower; fortunately today you are wearing one of your best suits and new high-heeled shoes, which makes you feel a little more confident about yourself “And may I remind you that you have a lunch meeting with manager Crocodile from Alabasta’s Continental?”

Mihawk, who doesn’t exactly rejoices in the company of his fellow managers -not because there is any particular bad blood between them; your principal is simply the sort of man who prefers being on his own, with Shanks apparently being one of the few exceptions- sighs before taking the ledger and leaving you to your duties. You turn your computer on, fill Inaba’s bowl of water behind the counter and get to work.

The first part of the day passes easily enough; in the mid-afternoon you receive a delivery, a personal one rather than commodities meant for the hotel: a beautiful, huge bouquet of pink roses, wrapped in elegant crepe paper with a ribbon, also pink, securing the stalks together. The card simply says: See you. S - , and when?!, you would like to ask, but that is promise enough, and fills your heart with joy. There is also a second gift: a pretty tin box with carrots printed on the lid, containing various healthy treats for a rabbit, and a second card with which Luffy thanks Inaba for keeping him company yesterday.

“Well, well, well; someone clearly made a good impression.” Perona, who has just arrived to begin her usual shift at the bar, comments with a cheeky smile on her lips as she observes you arrange the flowers in a pretty vase you have taken from the hotel’s storage room and placed on the counter. You have already given Inaba one of the treats, telling her that Luffy sent his regards and that if she dared munching on your roses she could say goodbye to the rest of the box’s content “I would have expected red roses though, given the guy.”

“Pink roses symbolise gratitude; maybe he thought it was more appropriate.”

“Well, that’s cute; I wonder whether there’s a flower that symbolises I want to take you to dinner and then ravish you on one of the beds of the Continental’s honeymoon suite…”

“Perona! There are people listening!”

“Sorry, sorry. Do you think he will come back soon? He doesn’t necessarily need to occupy a room to meet you, you know.”

You are aware, but while nothing would make you happier than finding Shanks waiting for you outside the hotel when you get off in the evening, ready to invite you out or simply because he wanted to see you and say hi, you suspect it will take some time before you can meet again. After all you’re not even sure Shanks lives in the city, for people in your business it’s normal to travel around the world for a job, and since now he’s responsible for Luffy’s well-being he might decide to bring the child far away to keep him safe.

Still, the card does promise you will see him again, and Shanks seems like the sort of man who keeps his word at all costs; it may take a while, but in your heart, you are sure your first meeting is not destined to be your last as well. You put Shanks’ card in your bag, to keep it at home among your most cherished treasures, and go back to work, while Perona tells you goodbye to go man the bar and Inaba happily munches on her treat under the counter.

The rest of the day passes smoothly enough. Two guests come to blow in the hotel’s bar, the brawl caused by a personal matter -specifically, a love interest on which both of them were determined to call dibs- rather than because of a contract opened on one of the two, but rules are rules, and after they got their asses handed to them by Perona, upset at having the glasses with her carefully prepared cocktails used as weapons to smash in one’s adversary’s face, you have both of them escorted off the premises.

Later, Mihawk informs you of a new hire: a young man named Roronoa Zoro who is the Continental’s newest porter. “I’m training him in swordplay.” the manager, who is probably the only assassin in the world who vanquishes his victims using a sword rather than a firearm or blunt weapons, tells you “He’s too headstrong and impulsive for his own good, and I think working here will be beneficial for him, since it will teach him discipline. Please show him the ropes, (name).”

You promise you will, and you do, accompanying Zoro on a tour of the hotel and then teaching him the basics of a porter’s duties; the young man is obedient and scrupulous enough, and while he seems to be endowed with the worst sense of direction you’ve ever seen -a not insignificant problem, for someone whose main duty is to carry guests’ bags and suitcases to their rooms, and should therefore be able to choose the shortest, quickest route to his destination at a moment’s notice- he seems to get along well with the rest of the staff.

At the end of yet another productive work-day, you leave the Continental’s imposing, deceptively tranquil form behind you in the dimly lit street to walk towards the closest metro station and take your usual train home; Inaba’s carrier secures her against your chest, the way some women carry babies with them, your beloved pet safe and comfortable in her little pouch, patiently waiting to be let out once you arrive home. You feel at ease, tired and in a good-mood but not distracted, since five years after your last job as an assassin you still know how imperative is to remain aware of one’s surrounding, lest an attacker approach while you’re too focused on what to prepare for dinner or the bills to pay to notice.

Thanks to your guard still high you notice the car approaching from the other end of the street a while before its occupants intended, given the lights turned off; it’s a black sedan, the sort of nondescript, ordinary car one rents and uses to pass unnoticed and lose themselves among the thousands of similar vehicles present in any city. It flanks you at walking pace, and when the solitary light of a street lamp allows you to distinguish the silhouette of a single occupant, a man, on the back seat, your heart leaps in your chest, because after his amputation Shanks would obviously need someone else to drive him around, but then the rear side window rolls down, and it’s as if someone had punched you in the gut.

Out of disappointment, certainly; and out of fear.

“Good evening. Are you miss (full name), by any chance?” the man meeting your gaze from inside the car asks you, his elbow resting on the window’s frame, his tone deceptively calm; the car makes a slight turn, blocking your way “I’d like to have a word with you; my name is Monkey D. Garp.”

#One Piece #One Piece Live Action #OPLA #Shanks #Red-Haired Shanks #Shanks x reader #Red-Haired Shanks x reader #Peter Gadiot #John Wick AU #Bellona's stuff

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thegreathomestuckreread · 6 days ago

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for the last i'd say two-ish years, i have been on a journey to expand my anime horizons

i noticed this trend of the anilist summaries for my favourite anime being really shitty. like i probably never would have watched them if i only had that to go on. so i decided to start mixing things up by watching things i might not usually choose, because maybe they're just being held back by a shit summary. also i like keeping up with seasonal anime and there's not going to be something perfectly tailored to my tastes every season, so why not spice things up

i haven't really documented this journey up to now so here's the whole thing so far in one post! i will be honest a lot of what i have learned is that i just know my taste well and can pretty reliably trust my gut on these things, so the majority of these are not super nice lol but there are some exceptions

this got way too fucking long even though i kept reviews to a short paragraph so i'm going to throw the rest under a cut but here's what's on my list so far, in the order that i watched them:

i'm in love with the villainess

spy x family

toilet-bound hanako-kun

bucchigiri?!

demon slayer

i may be a guild receptionist, but i’ll solo any boss to clock out on time

pokemon concierge

bocchi the rock

i also have a few current season picks on the go (or not, in the case of the one i dropped immediately after finishing the first episode lol), all of which i was turned to by mother's basement's ones to watch video for summer 2025, and are ongoing with few episodes out

turkey! time to strike

there's no freaking way i'll be your lover! unless...

dealing with the mikadono sisters is a breeze

thoughts on all these under the cut!

a primer on the way i rate things: i take both production quality and writing quality into account, so some of the numbers might look like they should be lower based on my comments but the production quality was fine. i consider a 1/10 to be absolute garbage throwing me into a frothing rage and a 10/10 to be absolute perfection. 6/10 is like, this was an okay experience but has some glaring flaws i can't ignore, 7/10 is this was a good and enjoyable experience but not outstanding. anything lower than 6/10 is like this is bad and there are specific reasons why i would ever bother to still be watching it.

without further ado:

i'm in love with the villainess: watched on recommendation from a friend who's super into yuri manga. this was my first ever isekai. turns out that i was right in thinking i wouldn't enjoy an isekai. i also found the characters flat and didn't particularly like any of them. the way the romance plays out is grating to me. the fantasy worldbuilding is convoluted and trying too hard to be unique. this show is completely disconnected from addressing anything politically meaningful about its setting, despite attempting to interact with class dynamics numerous times as key plot elements. 5/10

spy x family: watched because my dad thought the concept was interesting, so i watched it with family. another anime that creates a political conflict that the entire plot hinges upon and then absolutely refuses to engage with it in any meaningful way. of three women with regular speaking parts in this show, one spends 90% of her screentime worried about being a Good Wife, one spends ALL of her screentime obsessing over how much she loves a man, and the third is a #girlboss who barely even qualifies as "regular speaking part." i fucking hate yuuri every scene with him makes me want to rip my face off. fascinating concept executed horribly. animation was pretty good and anya is cute. 4/10

toilet-bound hanako-kun: watched bc i was looking for something in the winter season last year and its second season was on the way. this is the next station on the misogyny tour. what few speaking women and girls are in this show are frequently objectified and/or given entirely man-centric motivations with no other personality. holy fucking shit nene is the most damsel-in-distress protagonist i have ever seen, so much of the show is her getting put in danger and helplessly yelling for hanako and/or kou to save her. one specific fight scene she shows up and they literally just put her to sleep for the duration so the boys can handle it. i liked the shijima arc in the latter half of s2p1 bc it's the most agency we see nene have in the entire show, and i enjoyed shijima herself. the overarching plot is interesting and the art is drop-dead gorgeous so i am still keeping up with the currently-releasing season but i think this is the closest i've ever gotten to hate-watching something. 5/10

bucchigiri?!: watched because a friend wouldn't stop asking me to watch it. welcome to station three of the misogyny tour. the two female speaking characters in this show are the protag's mom and the heavily-objectified high school darling who has no personality outside of her deep obsession with her older brother, and who the protag is obsessed with dating. women lost big on this one. fight animation was decent and the Boy Plot picked up in the last 1/3 into something decently interesting. 6/10

demon slayer: watched because same friend got really into it and wanted to watch it together. we're not caught up but boy oh boy here's the fourth misogyny station. man this show is so bad at women i hate battle shonen. of the only two female hashira one of them was only motivated to become a hashira to get a good man and i am not fucking joking. the only female character who gets regular screen time is fucking ball-gagged and oscillates between grunting and making cutesy noises. i want to set zenitsu on fire. the actual plot is passable generic shonen stuff and i enjoyed the earlier seasons alright. the animation is gorgeous but jesus christ it's so not worth it. 5/10

i may be a guild receptionist, but i’ll solo any boss to clock out on time: watched because the concept sounded hilarious to me. i thought the concept would be the foundation for a bigger story to grow on but they didn't really grow a lot on there, and what they did was not super well-written and kind of predictable. generic fantasy setting trying too hard to be unique that bored me just as much as the villianess one. valiant effort made towards attempts at emotional depth but they felt pretty flat. had some funny moments but overall not impressive. 6/10

pokemon concierge: watched because i am a sucker for stop-motion animation and it's getting a new season in september. absolutely no depth to this one but still enjoyable. lots of very adorable eye candy. stop-motion animation my beloved. 7/10

bocchi the rock: watched because i just finished rock is a lady's modesty, was looking for similar, and knew it's highly recommended. gonna be real the first two episodes had me at a 6/10 because i cannot stand socially-anxious-protagonist anime made for socially anxious people to wallow and hate themselves to, and that's kinda what the first two episodes felt like before the ball got rolling. but once that ball got rolling. oh man. this show is really good. the character writing is excellent and i love how creative the animation team got with doing all kinds of weird hilarious shit to show bocchi's state of mind, up to and including fantastic use of live action footage. i have bad emetophobia and the dam footage is my favourite way a piece of media has ever depicted vomiting. looking forward to catching season 2 when it comes. 8/10

my current season picks, as brought to you by mother's basement's ones to watch summer 2025:

turkey! time to strike: watched because i have enjoyed other sports anime and the video emphasized (but did not spoil) a very weird big twist. this twee sports anime is not so twee actually. the twist comes in at the end of the first episode and is so completely fucking absurd, i have to respect the audacity of it. remains to be seen if they'll stick the landing since there's only two episodes out so far but i'm looking forward to seeing where the fuck they take this batshit concept. 7/10

there's no freaking way i'll be your lover! unless...: watched because i have never watched a bona fide harem anime and this one's yuri so fuck it. i was right to never watch a true harem anime i barely got through the first episode this is so not for me. i was halfway to my eyes glazing over through the entire thing. there is nothing in this anime outside of the harem shit it might as well be characters living in a bubble isolated from the outside world. i don't care about this so badly that i'm not going to log it on my anilist and i can't even give it a rating. n/a

dealing with the mikadono sisters is a breeze: watched because the description in the video made it sound like it broke harem genre conventions in a way that might interest me, and also because it likened the humour to ohshc, which i do have a soft spot for. impression held up, the humour is good, got some good belly-laughs out of the first two episodes. the characters all have strong unique personalities and complex internal lives outside of the harem-type stuff that's happening, and the harem-type stuff happening is not the sleazy garbage i have long associated with the genre at all. it's not even really romantic-feeling honestly, it's like the protag skipped romancing and went right to house husband lol. a fun watch that i'm looking forward to continuing. 7/10

so that's where i currently stand! i'm pleased that my picks for the current season are turning out a lot better than the rest of my track record. i think the important difference there is that they were pitched to me in a video by someone who had watched them and knew what he was talking about, and i then made an educated decision as to whether or not they may interest me, as opposed to my doing barely-educated guesswork on the same shit anilist descriptions as always, or taking recommendations from friends whose tastes i don't always align with (altho i will keep doing the latter because we do have some alignment and talking about shows with friends is fun).

maybe i will post another update at the end of this season covering all the ones i'm keeping up with (including dandadan which i'm also watching), that sounds fun. talking about stuff when i watching it will allow me to get more detailed than i did here, i had to really stretch my memory for some of those early ones lol

man this got way too long and i don't really know how to close it now. if ur reading all this thanks i love you i hope you have a great week

#please read my anime opinions this post took me waaaay too long to write #hmmmmm i should make an anime tag if i'm gonna try and do this with some consistency #cham's anime tag #sure let's go with that #should i also put this in my personal tag??#fuck it yeah i'm gonna do that it's just my everything i post tag so it goes in there too #personal

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