#either mid way or later down the line I haven’t decided yet. but whatever they do in the end kind of ‘frees’ them from both their conflicts

[swordmaid]

my hag romance murder mystery au turning to magistrate astarion working with executor shri’iia we kind of like that development

[superhero--imagines]

Part 2 Here! / Part 3 Here! / Part 4 Here! / Part 5 Here! / Part 6 Here!

A/N: not superhero themed. I just read midnight sun and had this idea and I don’t feel like making another blog so.... hope you like twilight lol

There will be a part two, and just a reminder, I’m still looking for beta readers so DM if you’re interested!

* It probably starts with you reading midnight sun, you remember reading the books/watching the movies when you were younger.

* Man, you really forgot how bad this book was. The writing itself is good, but the plot...

* It’s like everything revolves around Bella, everything is created for her.

* You almost feel bad for the other characters

* Well, whatever, you’ll finish the rest of the book tomorrow and never think about that awful franchise again.

* When you wake up you feel an ache in your head. But you didn’t drink last night, maybe you’re dehydrated

* You shift, noting the smooth silk of the covers. Now you’re alarmed.

* You don’t have silk sheets

* You see a mirror in the corner of the room, and rush over

* The face that looks back at you is different then yours

* It’s the same in some ways, but different all the same

* The curve of your nose is slightly off, your lips are thinner, eyes a little closer together.

* The memories begin to flood in, in this world you were on a graduation trip with your parents, you got an all inclusive package. Three days of sightseeing in Volterra.

* You got sick on the last day, when you were signed for a tour of the castle, your parents went without you

* That was the last you saw of them

* You dumbly followed, asking question where you shouldn’t. And ended up at the volturi’s door

* Aro had grasped your hand to see how much you knew, only too see nothing. Likewise Jane’s powers did not work as well

* They were astounded by this, it appears this was several years before Bella was introduced to the story

* And so, you became a prisoner of the tower

* Your soul must have been in this body for quite some time, but you’ve only remembered now, that’s the only explanation for why their powers didn’t work on you. Your consciousness is not of this world.

* There’s a short knock on your door

* “Are you decent?”

* You call back and Alec pops his head in.

* “Ready to go to the library?”

* He looks so kind. The boyish grin that stretched across his face as you shook your head.

* It was in direct contrast to the sadistic personality you had become accustomed to in the books

* “I need a few more minutes”

* You half expect him to lash out at you for being slow. By he only nods, closing the door and waiting outside for you to finish.

* He was you friend. You realized

* He IS your friend

* You think back as you turn on the faucet. He didn’t like you at first, being assigned to guard a human was insulting

* But he started to warm up to you once he heard you play the piano

* This body was quite used to the ivory keys. And so you charmed him as best you could, half for your survival, because the happier you kept him the less likely he was to kill you.

* And half because- you were so lonely, the Loneliness echoed in this body like an ache. Suddenly an orphan, in a continent where you knew no one. All you had was this boy.

* How long have you been here? You kept a talley at one point, but abandoned it after the thirtieth day. What was the point? You would either die or become one of them

* A shiver erupts through at the thought, in your past life you were a vegetarian, you didn’t relish in the idea of killing something alive and moving.

* You pull on a sweatshirt, ripping of the chanel tag. They bought you the nicest things money could buy, the most lavish food you could have.

* They did the same thing with the tourists they lured, keeping them happy and well fed, the same way the cows that became wagyu beef might be cared for. That way when it came time to slaughter, the meal was that much more delicious.

* You suspected this was similar, that should you be an unnecessary addition, you would make a meal suitable for their palette

* Alec basically talks your ear off the entire way to the Volturi library, mostly about literature

* “What are your thoughts on Anna Kerenina?”

* “That the patriarchy needs to be burned to the ground.”

* “That is.... valid”

* He even talks when you’re at the library, much to the annoyance of a few of the other patrons

* “Which book are you looking for now?”

* You stop mid motion on the ladder and turn to look at him. His ruby eyes glowing, he looks bloated. Like he’s fed too much.

* “Alec, why are we friends?”

* You really should keep your mouth shut. Alec was the only real ally you had, you shouldn’t say anything that might put him off

* And yet, it unnerved you, because the Alec in front of you was a very different character then the one you had come to see.

* He looks at you like you hung the moon,

* “Because you’re the most interesting human in the world”

* You burst out laughing, earning several glares.

* “I-I’m sorry Alec, but I’m not, I’m just the most interesting human you KNOW, there’s way more people who are more interesting than me.”

* You expect to see him offended, and he does, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes

* “I’m not so sure about that”

* The days creep by, reading books, eating snacks, it’s nice

* You learn, that Alec hasn’t talked to a human in a very long time. Outside of the screams he heard after devouring one.

* He hasn’t been outside the castle walls in many years, possibly a century.

* “What’s the best part of the human world?” He asked you once

* It’s the 90’s, so smartphones haven’t been invented yet.

* “One tree hill and friends”

* “Well you have a friend right here”

* “No friends the show”

* “The what?”

* And that’s how you got Alec hooked onto cable television

* Who knew the cure to vampire- sadism was a healthy dose of Jennifer Aniston fumbling about on screen

* “Is this what life is like?”

* You shrug, it was what college had been like for you in your past life.

* “It’s kinda what schools like, but i never got to be on my own”

* This body was only 18 after all.

* Alec doesn’t say anything, but his expression falters

* Alec’s only now starting to understand the life you will be denied once Aro decides when to turn you

* Jane joins later

* One day when you and Alec are lazing around the library when she appears, she says nothing, just sits down next to Alec and reads a book

* You’re sure they hear the uneven thumping of your heart as you turn back to your book. Her power doesn’t work on you, you remind yourself

* Not that she even needs it, she could snap you apart like a Kit Kat bar

* And if it came down to it, you’re sure Alec would let her, he might like you but his loyalty’s always remained with his sister

* “So... you watch human television together?” Her bright red eyes flickered from Alec to you.

* You nodded, never sure what exactly it was that would set Jane off

* You had seen enough in the books to know her moods were compatible at best.

* “I would...like to join” she awkwardly looking away, and you were sure if she could, she would be blushing.

* Honestly it’s kind of cute.

* “Sure, the more the merrier”

* And that’s how you basically adopted the sadist twins

* It’s a little harder to get Jane to open up, but once you make a comment about how Phoebe was the best character in friends, she starts to open up

* “Humans are cruel, even when they’re kind it’s only because they want something from you.”

* “Is that what you think about me? That I’m only nice to you because I want something?” she meets your eyes for a few minutes before turning away

* “I’m not sure”

* You understand very gradually why they’re so twisted

* They’d been treated terribly during their human life, in every kind act lingered a dark shadow, in even minor misunderstanding the image of a monster

* Their centuries in the Volturi didn’t help. Under Aro’s ruthless tutelage, and Caius’s sadistic tendencies, They had no one they could trust but each other.

* They were only surviving just as you were

* “Sometimes I wonder how much of my loyalty is real, and how much of it is Chelsea.” She whispers one day, so quietly you barley hear it

* You rest your hand on hers, it’s the only comfort you could think to offer

* When Jane grasps your hand in hers, she breaks every bone in your hand

* She doesn’t understand the pained screams or your mangled hand fit a second, and then she realizes what she did

* Alarmed she carries you halfway around the castle screeching for someone to help

* You pass out from the pain, when you come to you’re in your bed, a very cold hand holding your own

* “How are you feeling?” You don’t recognize this vampire, but you don’t really know anyone outside of Alec and Jane.

* You feel light headed, a warm feeling washing over you, you must be on some strong drugs

* “My body’s still grieving, but my mind is sharp.”

* It’s incoherent at best, but there’s truth to it, your body is still grieving for your parents and the life you’ve lost, but your otherworldly mind is ten steps ahead, cross referencing every action.

* The man offers a short chuckle

* “You really did a number on your hand. I’ve done what I can but...”

* You look down to your hand, half surprised by the bright yellow cast encasing it

* You had figured you would wake up to be a vampire, it just made sense, these were unfamiliar human aches to them after all and vampirism was a simple and effective cure

* They must want something from you, if they’re keeping you human

* You suspect it’s something along the lines of how they waited until Jane and Alec were burning at the stake to save them, so their power would be that much more potent

* Maybe they’re doing the opposite with you, trying to make you as happy as possible to see what effect it has on your ability

* It’s too bad you don’t have one

* “Thank you for your hard work.” You mumble, being human for a little bit longer is well worth the pain.

* “How did you break your hand?”

* “I held Janes’ hand”

* Your doctor let’s out a short laugh

* “That sounds about right”

* You smile, it does sound right, of course you would break your hand that way

* The conversation flows naturally after that, you talk about all sorts of things

* “You think vampires have souls?” He quirks an eyebrow

* “I’m of the opinion that a soul is something you create through hardship and struggle, being able to live longer means that you have more opportunities to have the experiences that result in a soul”

* “That’s an intriguing notion, I wish I had brought my son with me.”

* You’re about to ask about his son, when you’re interrupted by the door swimming open

* “I heard you were awake, are you alright?” Alec rushes in, his eyes frantic

* “Yeah these drugs are top notch” you press the button that releases the pain killers and let out a giggle

* “Is that alright? Humans are awfully sensitive.” Jane pipes up from behind Alec, you hadn’t noticed her in your haze.

* Your doctor chuckles

* “I’m aware,” he’s smiling but it’s strained

* “What’s wrong?” You ask, he was so calm until a second ago, he doesn’t answer you

* “I’ll give you three a moment.”

* You only register he’s gone when you hear the door close

* The twins rush over to you, Jane is kneeled by your side, while Alec hovers over you

* “I-I’m sorry I hurt you, I forgot-I didn’t remember.” You we’re sure Jane would be crying if she could

* “It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean it.” You raise your cast encased hand and give her a gentle pat on the head. “From now on, physical signs of affection will just be one sided.” You joke, which makes Jane grin

* “I’ll practice with some animals before I try touching you again”

* The three of you chat for a bit, they’re both surprised by your cast and ask several questions about its “primary function”

* “I didn’t know there was a doctor here” you murmur, feeling drowsy

* “Carlisle’s not with the Volturi, he’s from another coven in the new world.”

* Your drowsiness flies away in a second

* “That was Carlisle?”

* Jane looks somewhat confused but nods.

* A flutter of hope erupts in your chest, it’s so strong even your grief stricken body feels it

* You might have a chance. It’s slim, Carlisle has a family he loves and needs to protect. But still, they were strangers once too. No different than you.

* It’s a way out of here

* The next few days follow in a drugged haze, Alec and Jane visit every so often, and Carlisle engages you in occasional conversation while checking progress on your hand

* “Why are your eyes gold?” You know, but well, you need him to believe the lie

* “It’s a bit of a long story” he says with a wary smile.

* “I’m not going anywhere”

* He sighs, a genuine smile encompassing his face as he recounts the tale.

* Even though you’ve already heard it all before, it still makes you cry

* Even in the haze, you know something’s.... off

* There’s something about the way Alec won’t meet your eyes when he talks to you, and the uneasy weight that lingers in the air whenever someone else is in the room

* On the third day, it’s Aro who visits you, Alec and Carlisle in tow behind him.

* “Oh my, all that internal bleeding, how awful”

* Even you can feel the insincerity, but it’s the first you heard about internal bleeding

* So that explains it, the drugs and the aches all along your body, it wasn’t just your hand, you were dying

* “Don’t worry, we’ll save you” Aro’s smile is cruel “won’t we Alec?”

* Alec looks afraid, almost pained, but he nods

* Ah, so this was punishment for Alec too. Until that moment, when Jane broke your hand, Aro must have been ignorant to how close the three of you had gotten.

* You close your eyes, you knew this would happen eventually. There were only two ending to this story, and it seemed one had finally been picked

* You feel a pinch on your neck, right above your collar bone, no worse than a flue shot.

* You wait for the pain, the vivid screams you remember from the books and movies, but it never comes.

* Instead it’s just a warm numbness that spreads across your neck and left shoulder.

* “It doesn’t hurt” you murmur, you feel a cold hand rest against your forehead, Alex’s hand.

* It’s so gentle, he must have practiced on some animals first, you think.

* “No the pain comes later.”

* And so you drift into inky black unconsciousness, the last sleep of your human life in this world.

* You dream that you’re sitting at the bottom of a tree, a fig tree, like the one Sylvia Plath wrote about

* Each fig a different path, half of them have already fallen off, dark, as they rot at your feet

* “How do you do it?”

* You look to your side and find the person who’s face you see in the mirror, they’re hugging their knees to their chest, dark circles under their eyes

* “How do I do what?” You ask, they bite their lip

* “How can you be so strong when you’ve just lost everything?”

* You see their eyes brim with tears, and you look away, to the tree that looks over you both

* “I don’t know” It’s the truth, you have an unfair advantage in this world, because you know all the secrets each person carries, while yours remain shrouded in darkness. And yet... it’s not why you persevere

* “All I do know, is that I want to give them hell”

* Your counterpart grins at that, and to your surprise, you feel a smile stretch out across your face

* Yeah, it’s not about power, you just want raise some hell in this backwards misogynistic world.

* “I guess that’s the one you’re picking then huh?” Your counterpart points to a fig, it’s on the tallest branch of the tree, so far out of reach it almost seems unobtainable

* But you only nod

* “Yeah, I think that’s the way I’m going to go”

* They look at you and smile.

* “If you ever get the chance, I hope you punch that jerk Aro right in the face”

* You laugh.

* When you finally awake, you’re still laughing. A smile etched onto your face.

* Everyone’s there, all looking at you with concerned glances.

* Yeah, you’re going to have a lot of fun in this world.

[junghelioseok]

clandestine. | 05

↳ forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest.

◇ jungkook x reader ◇ smut | fluff | brother’s best friend!au ◇ 7.6k [5/6]

notes: second to last installment of a fic that didn’t need to be as long as it is!!! really this entire thing can be summed up with last chapter’s warning, which was “reader is dumb and jungkook is slutty.” i stand by it, okay!!! 🤷🏻‍♀️

warnings: dumb banter, a couple brief smutty bits, oral (f receiving), listen to slow dancing in the dark by joji during the soft smut scene in the middle if u want 

⇢ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 

“No. No. God, no. Has your music taste always been this bad, or is this a recent development?”

“You will excuse yourself,” you retort sharply, wagging a finger at your brother. “Mr. Brightside is a classic and I will not hear this slander. Please feel free to permanently vacate the premises if you disagree.”

Jimin rolls his eyes from where he’s slouched on the couch beside you, one hand submerged in a bag of chips and his bare feet kicked up on the coffee table. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m dramatic? Really? You wanna go there, Chim?” You raise your hand and begin ticking off on your fingers. “I’m not the one who threw a fit over a piece of cilantro in my taco. I’m not the one who refused to bathe when Mom couldn’t find the right bubble bath.”

“Oh my god, I was eight,” Jimin snorts. “Both times. And cilantro tastes like soap.”

You raise a third finger. “What about the time you hid all the Monopoly money because you kept losing? Or when yo—”

A knock on the door cuts you off mid-sentence, and you nudge Jimin’s shin with your big toe. “Go get the door,” you order, and you aren’t sure if he’s just tired of hearing your voice, but he stands up without complaint and wanders into the entryway to receive your unexpected guest.

“Hey,” you hear him say. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” a very familiar voice replies. “I need some help.”

It’s Jungkook. Of course it’s Jungkook. You haven’t seen him since he dropped you off and kissed you senseless in your driveway, but you’d have to be delusional to think that you could avoid him for the next week and a half before you leave to return to Seoul. And yet, you allowed yourself to indulge in your delusions for two full days, before he tears them apart with ten simple, innocent words.

“So, I think I might have done the laundry wrong.”

Jimin laughs out loud, covering his mouth with his hand. “That’s all you, Noona,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you, and you don’t even have wherewithal to lecture him about the sexism of his remark because Jungkook is smirking like he’s just won the lottery and you’re his grand prize.

“Noona?” he begins, his voice syrupy sweet and thick with intent. “Can you come help me?”

You glance down at your pajamas—gray sweatpants and a pink Pusheen t-shirt that’s a couple sizes too big. It’s beyond obvious that you have no plans for the day, and therefore no excuse not to help. Heaving a resigned sigh, you clamber to your feet and roll your eyes when Jimin immediately flops down across the newly abandoned couch and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Have fun,” he calls lazily as you walk out, and you do your best to ignore the wicked grin that flashes across Jungkook’s face.

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find a way to make it fun,” he says as he lets you pass by him to exit the house. “See you later, Jimin.”

As soon as the front door slams shut, you round on him with a glare. “Are you serious, Jungkook?” you hiss. “He’s totally going to catch on to… to whatever it is we’re doing.”

“You’re being paranoid,” Jungkook chides, clicking his tongue. He hops over the low bushes that divide your property, and waits patiently as you skirt around them. You follow him into his house—down the hallway and into a little side room that houses the washing machine and dryer—and as soon as the door swings shut, he’s grabbing you by the hips and pulling you close.

“This—this isn’t how you do laundry,” you stammer weakly, winded by his sudden proximity and the dark promise in his eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”

Jungkook chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I may have lied a little bit. Would you have come if I hadn’t?”

You don’t answer, because you know he’s right. If you had your way, you would have avoided him until it was time for you to leave again. But Jungkook just doesn’t seem to be willing to let that happen, as he tightens his grip on your hips and tugs until you’re flush against him.

“See, the truth of the matter is, I’m actually good at laundry.” He smirks and tilts his head, dark bangs flopping across his forehead. “I’m good at other things, too. Why don’t you let me show you?”

Attraction blooms in your belly, hot as molten lava, and it takes the last ounce of your wavering restraint to say what you say next. “We can’t take too long,” you whisper, letting him hoist you up onto the dryer and jab the start button. The machine rumbles to life beneath you, and you nearly lose your train of thought when the vibrations go straight to your clit. “Jimin!” you gasp. “Jimin—he’ll kill you if he finds out. He’ll fillet your dick with a dull knife and serve it over rice.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Why are you talking about your brother? Is this your idea of dirty talk, princess? Because I gotta tell you—it’s not doing it for me.”

“Jungkook!” you chide, and he grins and moves to tug off your shirt.

“That’s much better.”

///

In the days that follow your laundry room tryst with Jungkook, sneaking around becomes routine. Both of your parents work—as do his—so avoiding them is easy. Jimin, however, is a different story. The dance classes he teaches are irregular, and the schedule shifts often enough that you’ve come dangerously close to getting caught on more than one occasion.

And it certainly doesn’t help when Jungkook has taken to texting you at all hours of the day, even when you’re eating a sandwich on the couch with Jimin half-sprawled across your lap in his effort to invade your personal space as much as possible.

[12:35pm] Jungkook: hey i just thought of something

[12:35pm] Jungkook: you know how i call you princess?

You nearly throw your phone across the room. Cautiously, you glance at your brother, who is glued to the television and doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss.

[12:36pm] You: yeah…

His response is instantaneous.

[12:36pm] Jungkook: well i’ve got a throne for you to sit on

You almost sigh out loud. Please don’t, you write back, and you practically hear Jungkook’s cackle in your head as the ellipses that indicate he’s typing pop up at the bottom of your screen.

[12:37pm] Jungkook: it’s my dick ;)

[12:37pm] Jungkook: get it?

I fucking hate you, you tell him, thumbs flying across the keyboard.

[12:38pm] Jungkook: and i love fucking you

[12:38pm] Jungkook: princess ;)

///

After nearly a week cooped up at your parents’ house, you’re getting restless. Without a car, you’re confined to the suburban neighborhood you grew up in, and the revelation that you’re bored somehow spills out to Jungkook during one of the many heated makeout sessions you’ve started having in the backseat of his sedan.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” he’d asked, tilting his head curiously, mussed hair falling across his eyes. “I can drive you, if you want.”

And that’s how you find yourself wandering around downtown Busan on a beautiful Tuesday afternoon. Jungkook drops you off at the curb after cumming down your throat, and now that he’s dashed off to work the lunch shift at the restaurant, you’re free to explore all of your old haunts. The shopping center that you and your friends used to frequent is right around the corner, so that’s where you decide to start. After all, you’re still in need of some professional attire, and as much as you love your mom, you’d rather avoid the unflattering dresses and itchy pantyhose she would be sure to seek out.

As soon as you step through the glass revolving doors, you find yourself in a familiar air-conditioned paradise of shops and restaurants. Stopping at your favorite coffee spot, you treat yourself to an iced mocha before heading to the first store.

Two hours and three full bags later, you decide to head to the food court for a quick snack. You’d promised Jungkook that you’d meet him at the restaurant once you were finished, but a glance at your phone tells you that you have more than enough time to stop by Kim’s Kitchen. Mrs. Kim makes the best cookies in the entire city, as far as you’re concerned, and you decide to order a dozen to take home and share with your family.

You’re lowering yourself into a seat at one of the many tables scattered around the tree-lined atrium when you spot a familiar head of strawberry blonde hair. The owner spots you a split second later, and you return her smile as she immediately swerves and heads your way. “{Name}, hey!”

“Hey, Chaeyoung,” you greet, gesturing for her to take the chair on the other side of the table. “What are you doing here?”

“Same thing as you, from the looks of it.” She grins and hefts her shopping bag. “I swear I’ve been to every shoe store and still haven’t found what I’m looking for, but somehow I’ve bought this much crap anyway. What about you? What are you on the hunt for?”

“Professional attire,” you say with a grimace. “Why are pants so hard to find? I swear, they’re all either too long or too short, and never fit properly in the waist and thighs.”

Chaeyoung pulls a face. “Ew, I know. Pantsuits are a nightmare unless you have a tailor. And who has money for that?”

You laugh, nodding in agreement. “So what are you up to now? Mrs. Kim has cookies fresh out of the oven, if you’re interested. Cinnamon rolls too, I think.”

“Ooh, that’s tough,” she says thoughtfully, tapping her chin. “Would it be bad if I got both?”

“Not even a little bit,” you assure, reaching into your box and pulling out a cookie. “But here, I’ll make it easier for you. Hope you like chocolate chip.”

Chaeyoung gratefully accepts the cookie you hand over. “Who doesn’t love chocolate chip?” she asks, taking a bite.

“Criminals and heathens,” you reply, snagging a cookie for yourself. “Among others.”

She tilts her head. “Doesn’t Jimin hate chocolate chip?”

“My point exactly.”

Chaeyoung giggles, hiding it behind a manicured hand, and you laugh right along with her. Together, you decide to grab some smoothies, and when you sit back down, the conversation turns to your trip up to the lake house. “Next time, we’ll have to do a girl’s trip,” Chaeyoung says, propping her chin in her palm. “Feels like it’s been ages since we’ve done one. You must’ve been exhausted with all those boys around.”

Unwillingly, your thoughts turn to Jungkook. “It wasn’t that bad,” you say slowly. “It was actually nice, being able to spend some time with them.”

“Who ended up going, anyway? Your brother, obviously. Taehyung? Yugyeom?”

You nod, raising a hand and ticking them off on your fingers. “Jimin, yeah. Taehyung, Yugyeom, Taemin, Minho. And Jungkook.”

If Chaeyoung notices the way you pause before saying the last name, she doesn’t comment on it. Her expression grows pensive, and you can practically see the gears turning in her head as she considers her next sentence. “You must be seeing a lot of him,” she says at last. “Jungkook, I mean.”

You take a massive sip of your smoothie and wonder if you’re imagining the lingering taste of him on your tongue. “Yeah, a bit,” you manage, your voice surprisingly steady. “He games with Jimin a lot.” After a pause, you decide to tell her the truth. “He dropped me off today, actually. Jimin’s working this summer, and I’ve been stuck at home, so he offered to take me downtown on his way to work.”

Chaeyoung hums thoughtfully. “He’s working at a restaurant or something, right?”

“Just a few streets away, yeah.”

Slowly, she nods. “We went out, you know.” Her voice is distant. “Just for a few weeks. He ended it after… well, after we slept together.”

There’s a pause, as Chaeyoung lets you digest this information, and a part of you wants to spill everything to her right then and there. Jisoo told me, you want to say, as acidic guilt begins to bubble up in your belly, every memory of the moments you’ve since shared with Jungkook rising unpleasantly in your throat. I’m sorry. I’m so,so sorry. You say it over and over again in your head, but the apology gets stuck in your throat when you try to voice it aloud.

Chaeyoung takes a sip of her smoothie and leans back in her chair with a sigh, oblivious to your internal struggle. “Maybe I should have seen it coming,” she says, gnawing on the end of the straw. “Everything changed our senior year, you know? It was like a switch had flipped—he started dating around, relationships that never lasted more than a week… I really should have known better when he asked me out. But I guess I thought I was different. We were already friends, after all. But whenever we were together, just the two of us, he was always… distant. Like he was somewhere else, mentally.”

Her words trail off, leaving only silence that you don’t know how to break. Chaeyoung sips at her smoothie again, before huffing out a laugh and waving a manicured hand in your direction. “God, sorry! I can’t believe I just started monologuing, ew. Jungkook this, Jungkook that—god. I’m not even mad at him anymore, you know? I just want him to figure his shit out.” Her eyes flit up to you briefly, before skittering back down to where a cookie crumb has landed on the tabletop. “It’s funny, though. Seeing him at Taehyung’s graduation party was probably the happiest I’ve seen him in a long time. He almost seemed like himself again.”

You can’t help it—the singular word bubbles up before you can stop it. “Really?”

Chaeyoung nods, her gaze flickering up to meet yours again. “Really. And honestly? I think it was because of you.”

Your heart does a series of backflips in your chest, thudding against the slats of your ribs. You try to respond, try to find the words, but they stick in your dry throat and your smoothie is practically gone at this point. Chaeyoung shrugs, unfazed by your silence, and you watch as she swirls her straw around in the remainder of her own drink. “I don’t know—maybe I’m imagining things. But it always seemed like he had a bit of a thing for you. Didn’t he used to follow you around the playground?”

The memory draws a startled laugh from your lips. “Sure, yeah. But that was in elementary school.”

Chaeyoung shrugs, smiling around her straw. “Still. We never really forget our first crush, do we?”

///

You head over to the restaurant after bidding Chaeyoung goodbye, her words weighing heavy on your mind and your heart. Through the tall glass windows, you can just barely make out Jungkook—looking sharp in a black collared shirt and matching slacks as he greets a table of diners. His smile is warm and his stance is confident, and you’re reminded of just how much he’s grown from that gangly kid you knew back in grade school when you catch the edge of flirtation lingering in his gaze.

The boy who used to follow you around the playground is gone. There’s no doubt in your mind about that. And so, you take a deep breath and walk into the restaurant, doing your best to smile at the host who greets you and asks whether you’d like to sit at a table or the bar.

“Hey, you made it!”

Jungkook strides over with a grin, taking the menu off the host’s hands and leading you over to an empty seat at the bar. “It’s full service, so you can order food here, too,” he explains. “You hungry? Thirsty?”

You glance down at the menu he places on the counter, scanning the lines of text. “Not really, but it smells really good so I might get something to go. And this carbonara sounds really good, actually.”

“It is,” Jungkook confirms. “I’ll go put the order in. You want some water or anything to drink?”

“Water’s good,” you tell him, and he nods before trotting off to do his job. You watch him disappear to the back of the restaurant before reappearing with a tray of glasses, and follow his meandering path through the tables as he disperses drinks and checks on the guests. Somehow, his shoulders manage to look even broader in his black shirt, and you can’t ignore the way they taper into a narrow waist that’s only emphasized by the belt threaded through the loops of his dark slacks.

He’s stopping at the table you first saw him at now, leaning in close when one of the women seated there asks him a question about something on the menu. His smile oozes easy charm, and you can’t help the feeling that flares in your chest when she reaches for the menu and purposely lets her fingertips graze his hand. Frowning, you tear your gaze away and focus on the wood grain of the bar counter. Your eyes zero in on a smattering of water droplets near your left arm, and you’re just about to run a fingertip through them when a voice sounds to your right.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

Surprised, you look up and find yourself face-to-face with a man who appears to be in his early thirties. Dark hair is brushed away from his forehead, a stray lock falling into his eyes, and you find yourself momentarily at a loss for words when your brain registers just how handsome he is.

“I—uh. I think Jungkook is going to grab me some water,” you finally manage, wanting nothing more than to melt into the ground when you hear the stammer in your voice.

“Ah, you know Jungkook?” The man laughs—a sound that is distinctly reminiscent of a squeaky windshield wiper. “He’s been pretty busy today, so why don’t I grab you that water instead?”

You nod, watching as he fills up a glass from the nozzle below the bar, accepting it when he hands it over. “Thanks.”

“Name’s Seokjin,” the man replies with an easy grin. “What’s yours?”

You return his smile and tell him your name. “Seokjin—Jungkook’s mentioned you a few times, I think. This is your place then, isn’t it?”

Seokjin beams. “Yep! Opened just a few months ago, after we finally sorted out the rat infestation and the asbestos problem in the rafters, and—” He pauses at the dumbfounded look on your face, and several beats pass before another peal of squeaky laughter escapes him. “I’m kidding. One-hundred percent. I promise the whole place is up to snuff.”

“So, I see you’ve met Seokjin.” Jungkook materializes at your side with a glass of water, which he takes a sip out of upon realizing that you already have a drink. “Is he making jokes about the health code again?”

“I would never,” Seokjin sniffs, and you laugh, finding yourself completely at ease for the first time since you entered the restaurant.

Jungkook rolls his eyes good-naturedly and turns his attention back to you. “Your carbonara should be out in a few,” he says, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t want anything else?”

“Positive,” you assure him. “I’m full of chocolate chip cookies, anyway. Here, you want one? They’re still a little warm.”

Jungkook eyes the box you pull out of your bag hungrily. “Hell yes. I can smell them from here.” Laughing, you push the box toward him and watch as he pulls a cookie out and takes an enormous bite. “Thanks,” he says in between chews, his cheeks puffy. You can’t help but smile when he takes a sip of water to wash it all down, his eyes growing round.

Turning to Seokjin, you offer him a cookie as well, which he declines with a graceful wave. “I should be feeding you, not the other way around,” he remarks. “You got the carbonara, right? I’ll go see if it’s ready.”

With one last glance at the patrons sitting at the bar, Seokjin departs with a promise to be back in five minutes. Jungkook finishes off his cookie, and you’re considering offering him another when a familiar chirpy voice sounds from your left.

“Wow, it smells amazing in here! What do you think—should we sit at the bar?”

You whirl in the direction of the voice, your eyes immediately landing on a group of three girls standing near the entrance. Two of them you don’t recognize, but the third you’ve seen before. Mina, you’re pretty sure her name was, and you’d recognize her anywhere. The last time you’d seen her was at the restaurant on the night of Jimin’s and Jungkook’s graduation, and your face heats at the memory of everything else that transpired that night.

“Welcome!” Jungkook draws you out of your thoughts, and you turn to see that he’s wearing a bright, welcoming smile. “Were you looking to sit at the bar, or at a table? It looks like there are a few empty spots at the end of the bar, if you ladies would prefer that. Otherwise, I can take you to a table.”

Mina’s face lights up in recognition, and you’re forced to hide your scowl in your water glass. “Hey, we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“You work at that place a few blocks down, right?” Jungkook jabs a thumb in the general direction of the street. “I’ve seen you around.”

She giggles and tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “That’s right, yeah! I remember you now. Graduation, right? You were my best table of the night.”

Jungkook chuckles. “I bet you tell everyone that.”

“Not a chance,” Mina answers, looking him up and down before a coy smile curves her lips again. “I only say what I mean.”

“Honesty is the best policy,” Jungkook says agreeably. Then he turns to you, distractedly fiddling with his apron as he speaks. “Jin should probably be back with your food soon. Are you okay to sit here by yourself for a bit?”

You can only nod, still staring down into your water glass. “Yeah, sure. Go on, then.”

He smiles and gestures for Mina and the girls to follow after him, and you’re positive you don’t imagine the triumphant look that flashes across Mina’s face before she departs. Frowning, you grab a cookie from your box and break a piece off, grateful for the distraction. Seokjin drops off your carbonara a minute later, and you find yourself suddenly ravenous as you dig into the steaming bowl of spaghetti.

Jungkook returns to your side about five minutes later, raking a hand through his hair as he replaces his notebook back in his apron pocket. “Man, I’m beat,” he remarks. “Thank god Mina and her friends didn’t order anything complicated. My brain would’ve exploded.”

“Thank god for that,” you echo dully. Unwillingly, your gaze drifts over to where Mina is now sitting, chatting happily with her friends. “It’s weird, isn’t it? Seeing Mina here, of all places. I mean, what is she even doing here?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but most people go out and have fun on their days off,” Jungkook responds dryly, a grin breaking across his face when you roll your eyes at him. “Or wait… could it be that you’re jealous?”

You scowl. “Don’t be stupid.”

Jungkook just laughs, tilting your chin up with two fingers so he can look you in the eye. “It’s okay,” he says, his thumb brushing softly along the corner of your lips. “You’re cute when you’re jealous, princess.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, and thankfully you don’t have to. Seokjin returns with a takeout container for you to put your leftovers in, shrugging off your gratitude when you offer it.

“I’m discounting your food, too,” he says, leaving zero room for argument. “Any friend of Jeon’s is a friend of mine.”

Jungkook’s shift ends half an hour later. He turns on his roadtrip playlist on the drive home, and you are more than happy to let the music wash over you, eliminating any need for conversation and drowning out your thoughts.

“See you later, princess,” he says once he’s pulled into your driveway, following your every move as you climb out of the passenger seat.

It sounds like a promise coming from his lips, and you can only nod. “See you.”

///

You’re in the middle of buttering a piece of toast for breakfast the next morning when there’s a knock on the front door. Perturbed, you walk over to answer it, wondering if perhaps Jimin has forgotten his keys again, but when you peer through the peephole it isn’t Jimin who stares back at you.

“Jungkook—” you begin, swinging open the door, but he cuts you off before you can finish, taking your face in his hands and pressing his mouth to yours.

“Hey,” he whispers once he’s had his fill, pulling back just enough to mumble the greeting against your lips. “They’re all gone for the day, right?”

“Yes,” you confirm, still reeling from the suddenness of his appearance and the subsequent kiss. “But how did you—?”

“Jimin told me,” Jungkook answers shortly, before pulling you close and kissing you again. This time, you let yourself get lost in the feeling of his mouth against yours, following his lead as he ushers you back upstairs and breaking the kiss only once in the process. He lays you down onto your bed, the mattress dipping under your combined weight, and you sigh when he moves down to nip at your neck.

“No marks, Jungkook,” you remind him breathily. “You can’t leave marks.”

A low whine escapes him. “Can’t you wear a scarf?”

“It’s the middle of summer!” you huff in amusement, smacking his arm when he whines again and stubbornly sucks at the soft spot where your neck meets your shoulder.

Jungkook’s breath is hot against your skin. His fingers find the elastic waistband of your sweatpants, tugging them off your hips and down your legs, and you kick them off as soon as they’ve reached your ankles. Hungrily, his gaze traverses the newly revealed skin, and you shiver when he gently trails his fingertips up your calves and all the way to the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. “Jungkook,” you sigh. “I haven’t shaved in days.”

“Ask me if I care,” he replies hoarsely, leaning down to press the flat of his tongue against the growing damp spot seeping through the cotton of your underwear. It’s far from your sexiest pair—you’d categorize them as granny panties, in all honesty—but Jungkook doesn’t seem the least bit fazed as he hooks them aside and licks a broad stripe all the way up to your clit. “Want you,” he groans, and the vibrations from his voice send a volt of tingling electricity straight up your spine. “Want you in every way I can have you.”

You don’t respond. You don’t have to, because Jungkook is diving in with the enthusiasm of a man starved, tossing your underwear aside carelessly before banding his arms around your legs to hold you open. His face disappears between your thighs until only the top of his hair is visible, the dark strands mussed. Lips parting in a moan, your fingers find their way to his head, tangling at his roots, and Jungkook parts from your cunt briefly to groan his approval. Then he’s eating you out again—alternating between broad licks and teasing flicks to your clit before his tongue delves into your entrance, inhaling deeply as if he just can’t get enough.

The sun rises higher into the sky, beaming through your window and illuminating Jungkook’s head and shoulders in warm, hazy gold. You chant his name as you reach your high, spurred on by his teasing tongue and whispered words of encouragement, and the grin he wears when he straightens back up is near blinding. Slowly, he peels off his shirt and shucks off his jeans until he’s completely bare before you, the sun painting him in warm strokes of color. Deliberately, he crawls up your body, hiking up the hem of your shirt as he does. He plants kisses into your newly bared skin, and when he reaches your lips he settles there as if that’s where he’s meant to be.

Jungkook kisses you slowly. He kisses you deliberately—sensually—and you melt into his gentle touch, relishing in the feel of his bare body pressed so intimately against yours. You don’t miss the way his cock hardens against your thigh, but Jungkook seems to be in no hurry to do anything about it. Instead, he cups your cheeks and licks into your mouth, and you’re all too willing to part beneath him like a flower in bloom.

The rest of the afternoon passes like this—hot kisses and slow fucking, the two of you meshing until you’re no longer sure where you end and he begins. You keep an eye on the time, though, and by the time your parents and Jimin return home, you and Jungkook are showered and dry, sitting on the living room floor embroiled in a Mario Kart tournament.

“No fair! You played without me?” Jimin whines, plopping down between you and trying to wrest the controller away from Jungkook. “C’mon, let me have a turn. You’ve been at it all day!”

Jungkook’s gaze flickers up past Jimin’s shoulder to meet yours, his lips twitching in barely suppressed mirth. “Yeah. We sure were.”

///

“God, I’m going to be sore for the next month.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” your brother snorts, squeezing your cheek between his thumb and index finger like you’re a small child. His three o’clock dance class has just wrapped up, and people are slowly filtering out of the studio. A few of the younger women glance back toward where you’re standing with Jimin, and you have no doubt they’re vying for one last look at your brother in his tight-fitting joggers and loose tank that keeps drooping off one shoulder. Rolling your eyes, you suppress the urge to loudly bring up the time he walked into a sliding glass door and nearly chipped his tooth. Instead, you pinch his cheek back, and laugh when he pouts.

“Ow, hey! What happened to giving me all your love and support?”

“Please, Mom made me come to your class,” you retort, batting his invasive hand away. “I think she just wanted me out of the house.”

Jimin laughs. “Can’t blame her. You’re a goddamn freeloader.”

“Seriously? Because in that case, I’m dying to hear what that makes you.”

Thoroughly nonplussed, Jimin pinches your other cheek before dancing away on light feet. “I’m an angel. Now go away, so I can get ready for my next class!”

Rolling your eyes again, you heft your bag over your shoulder and turn on your heel. “Fine, fine. Good luck, and all that. See you at dinner.”

Jimin doesn’t respond, and when you peer over your shoulder at him, he’s already sprawled on the floor and reaching for his toes in the unmistakable first step of his warm-up routine. He waves when he sees you watching, and you stick your tongue out at him playfully before exiting the studio and heading for the door. You’ve borrowed your dad’s car for the day, and hum cheerily as you climb into the driver’s seat.

You spend the rest of the afternoon running errands—stopping by both the post office and the bank before heading for the grocery store to pick up some ingredients for dinner. By the time you get back home, Jimin has finished teaching at the studio as well, and you fix him with a stare as you plop two full bags of groceries in front of him on the kitchen counter.

“Care to help me carry the rest in?”

“Not really,” he replies, but he stands up and follows you outside to the car nonetheless.

Once all the groceries are inside and unpacked, you begin prepping for dinner. Jimin, to his credit, offers his help without you even having to ask, and with his assistance you finish cooking in record time. Your parents join you in the dining room, and together you enjoy the meal over the evening news.

You retire to your room after dinner, cracking open your laptop to go over the details of your internship for the umpteenth time. You’ve read the emails and the attached documents so many times you practically have them memorized, but the anxiety gnawing at your belly refuses to be quelled. You’re returning to Seoul in less than a week, and your empty suitcase sits in the corner of your childhood bedroom like a taunt. You wonder, briefly, if you should start packing.

“Nah, it can wait,” you decide, muttering the words to your nonexistent audience. Standing up, you stretch lazily before exiting your room and heading down the hall to the bathroom that you and Jimin share, muffling a yawn behind your hand.

You’ve just finished brushing your teeth when your phone vibrates against the bathroom counter, a notification lighting up your screen. Spitting into the sink and rinsing off your toothbrush, you towel off your face before picking up your phone, blinking owlishly at the text.

[11:08pm] Jungkook: can you come over?

By itself, it’s not an unusual request. At this late an hour, though, you can’t help the unease that rises up in your belly. And as if sensing your apprehension, your phone vibrates again.

[11:09pm] Jungkook: my parents are out

[11:09pm] Jungkook: please? i could use some company

There’s an edge of desperation in his last message—something you haven’t seen in him since you returned home. It reminds you a bit of the Jungkook you used to know—the scrawny, gangly one with a nose too big for his face and an all-encompassing fear of the opposite sex. Give me ten minutes, you tell him.

Okay, Jungkook writes back. See you soon.

The next few minutes are a blur. You slather on some moisturizer and consider changing out of your pajamas and putting on a bra, but dismiss the thought immediately. Jungkook has seen you in far less, and you’re staunchly opposed to putting a bra back on after a certain hour of the night. Besides, he’s sure to dispose of your clothes at some point, so there’s little point in changing. With that thought in mind, you tiptoe out into the hall, past your parents’ bedroom and Jimin’s closed door. You carefully edge around the creakiest floorboards and hop over the two steps in the staircase that always groan when subjected to additional weight. Gingerly, you edge open the front door, just enough to slip out into the night.

The trek across the yard doesn’t take long, and Jungkook swings the door open before you even get a chance to knock. “Hey,” he says, and you can’t help but smile at the familiar round glasses perched on his nose. He’s in his pajamas as well—a blue and white checkered set that’s about two sizes too big—and when he ushers you inside, you catch a whiff of his floral laundry detergent.

“Hey,” you say. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Long day,” he sighs, raking a hand through his already tousled hair and mussing it further. “Come on in. You want anything to drink?”

You shake your head, stepping into the entryway and watching as he closes and locks the door again. Jungkook nods and shuffles to the kitchen, where he pours himself a glass of water from the faucet and downs half of it in one swig. His throat bobs as he swallows, his head tilted back to expose the long line of his neck, and you step a little closer as he turns to refill the glass.

“On second thought, maybe I’ll have some water too.”

“Mm. Okay.” Jungkook turns and fetches a second glass, filling it to the brim before handing it over. Then he takes your free hand and leads you upstairs, taking a left turn into his bedroom and nudging the door closed with his foot.

“So…” you begin slowly, putting your water down on the nightstand and reaching for the hem of your shirt. “We need to be quick. My mom’s a light sleeper, and I’m pretty sure I heard Jimin playing games in his room when I walked by.”

Jungkook chuckles and lays his hands over yours, stilling your attempt to take off your shirt. “When did you turn into such a horndog, Noona? Maybe I just want to hang out.”

You blink. “Did you just want to hang out?”

Jungkook plops onto his bed and grabs you by the waist, tugging you down and into his lap. “I mean, yeah—I thought that was obvious. Figured we could watch a movie or something.” Grabbing the tv remote, he switches on the television hanging on the opposite wall. “Any suggestions?”

You hesitate. You’ve been in Jungkook’s bedroom just once since you’ve come back, and the memory of the way he’d bent you over the desk in the corner sends a pulse of heat to your cheeks. Tearing your gaze away from the piece of wooden furniture, you instead focus on the television screen, watching as he navigates over to the Netflix menu.

“We can go old school too, if you want,” he remarks as he scrolls through the list of new arrivals. “I have a DVD player.”

That draws a laugh from your lips. “When was the last time you purchased a DVD? Last I checked, you only had Kung Fu Panda, Iron Man, and two copies of Titanic for some reason that you still won’t tell me.”

Jungkook laughs, his chest rumbling against your back. “Call it human error,” he says, looping his arms comfortably around your waist and propping his chin on your shoulder. “How do you feel about going super old school? I can get the VHS player out of the basement and pop in one of the Pokémon movies.”

“I’m sure we won’t have to resort to that,” you assure him, grinning. “Here, why don’t we just watch Iron Man? Three’s your favorite, right?”

“Three is everyone’s favorite,” he says, scrolling over to the appropriate menu and clicking play. “It’s the best one, hands-down.”

“Won’t argue with you there.”

The movie starts, and you shift off Jungkook’s lap to switch off the lights. Darkness overtakes the room as the screen lights up with the opening credits, and when you return to the bed, Jungkook has sprawled comfortably against the pillows lining the headboard. His eyes remain glued to the screen even as he reaches for you, and you hesitate for only a second before joining him, laying down beside him and letting his arm find its way around your shoulders. The scent of floral laundry detergent fills your nostrils, and you subtly nestle a bit closer, resting your head on his chest.

This isn’t the first time Jungkook has seen this movie. You know this for a fact, yet that doesn’t change how raptly he watches the screen, the action sequences reflected perfectly in his glasses. He’s practically vibrating with excitement by the time of the final showdown, mouthing along to the lines, and you hide your smile in the blue-and-white squares of his pajama shirt as the music swells.

It’s well past midnight by the time the credits roll. Jungkook seems perfectly content to lie on his bed with his arm around you, and when you make to get up, his grip slides down to your waist to hold you in place. “You gotta watch the credits all the way through,” he says, blinking at you with bleary eyes now that the adrenaline from the final showdown has worn off. “There’s a post-credits scene, remember?”

You shake your head, but let him pull you back down onto the mattress regardless. “I’m sure you already know what it is. Why don’t you just tell me?”

“What’s the fun in that?” he asks with a grin.

The end credits continue—an endless stream of names scrolling down the screen. Your eyes begin to droop, the words blurring together, and it’s only when the music stops and the final scene begins that you jolt awake. Jungkook is faring no better than you are, suppressing a yawn behind his hand as he watches the last bit of the film through half-lidded eyes. Then the screen goes dark, and silence descends over the room once more. You glance at the alarm clock on his nightstand and see that it’s nearly two in the morning. A look back at Jungkook reveals that both his eyes have fallen shut, and you slowly begin wriggling free from his embrace in order to head home.

You’ve barely moved an inch when Jungkook’s arm tightens around your waist. “Stay,” he mumbles sleepily, one eye cracking open.

You should say no. You should head home to the safety of your own bed. But there’s something about Jungkook—something soft and fond in his tired gaze and something vulnerable in the way he’s holding you so tightly against his pajama-clad body with his hair in complete disarray and his round glasses askew. Heaving a sigh, you reach up to take them off his face, placing them neatly on his nightstand.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll stay.”

Jungkook smiles sleepily and shuts his eyes. “G’night, then, Noona.”

“Night, Jungkookie.”

Within seconds, his breathing evens out, and you know he’s off in dreamland. Twisting in his grasp, you tug your phone out of your pocket and set a quick alarm for six o’clock. Neither of your parents wake up until seven at the earliest, and Jimin would sleep until three in the afternoon if he could get away with it, so you’re certain that you’ll have plenty of time to sneak back into the house. Besides, Jungkook’s bed is comfortable, and his chest is practically a furnace against your back. You aren’t sure you could work up the energy to leave even if you tried.

So instead, you settle back into his embrace and let sleep whisk you away.

///

There are birds chirping outside the window when you open your eyes the next morning, blinking blearily against the sun shining through the curtains. The blanket is tangled around your legs and there’s an arm looped around your waist, and you sit bolt upright when realization dawns. Jungkook groans and mumbles something unintelligible, but you don’t pay him any mind as you twist out of his grasp, clutching for your phone on the nightstand.

7:03am.

Shit.

Throwing your legs over the side of the bed, you rise to your feet and shove your phone into the pocket of your pajama pants. Jungkook makes a sound that vaguely resembles your name, and you spare him a glance as you fumble for your shoes. He’s flat on his back, blinking hair out of his eyes as he fights to stay awake. “Hey,” he manages, his voice raspy.

“I gotta go,” you whisper urgently, successfully putting your shoes on the right feet and wrenching the door of his bedroom open. And then you turn and dash out, leaving a very sleepy, very disheveled Jungkook blinking after you.

Your house, when you carefully crack open the front door and poke your head inside, is quiet. Much to your relief, you don’t hear any of the telltale signs that your family is awake and downstairs yet—no drip of the coffee maker and no sizzle of bacon or eggs. From upstairs, however, you can distantly hear the sound of the shower, so you dart inside and toe off your shoes, padding into the kitchen to start the coffee maker. You check the alarm you’d set the night prior as you scoop coffee grounds into the filter, and curse under your breath when you realize you’d somehow managed to select six PM instead of AM.

You’re seated in the living room with a mug of fresh coffee when Jimin shuffles in with damp hair and a sleepy frown. “You’re up early,” you remark.

“I have a morning class to teach,” he replies, yawning widely as he grabs a fresh mug. “What’s your excuse?”

You shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Fair enough.”

Suppressing another yawn, your brother turns his attention to the refrigerator, rooting around for the milk. And you return yours to the window, where you can see the side of the Jeon’s house, and Jungkook’s bedroom window on the second floor. There are no signs of life from within, and you wonder if he’d gone back to sleep after your departure. Considering how tired he’d looked last night, you wouldn’t be surprised if he had.

Chaeyoung’s voice echoes in your mind then, soft and wistful. It always seemed like he had a bit of a thing for you. Happiest I’ve seen him in a long time. And honestly? I think it was because of you. We never really forget our first crush, do we?

And then Jisoo’s words rise up in your brain, just a bit louder. He’s a heartbreaker. He never, ever stays until the morning.

So why, then, did you wake up in his arms today?

[hermannsthumb]

"different young (rebound) hunk on his arm every week…newton geiszler who?" CAN YOU WRITE THIS FIC PLEASE? Hermann as the new heartthrob of the science world, cheekbones that can cut glass, baby gay scientists everywhere using appalling math-related pick-up lines in an attempt to be the booty call of the week. Newton catches a glimpse of him at a fundraiser and the Precursors have to stop him from crying with lust.

so tragically I plotted a whole fic for this and then came back and realized this prompt involves PRU but I liked my idea too much so unfortunately I won’t be filling the PRU part 😔 but I DO love heartthrob hermann sooooooooo. this can be pre-PRU if you want to make it sad actually CW for drinking and mild allusion to not sfw stuff. when will these boys talk about their feelings?

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

Hermann doesn’t like going out to bars at the best of times, least of all after he’s had the sort of exceptionally long day he’s had today (fighting his way through airports and hotel lobbies, fielding interview questions, having not even a minute’s break from Newton), but even he will admit that the one Newton has dragged him along to tonight could be far worse. The sorts of bars Newton fancied throughout their stint at the Hong Kong Shatterdome tended to be far hipper, far more becoming for a man of his (and, admittedly, Hermann’s) age, and likely aimed at tourists: pounding music, dark rooms, neon lighting, overpriced drinks, an inability to navigate through throngs of dancing bodies without bumping into at least half a dozen people. For that reason Hermann’s blood practically ran cold earlier that evening when, fresh out of their latest television interview, Newton insisted that Hermann needed to unwind a little. That Newton would help him unwind a little.

Hermann was pleasantly surprised to find that though the music (a live band) is still loud, and drink prices are still inflated, at least he can see Newton, and at least the few people dancing are dancing far away from them. And, well, perhaps it’s made him more amenable to (mostly) matching Newton drink-for-drink, and to indulging him in knocking back not one, but two rounds of the most disgusting-looking pink shots of all time, and— “Look, dude,” Newton declares, tossing an arm around Hermann’s shoulder. He’s shouting and leaning in too-close to Hermann, not because he’s intoxicated, but rather to be heard over the band, which has launched into a rather enthusiastic cover of some song Hermann’s sure he’s heard blaring from Newton’s iTunes before. His stubble tickles the shell of Hermann’s ear. “Just say it with me. It’s that easy. R-e-t-i-r-e-m—”

“We are thirty-five,” Hermann says. “We can’t just—”

“We absolutely can,” Newton says. He nudges his cocktail glass into Hermann’s chest, sloshing a bit of hot pink Watermelon Crush on his neat button-up. Hermann stifles a sigh; the shirt is brand new, bought just that morning for the interview, and will already be needing a wash. And smelling like liquified hard candy for the rest of the evening. “You and me, lying on a beach somewhere, sleeping in until noon every day, learning how to—to fish, or paint, or whatever the hell we want—”

“Not a beach,” Hermann says immediately. “I’m bloody well sick of beaches. Oceans, lakes, bays—no more."

Indulging Newton’s ridiculous little fantasy, even for a moment, is a mistake: Newton’s face lights up in a grin, and he tucks his arm around Hermann’s shoulder to pull Hermann flush against him. Hermann’s barstool wobbles dangerously. “Okay, no beaches. Far away from any coastline. The mountains, then.” It’d be just their luck, Hermann thinks, if the next Breach reopened far away from the ocean, too. Like it followed them somehow. “Let’s move to Switzerland or something and buy a log cabin or a cave and become weird recluses. I’ll learn how to ski, and you can grow a beard, and we can buy all our furniture at Ikea—” He frowns. “Is Ikea from Switzerland? Sweden? I haven’t been since college.”

“I don’t recall ever agreeing to move anywhere with you in the first place,” Hermann says, “let alone retire to do so. What on earth makes you think I’d follow you to Switzerland? I’ve no interest whatsoever in Switzerland.”

“Uh, because we’re best friends?” Newton says. “Anyway, what else would you do?”

“Anything,” Hermann says. He begins to tick off all the possibilities on his fingers while Newton watches him, unimpressed. “I could stay in Hong Kong—I’m sure they’d appreciate help monitoring what remains of the Breach. Or I could move back to England and resume my old teaching post, if they’d have me.” Hermann knows they’d have him; they’ve already sent him at least a dozen emails practically begging him to accept tenure. “Or back to Germany, with my parents.”

“I could totally do all that, too,” Newton says. “Well—not the Germany thing. No offense, dude, but your parents kinda suck. I don’t think I want them as my roommates.”

Hermann decides not to mention that the odds are very high they would not want Newton as a roommate, either. He’s tempted to ask Newton if he meant what he said about them being best friends—for Hermann can’t recall the last time someone called him their best friend, if ever—but Newton’s arm is slipping from his shoulders, and Newton is pulling out his mobile phone and tapping away frantically at it. Hermann feels strangely bereft without his touch. “Okay,” Newton says, his eyes scanning the screen, “Ikea was founded in Sweden, but they moved headquarters in—”

“Excuse me?”

Hermann and Newton both startle, Newton nearly dropping his phone, and the bartender who’d interrupted them smiles apologetically. He’s holding a pint of what appears to be beer. “Sorry to bother you guys,” he says to them, “but this is from the young man over there in the pink shirt.”

At the sight of the drink Newton brightens and puffs out his chest visibly. Bloody perfect, Hermann thinks. Just want Newton needs—another boost to his ego. “No sweat,” Newton says. He tosses his mobile to the bar counter casually and reaches to accept the glass. “Please tell him I’m super flattered, but—”

“Actually, sir,” the bartender interrupts, and—to Hermann’s surprise—slides the glass away from Newton’s grasp and over to Hermann. Hermann takes it without a word, not quite daring to believe it. Down the bar, out of the corner of his eye, he can see the flash of a bright pink shirt, but he can’t quite make himself turn to acknowledge the mystery admirer. Is that rude of him? No one has ever sent him a drink before. He’s not quite sure of the etiquette. “It’s, um, not for you.”

Newton deflates like a popped balloon. A blush spreads across his cheeks, barely visible beneath his freckles, which have come out again in the spring sunlight now that they’re not spending all their time in the Shatterdome basement. Hermann likes the look of them; he thinks they’re sweet, and that if he traced his fingertip across them they’d make a pattern of some sort, like a constellation. Not that he ever would, of course. Newton would surely ridicule him. "Right, duh,” Newton says.

He waits until the bartender is gone to round on Hermann. “Dude!” he says, almost accusatory, “Fourth time this week!”

“It is not,” Hermann protests. It’s weak to his own ears: even he isn’t thick enough to miss the sudden influx of attention he’s gotten since their first television interview last month. Hermann was never exactly popular, never exactly the sort the drive people wild with lust or romantic longing, yet it seems as if he can’t go anywhere these days without turning a few heads (including mid-twentysomething heads, mortifyingly enough) and getting a few cellular numbers slipped into his hand. Yesterday, a young man on the metro asked Hermann if he might like to see a movie some time. The day before that, another man wearing a jean jacket full of enamel pins stepped up to Hermann in a Starbucks and asked him if he could ­call-cu-later. Last week, a starry-eyed college student stopped Hermann outside a hotel to ask him to sign his Calculus 3 textbook, excitedly telling Hermann he switched degrees to astrophysics not a few days prior after reading an interview with Hermann in a rather obscure pop science magazine, and had blushed when Hermann thanked him. Newton had laughed at that one, and advised the young man to give biology a shot instead. (Newton had gotten very cross when he was promptly ignored, and in referencing the incident later, rather bitterly called the student an annoying little punk.)

This is to say nothing, of course, of the multiple news articles (listicles, as Newton calls them) Newton has forced him to read about himself on something called Buzzfeed, which have apparently helped to cement Hermann’s fifteen minutes of fame. One was called Twelve Times Dr. Hermann Gottlieb Was A Fashion Icon and was accompanied with a rather embarrassing array of candid photos of Hermann. Newton has been particularly incensed over that one.

“It is,” Newton says. “At least third. You know, I think the worst part is that you’re not even getting laid. Dudes are throwing themselves at you left and right—”

“Am I meant to go home with any random stranger who shows me the briefest bit of attention?” Hermann snaps. “I like to think I have somewhat higher standards than that.” I’m not like you, he nearly adds, but decides that it might perhaps be too cruel, especially considering that Newton has not gotten a fraction of the attention Hermann has over the past month. He remembers what it used to be like in the Shatterdome, is all; Newton seemed to like anyone who would give him the time of day. Most of his romances didn’t fare well for that reason.

“I’m just saying you could, and you’re not,” Newton says.

Hermann taps his finger against the pint glass, watching bubbles release from the side and rise to the top. When he finally takes a sip, it makes him wrinkle his nose. He’s not usually much for drinking. “I don’t like IPAs,” he says.

“I’ll take it,” Newton says, and the corner of his mouth hitches up in a grin, “as long as your boyfriend won’t get offended.”

Considering that Newton has only just finished following up his two shots with a cocktail, Hermann questions the decision, but slides him the glass anyway. Newton starts on it at once. Hermann wonders if he’ll need to call them a rideshare back to their hotel tonight; he’s not sure he can manage guiding a intoxicated Newton through the streets of the city on foot, especially not after a day that’s been rather unkind on his hip. “Only I suppose I have trouble believing it,” Hermann admits.

“Believing what?” Newton says.

“That they’re genuinely interested,” Hermann says.

To Hermann’s surprise, Newton snorts. “Nah, dude. You’ve got—” He taps Hermann’s chest, and leaves his hand there. “—sex appeal. You’ve got the, like, soulful eyes, and the movie star eyelashes, and the cheekbones and—” He drags his fingertip along Hermann’s jaw, and Hermann masks his sharp flinch in a cough, hoping Newton can’t feel his face heating up. He doesn’t remember if Newton has ever touched his face before. It feels shockingly intimate. “People think it’s super hot.” He takes another sip of Hermann’s drink. "Plus, you’re so—like—uptight. It makes people wonder what you’re bottling up.”

Hermann arches an eyebrow. “Bottling up?”

“In a sexy way,” Newton clarifies.

He settles his hand back on Hermann’s chest. Hermann licks his lips. Has Newton wondered those sorts of things about him, too? “You’ve had—too much to drink,” he says.

“A little bit,” Newton agrees. “I’m right, though. I like this shirt, by the way, it’s a nice cut on you.” He toys with one of the shirt’s buttons, and when he speaks again it’s in a low voice that makes Hermann’s mouth feel strangely dry. Hermann has never heard it from him before. “Wanna go back to the hotel and rent a movie or something?”

He’s peering at Hermann through his eyelashes, smiling in an odd little way. How terribly close they are to each other, Hermann realizes. He can count every tiny scratch in Newton’s eyeglasses, every fleck of gold in his eyes, every freckle on his cheeks. He wonders if Newton really wants to rent a movie; he wonders what Newton would do if Hermann closed the inch between them, and... “I,” Hermann stammers, gaze fixed on Newton’s mouth (stained pinker from his drink), “er, yes, only—only I feel as if I ought to thank the gentleman who sent me—”

At once, Newton drops away from him. His face hardens. His smile hardens, too. “Oh, right. I forgot,” he says. He inclines his head down the bar. “Pink shirt, right?”

Hermann casts his eyes about, searching for the pink-shirted stranger. When he doesn’t immediately spot him, a small bubble of relief swells within him. Perhaps he left, perhaps he decided he’s not interested in Hermann after all, perhaps Hermann is free to go back to the hotel with Newton and watch a film and argue about retirement and… “Oh, there,” Newton says. A man catches Hermann’s eye and waves timidly. He’s wearing a pink button-up.

“Bugger,” Hermann mutters. His admirer is not unattractive—in fact, he’s the opposite, with curly hair and glasses even thicker than Newton’s—which Newton seems to notice, too. He claps Hermann on the shoulder, hard enough that Hermann sways with it.

“He’s totally cute,” Newton says, “and he’s totally into you. You gotta at least get his number.” He takes another large sip of Hermann’s drink. “Better yet, get yourself laid. You could use it.”

Hermann feels the oddest sense of whiplash. Just a minute prior, he was about to kiss Newton (and he was pretty sure Newton was going to kiss him back), and now Newton is practically throwing him at another man. Hermann does not want to get anyone’s phone number—he wants to fall asleep in his stiff hotel bed to some absolutely awful science-fiction movie Newton picks out. “Newton,” he says, “weren’t we going to—?”

“No biggie, we can do movie night tomorrow instead,” Newton says. He nudges Hermann’s calf with the toe of his boot, and holds out his cane to him. Hermann feels his heart begin to sink. “I won’t wait up for you. Just give me a heads up if he wants to go back to our place, and I’ll make sure to stay out longer.”

“I’m sure it’ll only take a moment,” Hermann says. He’ll make sure it only takes a moment.

“No biggie,” Newton repeats. He raises his glass to Hermann in a mock toast. “Good luck!”

When Hermann looks back over his shoulder, halfway to the man in the pink shirt, it’s to see Newton’s stool vacant, and the back of Newton’s leather jacket swishing out the bar doors.

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

The Couch Part Two - Stiles Stilinski x Reader

(gif source)

Summary: Stiles attempts to make amends after forgetting his wedding anniversary plans with y/n.

Word Count: 2391

Warnings: angst, tooth-rotting fluff, and probably three curse words (i know i’m so vulgar)

a/n: hi! here’s the long-awaited part two of The Couch, thank you for being patient with me! if you haven’t read that yet, i’d strongly recommend it. you can find it linked below. i hope you enjoy!

part one | masterlist

“I know, I know. I should’ve let him out there by himself, taught him a lesson or whatever… But, I don’t know… I can’t sleep without him next to me, you know?” y/n tried to explain rather pathetically. Kira sat across from her on the couch, a sympathetic smile on her face as she nodded. y/n rubbed a hand over her face tiredly and sighed. “Thanks for having me over. I needed to get out of my apartment after everything that happened last night,” y/n exhaled. Kira suddenly perked up and sat her wine glass down. Before y/n could ask anything Kira was rummaging around for the TV remote.

“I know what’ll make you feel better,” she grinned.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” y/n chuckled. Kira turned on the TV and after pressing a series of buttons the screen displayed a young Kristen Stewart clinging to a very pale Robert Pattinson. “Oh no, not Twilight,” y/n laughed, shaking her head at Kira.

“Oh yes. You always laugh at the facial expressions the actors make and the supernatural inaccuracy. We’re watching it, you miserable thing,” Kira retorted. y/n rolled her eyes as a small smile spread across her face. An hour into the movie and several laughs later, the girls heard the front door open and Scott slipping off his boots in the connected hallway.

“Hey babe, y/n is here,” Kira called out, only briefly turning away from the screen. Despite her initial reservations, y/n was now completely engrossed in the movie.

“Oh, good,” he called back. His comment caught the attention of both of the girls and y/n turned towards Kira, quirking an eyebrow upwards. Shortly after they heard another set of footsteps and someone murmuring quietly. Kira, having the best view of the hallway from her position on the couch, leaned backwards to see who had entered her home.

“Ahh,” she hummed as she turned to face y/n once again, confusion still painted on her friend’s face. “Your hubby is here,” Kira whispered. y/n pressed her lips into a thin line. Though she could never be upset to see her husband, she was still pretty ticked off about him forgetting about their dinner reservations.

Stiles was slipping off his shoes in the hallway when Kira had called back that y/n was over at the apartment. His blood ran cold for a moment. He knew that he was 100% still in the dog house, y/n had been giving him the silent treatment all day aside from when she said goodbye as she left their apartment far earlier than normal that morning. By the time Stiles and Scott turned the corner and made their way to the living room y/n had turned back to the TV, staring straight ahead and ignoring everything around her. Sensing the tension rolling off of y/n in waves, Scott turned to Kira, making worried eye contact. Nodding in understanding, Kira glanced between the couple and cleared her throat.

“Scott and I are gonna, uh, walk the dog,” Kira rushed out, grabbing Scott’s hand and pulling him out the front door. After the door shut loudly, signally their friends’ departure, a tense silence hung in the air for a few moments. It became clear that y/n had no intention of speaking first so Stiles cleared his throat. Before he could begin y/n began giggling before erupting into full-blown laughter.

“They don’t have a dog. Not as a pet anyways… did she really just call her fiancé a dog?” she wheezed out between giggles. Stiles became slightly alarmed at her drastic switch in mood, but what scared him more was the fact that she still hadn’t looked at him, just like last night. After her laughter had died down to a gentle chuckle he opened his mouth to speak again.

“Can we- can we talk?” he pleaded, a desperate look in his eyes. Another beat of silence passed before y/n gave him a small nod before turning around to finally look at him. Despite the solid night of sleep he had with y/n in his arms, Stiles had bags under his eyes and worry lines etched across his face from the immense guilt he was feeling. y/n again found herself pitying him despite everything within her that told her not to. Damn his stupid puppy dog eyes.

“I just- I’m, I- Jesus, y/n, I’m so sorry,” Stiles croaked out. y/n swallowed thickly as she watched him silently. She hated seeing him upset and right now he looked like he was about to break down. “I would never, never, have stood you up on purpose. I’ve been beating myself up since the moment I got home last night,” he paused to take a breath and before he could begin again y/n spoke quietly.

“I know,” she murmured, meeting his watery eyes. She cleared her throat before she continued. “I know that you wouldn’t have done it on purpose. I know you’re so mad at yourself that you can’t think straight. I know you’re probably hurting more than me. I know you care so much that you feel like your heart is going to burst. I know you,” she finished, a few tears of her own brimming in her eyes by the end. Stiles let out a shaky breathe as y/n held out her hand. He quickly but gently grabbed it as if she would disappear at any moment.

“I will make this up to you, I promise,” he whispered as he stepped closer to her. A small smile grew on y/n’s face as she nodded and stood up from the couch.

“I know you will,” she said quietly before stepping in front of him and wrapping her arms around his waist. Stiles was momentarily shocked, still slightly in a daze from the fact that she was willing to hold his hand. When he snapped out of it, he pulled her close against him with one arm around her waist and a hand resting gently on her head as he placed a soft kiss against her hair. Stiles squeezed her tight once more before he whispered a soft but firm “I love you” into y/n’s ear. She smiled warmly against his chest before pulling back and looking up into his eyes.

“I love you too,”

After Stiles and y/n had left Kira and Scott’s place (“Thanks for giving me my apartment back, buddy,” Scott jabbed as Stiles passed on his way out.) they drove home in their separate cars. On the drive over Stiles had been formulating a plan in his mind, so the moment they pulled into their side-by-side parking spaces, Stiles ran around to open y/n’s door for her. Before she could tease him with her typical “what a gentleman” comment he began talking with a wildly excited look in his eyes.

“Go get dressed into that sexy dress from last night, I’m taking you out. I’ll be back in an hour” he rushed out before pecking her lips. He walked her up to their front door before spinning around on his heel and jogging back to their car. He had a lot to get done in one hour.

By the time Stiles returned to his and y/n’s apartment it had been exactly 57 minutes since he left. Though he had broken a sweat earlier from all his rushing around, he decided it would be even worse than it had been last night if he showed up late for their do-over. When he unlocked the front door with a large bouquet of red roses in hand, he heard music coming from their shared bedroom.

“I’m home!” he called out, just barely audible over the music. Stiles heard y/n knock something over and let out a string of expletives. He chuckled quietly to himself before she responded.

“Okay, I’ll be out in a few minutes!” she shouted over the sound of her hair dryer blowing.

“No rush, baby,” Stiles replied as he turned to the mirror in the hallway. He’d cleaned up pretty decently considering he’d changed into the clothes he’d packed for last night and fixed his hair in the grocery store bathroom. When he heard the same floorboard from last night creak under y/n’s shoe he turned to look at her. She looked absolutely gorgeous. She was wearing just a little bit of makeup, not that she needed it, and she’d styled her hair into delicate curls that framed her face beautifully. When Stiles saw her dress he mentally kicked himself for the umpteenth time that day, this time for missing out on the chance to see his wife all dressed up last night. The red silk hugged her body just right, perfectly accentuating all of her features. Stiles’ mouth practically started watering as his eyes traced the slit in her dress that reached from her ankle to her mid-thigh. He finally looked up to meet her eyes and his face broke out into a big grin.

“You look so beautiful, baby,” he said lovingly as his eyes wandered up and down her figure once more. y/n giggled quietly to herself.

“I do try,” she replied sarcastically, a smile of her own making its way across her face as she took in her husband’s appearance and the fresh roses in his hand. He stood tall and he looked damn good. His work clothes had long since been abandoned, probably sitting in a crumpled pile in the back of his jeep. He wore a nice pair of black dress slacks, his derby shoes, a pressed maroon button up shirt, and a light grey tie. y/n’s black stilettos made clicking noises on the hardwood floors as she made her way over to him. She stood in front of him, giving him a short but sweet kiss before she began adjusting his tie. He watched as she worked, taking in the way the light bounced off of his mom’s wedding ring that now sat on her finger. Just as she finished, Stiles placed the roses on the nearby table and placed both hands on either side of her face as he pulled her towards him for a passionate kiss. When they finally broke apart to breathe Stiles rested his forehead against y/n’s.

“My mom would have loved you,” he murmured against her lips. Tears began to well in y/n’s eyes before she blinked them away. After the sweet moment was over y/n playfully swatted her husband’s chest.

“Ugh, Stiles, you can’t make me cry, my mascara is too expensive for that shit,” she said, mostly sarcastically. Stiles laughed before kissing her once more and grabbing her hand.

“To Roscoe we go!” he announced while pulling her out the door and holding her purse, jeep keys dangling precariously from the fingers of his same hand. y/n shook her head at Stiles’s antics while smiling.

After driving along the quiet road that threaded through the preserve for a good ten minutes Stiles pulled the jeep off to the side of the road. As much as y/n loved the preserve, she wasn’t too thrilled considering she wasn’t exactly in the proper attire.

“Babe, you know I love it here, but how the hell am I going to trudge through the forest in these stilettos?” she asked as she glanced at him sideways from the passenger seat. He hummed quietly to himself, pretending as though he hadn’t thought of that. He hopped out of his seat and ran around to the passenger’s side door to help her out. 

“Who said anything about walking?” he smirked while holding her hand as she carefully stepped out. Slightly confused and a little frustrated now, y/n began to speak again.

“Stiles, what are you-” she started to ask before squealing as he swept her off her feet to hold her bridal style. y/n started laughing as she squirmed in his hold. “Stiles! Put me down!” she giggled. Stiles rolled his eyes sarcastically before complying.

“Only because you asked nicely,” he carefully set her down on the leaf-covered soil before heading around to the back of the jeep. He pulled out a pair of sneakers he’d stolen from y/n’s closet and a picnic basket. They set out into the preserve after y/n had changed her shoes and walked for a few moments before reaching the cliff that overlooked Beacon Hills. y/n looked at the distant horizon, mesmerized as the sun began to set. 

While she was distracted Stiles began to pull apart the picnic basket, laying out a blanket and placing the food down on top. When y/n turned around she gasped, taking in the elaborate display behind her. The red hues on the blanket reminded her of the multitude of Stiles’s flannels that she’d stolen over the years and the candles he’d lit brought out the gold flecks in his eyes. Her eyes began to water again (for at least the third time that night) as she approached Stiles and sat down carefully on the blanket. She was sure they looked a little ridiculous, two twenty-somethings dressed to the nines in the middle of the woods having a picnic, but she couldn’t have cared less. The aroma of the food filled the air as Stiles opened up the boxes, causing y/n to moan quietly at the intoxicating smell. On further inspection, she noticed that the boxes had some printed writing on the side. 

“Is this… is this food from the new restaurant downtown?” she asked with disbelief. Stiles grinned proudly and nodded as he gestured to the food in front of him.

“Autentico!” he exclaimed in a terrible Italian accent. y/n giggled before launching herself at him, pulling him in for a bone crushing hug, being careful to avoid getting her dress in the food or candle flames. She pulled back a little after a moment, holding the back of his head as she pressed her lips against his. 

“I love you so much,” she murmured against his lazy grin.

“I love you more, baby. Happy anniversary,” he replied, pressing soft kisses down her jaw in between each word.

“Happy anniversary, Mieczyslaw.”

taglist: @linkpk88​ 

[pollenat]

RED VELVET and The first kiss

IRENE

For Joohyun everything needed to go according to plan, or in proper time. You were a bit different in the matter, always eager to try things with her, and disappointed whenever she told you “no” because either the timing, or the place wasn’t right. As much as you understood her desire to experience perfection, you couldn’t see how she didn’t appreciate the beauty of going with the flow.

“So, you’re going out for a while now, but haven’t kissed yet?” asked you Seungwan. But you defended Joohyun, because there was nothing wrong with waiting. If she wasn’t ready, then who were you to judge her? Sure, the waiting made you worried. Maybe she didn’t want to kiss you at all? Just wasn’t sure how to tell you? She had a good heart.

“I mean, she doesn’t have to. It’s okay.” but then at nights you’d find yourself lying wide awake, wondering how velvety Joohyun’s lips were. And how wrong it was of you to expect that of her. But you needed to ask her whether something about you was wrong in her opinion.

“What do you mean wrong?” She was lying next to you, your arms embracing one another, legs entangled, heads pressed close. That was, until she rolled on top of you to have a very good look at your face.

“Nothing! I mean, you don’t have to answer. I shouldn’t have listened to Seungwan. That was a dumb question.”

Joohyun didn’t ignore it, as you were hoping, and instead placed a hand on your cheek to stop you from turning away.

“Did I say something hurtful?”

“Oh, no!” but she kept pressing. “No, seriously. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t be bothering you with that.”

“(y/n), we’re dating. You have to bother me with things.”

“Uh, so we are a couple?”

“Yes?” Her giggle made you fall deeper into the couch. “What else did you think we were?”

Suddenly aware of the closeness, the warmth of her breath, the touch of her cheeks, the smell of her perfume, and the gaze of her eyes, you had to join her laughter. It felt surreal... And perfect. But you weren’t going to make a move.

“What are you doing?” Her small frame pulled itself closer, just so she was hanging above you, faces centimetres apart.

“If I kiss you, will you finally acknowledge that we’re dating?”

“W-what?” But once again, she giggled. And then she closed the distance.

It was short and sweet. Her mouth closed on your upper lip, sucking it delicately. Her breath escaping the crack, warming your flesh, and filling your lungs with the sweetest air you could’ve ever tasted. Joohyun made a noise, something between a sigh, and a moan. Then her thumb swiped down your cheek in a petting manner, to keep you close when her lips distanced themselves from yours. But you registered none of that, too surprised by the sudden kiss. You needed to try it again, sure that this new feeling you just tried was the one you could, no, had to get used to.

SEULGI

She loved fresh cinnamon buns. You couldn’t blame her. They were everything and more, but maybe the way Seulgi reacted to the sweetness made you slightly biased in the topic.

Whenever you saw a bakery with freshly baked treats on display, you’d step inside and buy one for her. Then, in the evening, you’d go to her apartment, happy to have a reason behind your visit. Seulgi never questioned your motives. Just the sight of the gift you brought her made her spiral into a hole of voiced happiness. Sometimes she argued, defending herself with a diet, but you answered that she didn’t need one. To you, she was perfect the way she was, and if cinnamon buns brought her happiness, then who were you to stop her from achieving the state?

“(y/n).” her voice made you look up. You were sitting by a table, the two of you alone in a small cafe.

Both of the coffee cups stood empty on your respective sides, but a plate with a singular cinnamon bun rested in the very centre, waiting to be eaten.

“Yes?” you expected her to be finished already.

“Why don’t you ever buy two buns instead of one?” She seemed genuinely curious. The question must’ve been eating away at her for quite some time.

“Oh.” Your eyes met barista’s before he turned around to walk out of the main room. “I suppose I just want to gift it to you, since you like it so much.”

“Well, yeah. But you could be spending your money on something worth it.”

“Well, I think you’re worth it.” The sentence made your face heat up, and you had to look down at the black screen of your phone. In its reflection, Seulgi did the same move. Two seconds later she looked at you again, her gaze so warm, you felt the temperature rising even more.

Awaiting the inevitable, which could only mean conversation, you busied yourself with the lacy tablecloth. You weren’t sure what else to tell her, but you hoped she understood what you meant. A minute passed. Then she sat straighter in her seat.

“Here.” Seulgi struggled with the bun, doing her best to cut it using a small fork.

After an awkward moment of just staring at her, you were surprised to see her hand extended in a feeding offer. You couldn’t decline. Shyly, you opened mouth, but Seulgi missed it, and ended up smearing the icing on your lips.

She didn’t apologize, just smiled, her ears pink from embarrassment.

“Oh, don’t worry about that-” Next thing you knew, she was leaning above the table, her mouth touching yours.

Sure, both of you were stiff, and the position wasn’t exactly comfortable either - you were sitting while her thighs pressed at the other end of a table. Still, you couldn’t pull away just like that. After what felt like eternity (or a second?), your lips moved giving the kiss (?) a living force. Seulgi followed your lead for a longer while, her right hand resting gingerly under your jawbone to delicately press you closer. Then you felt something wet in the counter of your lips - her tongue. But she didn’t want to enter your mouth, just clean the mess she made earlier. It was slow, and extremely gentle. All of sudden she pulled away, her face surprised, cheeks red, lips shiny.

“Y-you had something on your lips.”

WENDY

“You should just tell her.” told you Seulgi, irritated by the blurred lines between her two friends. “She won’t make a move herself. I know her!”

“I mean.” You looked at Seungwan sitting by herself, phone in hand, an empty bottle of lemonade abandoned on the floor. “What if she doesn’t want me to make a move?”

You had the right to feel doubt. After all, there were feelings involved, and one should not play with them. No matter what Seulgi heard, it wasn’t meant to reach your ears. And she might have changed her mind? What then? What if you tell her, and Seungwan looks at you shyly, and announces that you weren’t the owner of the name she was talking about? That was sure to break your heart.

Seulgi sighed, for what felt like the hundredth time that night. You knew she was also tired of walking in circles with that conversation, but doubt was inevitable. Your friend didn’t have to worry about things like that at the moment.

“Even if she did mean it.” You made a point to nod in Seungwan’s direction. “What if-”

“(y/n).” A hand stopped you mid-sentence. “Just talk to her. Or kiss her. Or- whatever. Just do something about it!”

Seulgi turned around, visibly uncomfortable with the new demanding role she has taken on. But even you knew that she had only your best interest on her mind. With a glance down at your drink, you told yourself it’s okay. If things went terrible, you’d blame it all on intoxication. Even if that wasn’t the best way to go.

“Hey.” Seungwan looked up, clearly surprised you decided to join her. “Hey.”

“So-” Her eyebrows rose when you (very awkwardly, mind you), sat a little too close to her. Or maybe not close enough. “Yeah?”

“Okay, I’m gonna make this awkward, and just get it over with.” A little look to the side, to evade Seulgi’s questioning look, and you turned once again to look Seungwan in the eye. “Wanna make out?” Wow, very romantic of you.

“Sorry?” She laughed.

“In my language Wanna make out stands for I think you’re really pretty, and we get along so well, and I might have a big crush on you, and it would be great if you felt the same, and in case you do, can I kiss you.”

“Wow.” Yeah. That was disastrous. “Umm, okay?” Huh, nevermind.

Seungwan sat straighter, her hands quickly reaching up to fix her hair. At that moment you felt like telling her that there was no need to, you were going to mess it up either way. But her eyes looked at you with such confidence, you knew she wanted that too. You just had to grab her cheeks. Unsure where to rest, your fingers splayed down her neck, molding into the curves of her head, matching them like missing puzzles. One of her own hands grabbed your elbow, but not to stop you - to support you.

“Actually, I didn’t expect to get that far.”

“What?” Her head turned slightly in your grip. “So you don’t have a plan on how to do it?”

“Well, you see, I expected you to say no, because I’m drunk, but I’m not actually drunk. I wanted to blame alcohol to salvage our friendship.”

“But you do want to kiss me?”

“Of course!”

“Then just do it. If you’re not drunk, and I’m not drunk, and we both want it, what’s stopping us?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Just as she closed her eyes when you leaned forward, you stopped. “That’s why you’re my favorite person in the world.”

Seungwan’s eyes opened at your confession, and you were sure she was going to scold you, but any words of complaint were silenced by your lips. She felt stiff at first, but as you kept her close, she relaxed, eventually resting the other hand on your face. It felt comfortable. So much that you spent quite some time molding your lips, and then remolding them in different angles. Whenever one was about to lose touch, the other one pressed forward to keep the spark going. Your fingers traveled up and down her neck, massaging it, pulling it gently. And when you couldn’t hold on any longer, you hid your face in her neck, intoxicated in a way that felt right.

JOY

To you there was nothing more beautiful than the sight of Sooyoung, as she did what she loved the most - sang. She’d often smile to herself while doing so, and pat her knees to show pure excitement. Whenever she caught you staring, she’d giggle shyly, then cover her face. But earlier or later, she always returned to singing.

“Look! I almost got 100!” Sooyoung jumped out of her seat to point at the screen. “If you hadn’t distracted me, I would have scored perfectly!”

“How is that my fault?” Her hand punched you gently. “Shouldn’t you be used to people staring?”

She showed you her tongue, nails scratching the leather couch. In different conditions, and to others she might’ve seemed like a tall and confident woman, but that was the serious Sooyoung. At that moment she was the exact opposite - the real thing. Small, and shy, closing in on herself, but eager to share the building excitement.

“It’s just- No, I want to sing something else. Wait, isn’t it your turn now?” Her attempts at changing the subject were adorable.

“You can take my turn, I’m not that good at it anyway.”

“Don’t sell yourself short!” Sooyoung moved to sit closer to you. If you could, you’d have told her to go back to her seat, because this close proximity was no good to your heart. “You’ve got good scores. I’m just trained.”

“Yeah, just. You’ve got a wonderful voice. I know someone talented when I hear them. No need for me to mess up the sounds.” Your words made her laugh shyly, her body bending in half so she hid her face in your arm. “And acting all humble.”

“You’re complimenting me too much!”

“Now, that’s impossible.”

Without thinking, you grabbed her hand to pull her up. And then didn’t let go. She didn’t show any signs of discomfort, just moved her face, so it was now by your shoulder.

“Are you going to sing then?”

“I’d rather do something else.” The way she said that made you freeze.

Unsure whether it was just your ears playing tricks on you, your head turned. Sooyoung’s grip on one of your hands remained, but the other arm sneaked behind your back, and rested there. In the possibly best meaning imaginable - you were caged. Was it the moment you were waiting for?

A single look at her face, and the confident smile disappeared to show hesitance. She must’ve felt just as surprised by her bold actions. Leaning down, you whispered “Cute.”, and watched her shrink in size from embarrassment. When you realized that she was distancing herself, you stopped, panicked. Sooyoung did as well, only then realizing her moves, and pushed herself to a better position. Both of you ended up sitting straight. You watched her eyelashes flutter, so mesmerized, you didn’t notice her closing the distance.

Plush on plush. Nose on nose. Chin on chin.

Your hands lost contact, hers resting on your thigh, yours in her hair. It felt as if you were used to it, moves so fluid, you didn’t believe in them. The fruity smell of her locks joined the artificial taste of her lipstick, as her moves turned quicker. The flesh turned difficult to catch. Her weight was pushing you back on the couch, but just as you fell, your lips lost connection.

Sooyoung didn’t follow, suddenly wide awake. The trance was over. She could only retreat in embarrassment, but the redness of her face told you more than enough - she wanted to continue.

YERI

You were unsure about your situation with Yerim. Gravitating between friendship and something else, joking around, and flirting, embracing one another, and holding hands. She was so confusing, she made you go crazy. One day she was telling you how amazing you were, another one she had a crush on someone else, and needed to tell you. Even Sooyoung couldn’t catch up, her eyes always sorry when she wasn’t able to decipher her friend’s behavior.

“Hey, what’s up with you?” Yerim’s mouth was hanging open, ground popcorn peeking at you from behind her teeth. When she realized, she quickly closed her mouth. “You’re so off today.”

Taking a look down at the pack in her hand, she reached for some snacks, and threw them at you. Her laughter followed, but you weren’t in the mood.

“Nah. I just realized that you never told me how your date with that arcade cutie went.” Changing the topic was both a way to escape explanations, and to learn more about her feelings.

“Oh.” She stood in place for a moment, surprise quickly covered by a look of indifference. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be. Nothing happened. No spark. No fun. Nada.”

With a practiced sigh, you looked away. You were neither happy, nor sad. If anything, lost. Were you supposed to comfort her? She didn’t seem distraught. From where you stood, she looked fine.

“I’m sorry.” you decided. Yerim gave you a forced smile. One you couldn’t decipher, like always. The unfinished pack of popcorn landed in a trash can.

“Whatever.” She took the lead, but then slowed down to speak. “What about that girl?” The one you once brought up to hopefully make your friend jealous. There was no point in continuing the play.

“Moved on.” Yeah, that was dumb from the very beginning.

“So what? Now you have nobody you’re interested in?”

You gave her a look, one she didn’t comment. She never did. But her stare spoke curious, and you wondered whether it was the right moment to make a move.

“Oh, they closed our ice cream stand.” The moment passed. Maybe you should’ve just given up. Ask someone else out for real.

The wind blew, its force brutal, and freezing. You stiffened from cold, but Yerim quickly found shelter by your side. She pulled your arm to embrace her, then leaned closer. There was no sign of shyness on her side. She was comfortable doing that. Maybe too comfortable.

“Sucks. It’s too cold for ice cream anyway.” Warmed by her closeness, you dared a look at her face. She met your eyes, and without any extra effort locked your stare on her only.

A moment passed. And just like that, she grabbed your face, kissed you on the lips, and returned to her first position.

“Sooyoung told me.”

“What?”

“That you like me.”

Yerim gave you a moment to process everything, and when your gaze returned to her, she kissed you again. And once more. And many times more. So many that you completely forgot about the terrible weather.

➛ pollenat’s list of reactions

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[harryandmolly]

fear and loathing in mandeville canyon *1*

summary: Shawn & Lilly, derailed, detoured, but maybe not destroyed

warnings: language, big angst but with a purpose

wc: 5k

+

July 2019

Lilly’s fingers are sunk into the curls at the back of his head, perhaps subconsciously clinging to something already lost. Maybe something she never even had.

His kiss is so brief. It’s a flutter against her lips, followed by a jerk of his head that’s so certain in expressing his desire to be away from her that he may as well have already said it. He steps back, the corners of his lips lifting, soft and timid.

Lilly’s fingers fall. He doesn’t catch them.

“No,” she whispers. Her chin starts to go first. She’s like a cartoon character when she cries. Her chin begins to wobble, then her pillowy lips. Her round cheeks get rounder. Her blue eyes go an eerie sort of green.

She’s watched it happen before, in mirrors when she’s alone. He’s seen it, too. But never from so very, very far away.

“I don’t…” she begins, her voice a painful rake across its cords, “I didn’t know.”

He’s appropriately solemn in that horrible way that feels schooled, like he practiced, like he’s getting through it to get through it. He hunches his broad shoulders, bows his head a little like he’s sorry. God, is he even sorry?

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and holy fuck, no one’s voice has ever hurt so much. She wants to rip it away from him, maybe that would cause him as much pain.

Her numbing fingers cup her arms across her chest, guarding her explosive heart. She can’t even look at him now. She used to think he wanted her to look at him. Did he ever?

“I don’t really know what to say,” he confesses, scrubbing at the back of his neck, keeping his eyes down at his shoes, “I never wanted to hurt you. I didn’t think she was ever going to want me.”

Lilly’s back hits the wall and it gets his attention. He blinks up at her, startled, then snaps back into well-trodden guilt.

He doesn’t have to tell her who he means. Anyone who was half paying attention could do that. Because even though he’s the one breaking her heart, she still gets to be called the fool who let him.

“I trusted you,” she breathes, and it’s acid, “When you looked at me, when you held me, when you loved me, when you told me it was me, I fucking trusted you.”

He looks somehow hurt now, like she’s hitting below the belt. Because how dare she question the farce he strung her along for, for his own erstwhile entertainment?

“Don’t do this,” he scolds, shaking his head like he’s the one who’s disappointed.

She is all rage, and it’s bliss. It’s jet fuel and it won’t last her and somewhere buried below the molten spite she knows when she inevitably burns through it, she’ll be just whatever’s left, but it has to ignite, it has to go somewhere.

“All this time, it was always her,” she seethes, dropping her head back against the wall because if she doesn’t anchor herself, she might take a running start at him, “Was it ever, even for a second, was it ever me?”

His heavy eyes drift shut. He looks exhausted. Lying is fucking draining.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, and Lilly believes him. She shakes her head.

“You stupid boy,” she spits, watching as his eyes slam open again, offended, “You stupid fucking child.”

“Stop,” he grunts, defensive again. It’s a red flag to a bull.

She lifts off the wall, fists in her hair. “You had me so fooled. I thought you were so mature. God, you wore it well. The way you talk about your music and your family and your future. I thought you were a goddamn adult. No. You’re not. You’re a child.”

“You sound insane!” he cries, squaring off his perfect jaw.

“You’ve been waiting around for years. What do you think? You get a Calvin Klein campaign,” He scoffs and takes off toward the door, but she follows, “And now she’s suddenly paying attention, but whatever, it must be real? This is it? She’s finally yours? So fucking naive.”

He slams a solid fist against the doorframe. “You don’t know! You don’t know shit about us. Stop talking like you know anything. You’re fucking jealous.”

“Jealous!” she screeches, clutching her chest with both hands, choking on every breath, “Of course I’m fucking jealous! Were you waiting to hear me say that? Of course I’m jealous. Because I’m in love with you! While you had one eye on her and one hand on me, I was in this. I was all in. I love you. I love you! And you love her!”

For no good reason at all, saying it out loud knocks out the ignition. She nearly crumples. With an almost theatrically shuddering breath, she steps back.

He stares at her, bewildered. What could he possibly have expected? Did he really think she wasn’t going to remind him? Worse, did he really think maybe she was lying, too?

Lilly shakes her head, slow and deliberate, pressing a rolled up sweaterpaw to one of her gushing eyes. She is cracking apart. Part of her wants him to go so she can do it alone. The spiteful part wants him to watch what he’s done.

Lilly wonders if she’s waiting for him. She wonders where. At her place? At a hotel? Maybe she’s in a Lyft outside Lilly’s house. She almost wants to check. She manages to keep her feet planted because Camila Cabello is not worth life in prison.

“I just want you to know,” Lilly begins, and her voice is as painful coming out as it is to hear it, “That I really want to hate you. And that should mean something to you. I can’t hate you yet, but I cannot wait for that to kick in. Until then, I’m stuck with loving you. But know when you’re falling asleep with her tonight, brushing your lips against her hair, playing with her fingers, know that I love you, but I want nothing more than to hate you.”

Finally, the guilt looks real. Finally, the shock has his own breath shaking. Finally, she managed to set one little fire from the sparks of her blaze.

He leaves without another word. And she’s left with the wreckage.

+

March 27, 2020

Lilly used to read creepy stories on the internet. It was one of her many fads. She’d hunt through Reddit and Buzzfeed and Tumblr, trolling for words that made her skin crawl. There was a post once somewhere about the world’s shortest scary stories. 

The last man on earth sat alone in a room. Then came a knock at the door.

She’s been preoccupied by that one lately, but she’s unsure why. Maybe it’s because she’d rather be alone right now instead of holed up with seven roommates. Maybe it’s because she’s grateful not to be alone.

The stay-at-home order in Los Angeles has been in place for eight days. Lilly’s been home for ten, when production on her series shut down. No production, no need for a freelance PA. That night, she held her breath and applied for unemployment just like six million other Americans.

She’s gone a bit nocturnal, staying up until 2 or 3am and waking up around noon. She does yoga, paints her nails, washes her hair every day, which makes it brittle and dull. She re-paints her nails, then bites them off while she checks Twitter.

She talks to her mom, who agonizes about the choice to keep Lilly in LA though she and Lilly’s dad would so much rather have her home and close. Lilly’s mom has a respiratory condition that makes her immunocompromised. If she goes home, she risks her mother’s health. She can’t bear the burden.

She talks to her friends and coworkers. Everyone is still in a state of shock for the first week -- scared, anxious, not yet angry. The anger will come later. Lilly understands in her own much smaller way the convoluted route anger takes through fear and numbness. That anger that’s taken a merciful backseat in her mind in recent months feels completely unimportant now, when it crosses her mind at all.

She talks to herself a little, too. It’s not unusual for her, exactly -- being an only child, sometimes it was the only way to make conversation growing up. But more and more as she attempts to self-isolate in her basement bedroom, avoiding her roommates with more fervor than usual, she worries about her growing dependence on it.

When the knock at her door comes, she’s mid-sentence, telling herself putting on the leggings is the hardest part of a workout, and she should just fucking do it and--

It’s two short raps at the door leading to the pool deck. The scary short story flashes behind her eyes as she blinks quickly, startled by interaction from the outside world.

She waits a few beats too long before she goes to the door, pausing with her fingers on the handle. She decides to believe it’s one of her roommates that got locked out upstairs, even if somewhere deeper she knows it’s not.

He had backed up off her little porch after knocking. Lilly’s not sure if it was out of a respect for social distancing or a concern that she might take a swipe at him. Either way, smart move.

Words seem superfluous. Lilly prides herself on a sharp, well-delivered line, but combing through the tangles of her brain, she has nothing. And she’s disappointed to discover the clawing in her throat and the increase in her heart rate that indicate if she tries to talk now, she might just start crying.

“I’m sorry. I know I should’ve called.”

He says it like he definitely thought about it and decided not to. She probably wouldn’t have answered. He once knew her well enough to know that.

She continues staring, wrapping her arms over her chest. He lifts a hand into his shaggy curls, longer than she’s seen on him before, but not totally unkempt. She can’t say the same about his facial hair.

“I needed to talk to you,” he continues. He’s doing the thing where he ducks his head and looks up through his lashes to be sweet and non-threatening.

Ever heard of a phone?

Funny, you haven’t needed to talk to me in nine fucking months.

Nothing feels right, so her jaw stays locked. She continues staring.

“I don’t want to come in, I just got off a plane--” he starts, and she finds her voice.

“Did it look like I was about to invite you in?”

He blinks hard and shifts on his feet. “N-no, I mean, I didn’t mean it like that, I just--”

“Shawn, I have no idea what you think you’re doing here, but you need to say it quickly before I walk straight into the deep end and sink like a rock just to get out of this conversation.”

His pretty lips part. He exhales sharply. After a moment, he squares his shoulders and jaw and she almost has to look away because he’s staring straight into her and it makes her squirm.

“I made a mistake, Lilly.”

Lilly gives him one long, wary glance. She turns away, steps inside, and shuts the door.

+

Shawn bounds up to the door and watches, confused, as she draws back the curtains and lifts the light filtering blinds. A pane of glass sits between them.

“What are you doing?” he calls through to her.

“Social distancing,” she snaps, cocking her head and pursing her lips. He rakes a hand through his hair.

“Please come out,” he requests, dropping a heavy hand to the wooden frame of the door. She jumps a little.

“I don’t need to, I can hear you from in here.”

He goes from warm and sheepish to annoyed quickly. “What, are you scared of me?”

“Yes,” she says immediately, so honestly. He flinches and stares at her.

“You just got off a plane from Miami, you’re probably one big walking coronavirus.”

Shawn wets his lips and lifts a shoulder. “I didn’t come from Miami, I came from Toronto.”

Lilly’s ire is interrupted by her confusion. She knows he was in Miami with her. The paparazzi were at her house the day after they got there. Lilly doesn’t avoid the pictures like the plague anymore. They don’t cause insane, uncontrollable crying jags anymore.

He no longer has that kind of power.

“You went home?” she asks.

“Last week,” he reports with a nod, propping himself up with his hands on either side of her door. She thinks maybe he got taller. It’s unimaginable.

Lilly will not ask. He seems to have come here to tell her, so she’s not sure how much point there is in her not asking but a scraping in her gut tells her to cling to her pride.

He drops his head. His hair looks greasy. He exhales in a huff.

“What, Shawn?” she prods, voice raspy but harsh.

He lifts his head like it’s extra heavy. “I ended it.”

Lilly shuts her eyes. She hates every piece of this feeling, even hates that she can name them all, sort them alphabetically, can imagine putting them in little baskets like she’s been doing since last summer. She thought she was done with that. Why is he doing this?

She drops her forehead to the glass door and then springs off it just as fast, fisting a hand in her hair. It’s too close.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” she hears herself pant, maybe more to herself than him, “Shawn, what the fuck?”

“I don’t know,” he pleads, eyes wide and lost, “I just really needed-- fuck, I wanted… Lilly, I missed you. I just… wanted to see you.”

She presses her hands together in front of her lips like she’s praying for patience. “You… Jesus Christ, you have to see how crazy this is. I… Shawn, it’s been nine months. And… and you left me.”

The wrinkle in his brow deepens. He was expecting that. He cocks his head slightly and looks pained. “I know. I’m… I still wanted to talk to you after. I just didn’t know how.”

Lilly’s eye roll is so epic she feels the tectonic plates beneath them shift. “It’s hard to be friends with the woman whose heart you broke, I guess.”

Again, he looks wounded. He plays it off better now than he did during the actual breakup. Or until her final parting words, at which he did look genuinely hurt. It was her only consolation.

“I’m so sorry. You have no idea--”

“I have no idea how sorry you are?!” she finishes for him, jerking back to life, her voice reaching a dangerous pitch. Shawn squares his jaw to take it.

“You know normal people get to just unfollow, block, whatever, and they can hide from the person that dumped them and their new relationship? There was no hiding from you two. Especially when you made fucking zero effort to be modest at all. Shawn, I could not escape it. So how sorry you are is nothing compared to how sorry I am.”

Shawn’s hands slide off the door. He takes a little step back, but refuses to drop his eyes. Lilly stares, swallows hard, and looks away when it becomes too much.

“I wanted…” he starts, clears his throat, “Wanted to see how you are. If you need anything. I know, I mean, I remembered your mom has that respiratory thing so you can’t go home.”

Somehow hearing it out loud, maybe hearing it from him, puts her over the edge. Two hot, fast tears trickle down her cheeks. Shawn looks startled, then stricken.

“Is she ok?”

Lilly, embarrassed and angry, goes magenta and swipes at her face with sweaterpaws. “She’s fine. It’s fine. I don’t know why I’m-- It’s ok.”

Shawn still looks concerned. He shoves his hands in his front pockets. “And your roommates? Is everyone ok?”

If she had any sense at all, any hope of self-preservation, she’d lie through her teeth. He wouldn’t know the goddamn difference. But he knocked out her ability to reason when he brought up her mom.

“Casey is sick,” she croaks, bringing her palms up over her eyes. She shakes her head, “We don’t-- I mean, she can’t get a fucking test. Mae is staying with us and living with her in her room, taking care of her.”

Shawn looks horrified and half ready to come through the glass at a run. “Lilly, you can’t stay here.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” she snaps.

He searches desperately for an answer in the cool, muggy air around him. It’ll rain again soon. Another thing for Lilly to cry about.

“With me!” he finally spits, his eyes lighting up, “My place in Toronto. You can, I mean, the guest bedroom--”

“Shawn, no,” she grunts, “I’m not doing that. That’s… what? No.”

The idea of holing up with Shawn in his lavish but small two-bedroom condo is the kind of vision that would’ve made her knees weak a year ago. She would’ve killed for this kind of time. Now, she honestly can’t believe she’s hearing him suggest it.

Shawn seems to go back to the mental drawing board. Lilly continues shaking her head and sniffling, ready to reject any idea he comes up with.

“What if we stayed here? Like at a hotel or something?”

“I’m not staying with you at a hotel for several reasons.”

He starts to look a little frustrated, and it’s oddly gratifying. Lilly crosses her arms.

“Ok, a house. I’ll rent a fucking house. Lill, please. I know you hate me. I totally don’t blame you. Please let me do something good for the first time in a fucking year. Please. Let me do this for you.”

Her teeth come together sharply when he uses her nickname. He doesn’t seem to notice.

She shakes her head for what feels like five minutes. “I really don’t know what to do. The fact that I’m even considering this doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

It’s the boost he needed to let the tension in his shoulders drop. He tilts his head and watches her tenderly as she roils inside.

“Are you as scared as I am?”

Lilly blinks and looks up at him. With a deep sigh, she releases the anger she grabbed onto, the anger she’d stowed months ago, the anger she picked back up as soon as she found him on her back porch. It’s not permanently gone. She knows better than to imagine that. It leaves exhaustion in its wake.

“Yeah. I am,” she admits, swallowing harshly. She drops to the tile floor and watches as he slowly, carefully lowers himself to prop against the other side of the glass door.

He looks different. There are new tattoos she knows about -- the stories behind them, she doesn’t. He’s wearing his hair longer on the back and sides. She thinks she likes it that way. He has a pimple, probably from stress, on the right side of his forehead. And he’s staring at her like he knows her inside and out. She shifts uncomfortably against her side of the glass.

“I replay that night over and over again in my head all the time,” he admits, squinting toward where the sun halos the banana trees at the far end of her yard, “I can’t fucking believe I treated you like that.”

Lilly sighs again, heavy-hearted. “Shawn, if this is something you think I need to hear, you should just go because I’ve dealt with it. It’s over. I’m… I’m not mad at you anymore. I don’t want to be. And if you’re here to deal with your guilt then honestly I think that’s selfish.”

Shawn sniffs and nods slowly. “It is selfish. I am selfish. I was selfish then and I’m probably being selfish now but all I want is to make sure you’re safe. I came here to apologize. I don’t know what I wanted out of that, I don’t know what I expected. But now I can’t leave without knowing you’re going to be safe.”

He looks as sincere as she’s ever seen him. It’s like an out-of-body experience. Just an hour ago she would’ve bet serious money on never seeing him in person again.

She shoves her head into her hands between her knees. She groans, “I’ve probably already been exposed to it. I could get you sick.”

“I’ve been on three planes in the last two and a half weeks, I’ve almost definitely been exposed, too. But at least in a big house with space we can really self-quarantine without you dealing with your roommates.”

He’s perked up a little, lifted his head off the door. He knows she’s considering it seriously. He seems afraid to breathe the wrong way and change her mind.

She chews thoughtfully at the inside of her lip and is silent for almost a full minute before she speaks again. “You could just go back to Toronto. You could go home and stay at the condo for a while, then be back with your parents in a week or two. You could just go home, Shawn.”

A piece of her hates him a little for having that option when she doesn’t.

He looks absolutely certain when he nods, wets his lips, and speaks.

“I could. But I don’t want to.”

+

It’s less than 36 hours later when Shawn texts her the address. It’s tucked up in Mandeville Canyon, gated and quiet, he assures her. He says it like he went out of his way to find them a place out of the public eye and the cynical piece of her says that’s less for her than for him. From what she can tell on social media and gossip sites, no one even knows he left Toronto. For Shawn to get in and out of LAX without the Army knowing about it, she figures he must be serious about keeping a low profile.

She waits two hours before letting him know that she has to pack, pick up groceries and prepare her roommates for the idea that she might be gone a while.

By the time she arrives, thumbing at the keypad with the code Shawn provided to open the driveway gate, it’s almost 9pm. Pavilions was a post-apocalyptic nightmare and made her feel more alone than she’s felt in weeks since the pandemic picked up media steam in the US. She dropped over $200 on whatever stable goods she could get her hands on and enough fresh stuff she hoped to be able to freeze. Exhausted, and a little traumatized, Lilly turns off the car and steps out to look around.

On the outside, the house is surrounded by tall white stucco walls and expertly trimmed hedges. The windows are wide for light but obscured tastefully by tall palms and sun-scorched banana trees. On the inside, beyond the stoic gates, it’s a little wilder, but in a relaxed, thoughtful way. The bases of trees and plants are illuminated by lights, giving the home a warm glow from the outside in, though Shawn seems to have turned on every light in the house. Wrapped in lush greenness, the house is classic prohibition-era LA -- stucco walls, adobe roof, some Mediterranean and Moroccan influences in the rounded archways and mosaic accents. The windows are all framed in hunter green. Lilly likes that.

There’s a balcony wrapped all the way around what looks to be one room on the second floor. Lilly stares up at it thoughtfully until the side door by the kitchen slams shut.

Shawn practically leaps off the tile steps to the stone pathway, his grin bashful as he tries to smooth it down. He jerks a hand through his hair, which looks cleaner than she last saw it. He’s barefoot in gray sweats and an old t-shirt. Lilly’s chest pulses with the sensation to walk right into him for a kiss. It’s a bizarre phantom instinct that she almost has to physically shake off. She tries to smile back, but it’s a grimace.

“Hey. How was it?” he asks.

Shawn stays a perfectly reasonable six feet away, but it feels further. Lilly swallows.

“It was fine. The lines were long.”

Sharing the vulnerability of telling him how grocery shopping in the midst of a global health crisis made her feel seems too much to handle. So she pops her trunk and looks around while he eagerly loads reusable bags into his very capable arms.

“This place is like something out of a Nancy Meyers movie,” she marvels.

Shawn grins again, that kind of smile it’s hard not to smile at.

“You like it?”

Lilly mashes her lips together and nods, forcing the corners of her mouth up. Again, it feels false. She drops it with a sigh. 

“Sorry, I’m… really tired.”

Shawn looks at her suspiciously for a moment before his face clears up. He nods and heads for the door.

“I get it. I can show you your room. How much do I owe you for these?”

He gestures to the herculean number of grocery bags in his hands. Lilly reaches for the last few and shrugs, following him inside.

“It’s fine. You rented the house, I can pick up groceries.”

Lilly knows better than to imagine she won this battle so easily. It’s one of Shawn’s great joys in life to pay for stuff. It’s part of the Leo in him. But he seems to sense she’s not in a place to be argued with right now, about anything.

“I brought antibacterial wipes,” Lilly suddenly announces as the center island of the all-white kitchen gets cluttered with boxes and bags and containers and jars.

“Oh,” Shawn says with a grateful nod, clearly confused.

“The store was totally out of them but I brought some from home. And there was no toilet paper, weirdly,” Lilly muses.

“Huh,” Shawn murmurs, loading a bag of bell peppers into the vegetable drawer of the oversized fridge. Lilly watches, drumming her fingers against the white granite countertop. Shawn glances up at her as he sniffs and inspects the cabinets, deciding where to put the canisters of oatmeal.

Lilly shakes her head and backs up against the edge of the sink, crossing her arms. “This is so weird.”

“What?”

“Stocking up for the apocalypse in a mansion with my ex-boyfriend.”

Shawn looks like he wants to protest, but he shifts tactics. “Yeah. I guess it is weird. The whole fucking world is… weird.”

From six feet or a hundred thousand miles away across a countertop, Shawn and Lilly face each other. As for what’s between them, beyond the space, it will remain there for tonight and probably nights to come.

Shawn gives Lilly a truncated version of a house tour on the way to her room. He talks nervously, explaining that he took the master because he thought she’d want this room more, anyway. With each step, suitcase hurtling along noisily behind her over the stone tile, Lilly’s sense of panic grows.

This was a mistake. You’re insane to have considered it. Pathetic, even. Ridiculous. Immature.

Shawn wishes her a good night a few feet from the door. She smiles shallowly. Mercifully, the master bedroom is on the other side of the sprawling house. She waits until his footsteps fade to release her stress tears and gasping, short breaths.

The room is gorgeous. Simple white walls like the rest of the house with clean, neutral furniture, comfortable but stylish, with pops of color and lots of plants. Old California. But the real selling point is the balcony. It wraps around the guest suite and is accessible through wide set French doors. 

Lilly sits on the end of the bed and attempts to reason with herself. She squeezes her eyes shut. She’s had an overwhelming couple of days. She needs to sleep. If she’s still miserable in the morning, she can leave, Shawn and his pretty house be damned.

+

Lilly wakes up fully clothed, half under the covers of the enormous bed. The curtains are still drawn open. The room is so bright it could be noon. In frantic confusion, Lilly flips over her dying phone to check the time. It’s 8am. She slept for almost 12 hours. She’s not entirely surprised.

She cranks herself up to sitting and assesses. The exhaustion-fueled panic that had her half-ready to stride back to her car to take herself home is gone. Her suitcase is where she left it in the middle of the room. Her face is tight and dry from salty tears.

And she can hear him.

She knows it’s not recorded music. She knows it’s him. She even knows which acoustic he’s playing. It’s his favorite. Hers too.

On crackling ankles and knees, she stands and shuffles to one of the balcony doors, pausing with her hand on the knob. She sighs and bites at her dry lips, pressing her forehead against the glass, looking over the balcony into the gardens below.

He’s barefoot again like he almost always is in LA. He used to complain that it’s too cold in Toronto to go barefoot even inside when the heat is on. She used to tell him he imagined it. He’s bobbing his head and strumming slowly like he does when he’s playing through a few chords to decide where he’s going next. He takes big, slow steps away from the house toward a bunch of lavender bushes near the edge of the property. Before he can pivot and turn to head back the other way, Lilly steps back.

She glances at her suitcase. She’ll think about it again after breakfast.

+

Taglist: @smallerinfinities​ @the-claire-bitch-project @achinglyshawn​ @infiniteshawn​ @mendesoft​ @singanddreamanyway​ @alone-in-madness​ @abigfatmess​ @shawnitsmutual​ @awkwardfangirl2014​ @september-lace​ @sinplisticshawn​ @rollingxstone​ @randi-eve​ @fallmoreinlove @heyits-claire​ @itrocksmysocks​ @parkerspicedlatte​ @simpledomain​ @abeautiful-and-cloudy-day​ @thecurlsofgod​ @magcon7280​ @bensbuttercup​ @shawnsmusical​ @paigeasourous​ @tell-me-when-ur-ready​ @softmendesss​ @searchingunderthestars​ @buggy-blogs​ @mendesficsxbombay​ @siennarossi​ @lostinshawnsmemory​ @umbreakablesoul​ @sleepybesson​ @shawnsheaven

[papermoonloveslucy]

‘MY GOOD WIFE’ v ‘MY FAVORITE HUSBAND’

June 23, 1949

"My Good Wife," an added starter on KNBC, 6:30 p.m. PST Fridays, is another comedy about a young married couple, as if we needed another one. I must admit this one is a little different. This married couple, Steve and Kay Emerson, are not nearly so fast with a wisecrack as, say, Lucille Ball and her husband on "My Favorite Husband," 9:00 p.m. PST the same night on KCBS. Great night for matrimony, Fridays, and if those two programs don't provide enough for you, tune in Dorothy Dix at 1:45 pm. (not broadcast in west). She'll tell you how to win back an erring husband. 

I haven't yet made up my mind whether the Emerson's ineptness at repartee is deliberate - after all, not every young wife talks like Groucho Marx - or whether the script writer isn't very good at it either. Anyhow, whether by accident or design, the Emersons are a very restful young couple, possibly a little too restful to get anywhere in the entertainment world. In radio, they're a real novelty. 

As a wife Arlene Francis who plays Kay Emerson, wins out on points over Lucille Ball In other regards - talent and looks, for example - Miss Ball is way out front. But how long could you live with a girl who says: "Oh, we don't miss television. I climb in the Bendix and sing and George looks at me through the little window." Imagine having a girl around the house who said things like that before breakfast. It'd curdle the milk. 

STARTS OFF FAST 

“My Good Wife" started out at a gallop two weeks ago, NBC deciding to set the stage and get everything out of the way all at once. The first program resembled one at those synopses of previous in installments in the popular magazines. Steve met Kay, quarreled with her, married her, taught her how to drive, learned he was about to become a father, and became one - all in 15 minutes. One minute later, the dialogue went like this: 

"It doesn't seem like we've been married 12 years." 

"We've been married 10 years." 

"Well, that's why it doesn't seem like 12." 

That, incidentally, Is a little brighter than the conversation around the Emerson household generally gets. 

On the second show of the series, the pace settled down to a walk. During the first few minutes the Emersons and their neighbors lay lazily on the grass, not  even talking very much. This may be taking realism too far. I mean there ought to be some crickets chirping or something. Things quickened a bit later when Mrs. Emerson decided she was going to help her husband out with his law practice and, of course, messed things up. 

YALE, NO LESS 

The Emersons are quite upper middlebrow as radio's young married folk go. He went to Yale, for heaven's sake, and she not only went to Vassar but led the daisy chain or whatever they do with that daisy chain. What is this - counter revolution? Oh, yes, they live in Larchmont up to their ears in other upper middlebrows. I don't know what else to tell you about the Emersons except they sound like a nice young couple to have over for a drink some time but conceivably a little mild to entertain you much on the air. 

My favorite young married couple is still Ozzie and Harriet Nelson - I put Goodman and Jane Ace off in another category entirely - and while we're chatting about this sort of thing, I ought to point out Ricky and David Nelson, Ozzie and Harriet's children, are now playing themselves on that program which solves a lot of problems. I have a spy in the Nelson household, named - in case any congressional ears are pricking - Harriet Nelson, nee Harriet Hilliard, and she is not now and has never been a Communist nor worked on the atom bomb nor designed the B-36. 

Anyhow, my spy informed the Nelsons had a little trouble with the kids. The real Ricky and David I listened to the radio Ricky and David and discovered them doing things they weren't allowed to do or wouldn't do voluntarily if they were allowed. Being children, they got confused over their own identities. Well now the real Ricky and David are the radio Ricky and David and the split personalities in the kids has been averted. You run into a lot of funny problems in radio.

#  #  #  

FOOTNOTES FROM THE FUTURE

It seems pretty clear that NBC was counter-programming CBS’s “My Favorite Husband”.  Not only are the names very similar, they were scheduled on the same night, as critic Crosby points out.  

The episode of “My Favorite Husband” described above might apply to any domestic sitcom, but was actually titled “Budget - Mr. Atterbury” broadcast June 3, 1949.  However, this newspaper is still calling Lucille Ball’s character Liz Cugat, when her name had changed to Liz Cooper in January 1949, to avoid comparison with the well-known bandleader (no, not Desi Arnaz).  

Counter-programming by NBC would not stop on radio.  When “I Love Lucy” was a juggernaut hit for CBS TV, NBC created a similar show titled “I Married Joan” for star Joan Davis.  It was billed as “The adventures of the scatterbrained wife of a respected city judge.”  Substitute “bandleader” for “Judge” (played by Jim Backus) - and you’ve got “I Love Lucy.”  Like Ball, Davis was a film star of the ‘30s and ‘40s getting aboard the TV bandwagon.  Like Lucy, Joan wanted to be in showbusiness. Many of the same situations that Lucy got into, Joan did too. The series even featured a few “I Love Lucy” refugees:  Jerry Hausner, Elvia Allman, Bob Jellison, Margie Liszt, Shirley Mitchell, Ross Elliott, and many others. "Lucy” and “Joan” even employed the same director in each show's first season, Marc Daniels. "Joan” lasted three seasons, from 1952 to 1955 and is all but forgotten today. 

Kay Emerson was not the first domestic radio role for Arlene Francis. In 1940, she took over the role of Betty on “Betty and Bob”, which had been the first successful soap opera. She was one of the hosts of the quiz show “What’s My Name?” beginning in 1938. The show was seen as a model for TV’s “What’s My Line?” which premiered in 1950. Francis would stay with the show for its entire run, including six mystery guest appearances by Lucille Ball.  

The husband to “My Good Wife” was played by John Conte.  From 1944 to 1946 he was married to Marilyn Maxwell (1944-46) who would later appear with Lucille Ball in the 1963 film Critic’s Choice.  He had also been seen with Ball (and Maxwell) in As Thousands Cheer (1943). In 1960 he would work for Desilu in an episode of “The Untouchables” (1960).

Unlike “My Favorite Husband’s” mythical mid-Western Sheridan Falls, the Emerson’s livid in the real New York suburb of Larchmont, an affluent village located within the Town of Mamaroneck in Westchester County, New York, approximately 18 miles northeast of Midtown Manhattan.  Nearby was the town of New Rochelle, whose most famous fictional resident was Rob Petrie on “The Dick Van Dyke Show” (filmed at Desilu Studios).  Danfield, New York, another fictional town in the area, was the residence of Lucy Carmichael and Vivian Bagley for the first three seasons of “The Lucy Show.” 

“My Good Wife” began airing in June 1949, and by April 1950 was nowhere to be found. In October 1949, Billboard reported on a new NBC Gallup Poll that placed the show dead last - with 32 stations voting it poor and only 8 saying it was excellent.  The future of “Wife” was bleak. The sitcom was cancelled after 18 weeks to make room for the new Jimmy Durante show. Meanwhile, Ball’s “Husband” (on CBS), thrived.  Coincidentally, the show was initially a replacement for Red Skelton’s show. Skelton and Durante had both worked with Ball on films.  

Crosby’s quote from “My Favorite Husband”  

"Oh, we don't miss television. I climb in the Bendix and sing and George looks at me through the little window."

was spoken by Lucille Ball in the episode titled “Television” on June 17, 1949.  A Bendix is a brand of front-loading washing machine. The porthole-like window was similar to the size screen of early television sets.  

Crosby’s observation that Liz talks like Groucho Marx is attributable to the show’s writers Bob Carroll, Jr., Madelyn Pugh, and Jess Oppenheimer.  And let’s not forget that Lucille Ball acted opposite Groucho Marx in Room Service (1938)!      

After making the obvious comparison to “My Favorite Husband,” Crosby lets readers know that neither “Husband” nor “Wife” will ever displace “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriett” in his domestic dome. The show launched October 8, 1944 and a total 402 radio episodes were produced. When it was optioned for television, it was upstart network ABC that made the sweetest deal to the Nelsons. 

As Crosby alludes to, their real-life sons, David and Ricky, did not join the cast until the radio show's fifth year. The two boys were played by professional actors prior to their joining because both were too young to perform. Crosby’s allegations of possible identity crisis due to watching their parents with other sons on television, might easily apply to “I Love Lucy”, where the real-life Desi Arnaz often lived in the shadow of the young actors playing Little Ricky on television. Mrs. Ricardo and Mrs. Arnaz giving birth to both boys on the same day only added to the confusion - one that still lingers today. 

Crosby declines to compare the aforementioned shows with the popular Goodman and Jane Ace. The real-life marrieds had a show titled “Easy Aces”  Goodman Ace cast himself as a harried real estate salesman and the exasperated but loving husband of the scatterbrained, malaprop-prone Jane ("Time wounds all heels"). “Easy Aces” became a long-running serial comedy (1930–1945) but did not make a graceful transition to television, lasting only a few months on the ill-fated DuMont Network. Coincidentally, Martin Gabel, who married Arlene Francis in 1946, had a recurring role on “Easy Aces” during the 1930s. 

In a more sarcastic shout-out, Crosby mentions capping off this slew of domestic dithering by listening to Dorothy Dix.  Author Elizabeth Meriwether Gilmer (1861-1951) was widely known by the pen name Dorothy Dix. As the forerunner of today’s popular advice columnists, Dix was America’s highest paid and most widely read female journalist at the time of her death. Her advice on marriage was syndicated in newspapers around the world with an estimated audience of 60 million readers.  Naturally, radio was not neglected, getting their Dix fix when her column took to the airwaves.  Due to Lucy’s insistence on interfering in the Mertz’s personal affairs, Ricky compares Lucy to Dorothy Dix in “Fred and Ethel Fight” (ILL S1;E22) on March 10, 1952. 

We haven’t yet mentioned this 1940 gem, but we’ll save that for another time!  

[heli0s-writes]

I. Soulmate Series and Peculiar Pairs

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes Summary:  An introduction to the mystery of soulmates and love. You’re just another person lost in the world, trying to find yours.. until you give up. You meet some Avengers on the way. A/N: Part 1 of Mystery of Love.

The world had a very singular definition of soulmates: Two people, entwined by fate, perfectly right for each other, destined to meet and exist as one. The cosmos willed this. God willed it. The universe willed it. Whatever anyone’s religious or personal beliefs may be- there was a reply.

Children were told stories of their parents’ meeting and The Words they said to each other that sealed their future. These prophesized utterances would form onto their skin and scratch itself onto a special place in a script unique to that person’s handwriting. The lore of The Words were in every fairy tale and film. No wonder it had always been your dream to meet yours.

Your own parents met in Kindergarten, when your mother moved from Jersey to Manhattan because her father had been transferred to a higher position. He was hesitant at first, to leave their small city and large family behind, but changed his mind in early spring. The first day she set foot in her classroom, as she’d tell you over and over again, she was seated next to a chubby, freckled boy who shook her hand. With a firm grip, he yelled “Hello, beautiful!” and before she could respond, she had doubled over to scream.

When the teacher rushed over and your mother finally stopped crying, she’d lifted her paisley cotton shirt to see the askew “hEllo BEaUtiFul” letters circling her belly button. She pointed a finger to your father, blubbering uncontrollably, and yelled, “It’s you! You’re my soulmate!” and then it became his turn to double over.

The teacher called both their mothers and their mothers had taken them out of school for the rest of the day. They spent it in each other’s company, learning each other’s names, playing, eating ice-cream, and then took a nap, pinkies touching. They were inseparable ever since.

At age 4, it was your favorite story, and you wanted to hear it every night before bed. Your parents were the essence of perfection: your mother’s hair was always impeccable, your father’s shirt was always pressed, and they always kissed at the door when he’d leave for work.

At age 6, you began to wonder about your own soulmate. “Does it hurt very bad, mama?” “Why haven’t I met him yet?” “What if he’s mean to me?” “What if he moves away, mama?”

Your mother always assured you that it was meant to be. You were designed to be loved. The universe would never, ever, leave anyone out. Soulmates were destiny, and destiny was final. You were pleased with the answers she provided, and happy to hear them every time she reminded you.

At age 8, you’d forgotten all about soulmates. Boys were meant to be chased away on the playground, wrestled with in the grass, beaten in a game of soccer. Girls were your confidants, your sisters, who’d braid your hair and dance with you through the living room. Soulmates were for adults, and more than that, you were afraid of the pain of someone’s Words carving into your skin. There were rumors of 5th graders who found their soulmate in the fall, but they were big kids and you put off thinking about it for many years and stopped asking questions.

At age 14, it was no longer something you could ignore. Many girls were going through changes, some had looked like they were already finished, while you had barely started. Boys changed too. Everyone began to notice each other. And you began to notice yourself in this extant space. High school was extremely daunting, and on your first day, you promised yourself that you’d find your soulmate in this large campus.

Some juniors who had soulmates were already married with their parents’ eager approval. There was a club dedicated to meeting as many students in the school as possible to find your soulmate. On Thursday mornings they held “speed-meeting” sessions where one side held a notecard that said, “You are mine” and the other side, “I am yours” there were many variations that were available such as, “You are the light of my life” or “I’ll love you forever”.

You tried many times, afraid that if your soulmate was a senior and they graduated this year, you’d have to wait forever to meet them. After December, it was taking a toll on your heart. All of those sessions of sitting down and staring into the eyes of new started out exciting, but slowly turned banal and drove you into melancholy. Being bound to one person was supposed to be magical, but the recurring meetings felt disingenuous. You didn’t want to meet your soulmate in a sterilized setting, reading a notecard of words that were not from your heart.

Around winter vacation, you were so despondent and anxious that it began to manifest in severe and constant stomach pains. Your parents began to discuss the possibility of counseling. You refused them, afraid that you’d be labelled as a lovelorn freak for the rest of your life. They did relent, and instead gave you a very nice digital camera for Christmas, hoping it could be a hobby to distract you from your worries. Your very first picture was of your parents under the Christmas tree. Your second picture was of their Words, side by side. It took five months for your spasms to ease.

In your later teens, you began to branch out in earnest to find that person. You had worked as a hostess during senior year to maximize your chance of meeting someone, and even landed a barista job at one of the busiest cafés in Manhattan your freshman year of college at a small conservative university. You joined a sorority and lost count of all the events you’d attend and all the fraternity boys you’d met during that year. It was too much, in the end, you were focused on your studies and couldn’t stand another year in that tiny white picket-fence house always reeking of hairspray and Victoria Secret body mist.

You continued taking photographs and enrolled in art classes the following year. You had won a small scholarship and the funds went into a new professional camera. Mid-sophomore year, you quit your job at the café and began to take pictures for the University’s paper, penning food and entertainment columns here and there, primarily about your local college town. You submitted in group exhibitions and struggled to balance classes, a job, and your own inquiries of love. Most of your friends had met their soulmates, and when your roommate came home breathless, freshly inked in beautiful cursive script, and screamed, “It’s a girl!!”, you broke down.

You had never thought of the possibility of being with a woman. But what if the universe decided that it was? Could you love a woman, like that? You spent the rest of the weekend curled up in bed, ill with stomachaches, questioning everything you knew about yourself and your capacity to love.

You called home to ask your mother, “What if my soulmate is a woman?” and the audible gasp on the other line confirmed the feeling in your gut. You weren’t done yet. “What if my soulmate is a hundred and ten on his deathbed? What if he’s a murderer? What if… god forbid, a child?” the tears wouldn’t stop. You were hysterical. You no longer searched for “the one”.

Junior year, you spent a brief fall session abroad in Italy. It was a small group of 5 with one of your favorite professors and you were free to explore your own body of work in your specialty. This was the perfect opportunity to build your portfolio with historic sites and modern culture. Italy was beautiful, romantic, and being there felt like a dream. One of your cohort members met her soulmate while asking him for permission to sketch his picture. He was a green-eyed man with dark, curly hair swept in a low ponytail. Her Words appeared on his arm, “Excuse me! Do you mind?”

And his Words, “Non parlo inglese” Meaning, “I do not speak English”

After their shock subsided, they shared a laugh and you took their picture together, matching tender forearms side-by-side.

As intended, you didn’t find your soulmate in Italy, either. But you did find a spark. The whole soulmate business was breeding so many questions that were turning into criticisms inside you. The picture of your friend in Italy started churning the gears of your body of work. You began to seek out silly or strange First Words to photograph, and at the end of your spring semester, you held a solo exhibition back home. It was a smash and featured in the local paper on page 5. Soon after, it became viral on the internet.

Reviews raved about the humor of your photographs (one set of First Words read, “You think I’m cute, huh” and “You’re a fucking nightmare-boy”. Another, “Bless you” and “That wasn’t a sneeze” your personal favorite, "Give me your wallet" and "Oh hell no").

People were alarmed at some of the less traditional pairs you found: differing intense religious beliefs (Roman Catholic, and Satanist), age-disparity (15 year gap between them), familial relations (they were first-cousins), those encumbered by illness (one had been in a coma for 5 years), and something that was so rare you’d only read about it happening twice, ever: multiple soulmates.

In that particular case, you had put an advertisement online and received an e-mail that night from someone who wanted to refer you to their uncle and his family. You went the next morning to Prospect Park and met John and his soulmates Francis and Marilynn. You spent three hours with them that day. The photos you took were beyond lovely.

In senior year, you had a portfolio that was known world-wide. You were receiving so many e-mails a day about photo opportunities that your business address bounced back at least twice a week for 24 hours. Most of them were very desperate calls for attention, struggles for their 15 seconds of fame, you rarely had the time (or patience) to give an e-mail a second look. You put that body of work on hold, but still opened an online store to sell prints and gave the occasional phone interview. Between that and the various photography jobs you received elsewhere, you were self-sufficient and hardly struggled. You lived in a one-bedroom apartment and looked forward to travelling in the U.S. after college.

It was winter of senior year when you received a message in your personal e-mail that caught you by surprise. It was from Pepper Potts. The Pepper Potts. You were holed up cozily during a blizzard and almost spilled your tea in your lap. It was an invitation for you to visit Stark Tower headquarters, take a few pictures, and go home. The way she worded it was extremely delicate, making sure to flatter your work but also very strictly state the terms of agreement. She made sure to mention that you would be paid generously, of course.

When the snow melted, you made your journey, camera bag across your chest.

At age 20, you met Iron Man, Tony Stark, self-proclaimed billionaire, philanthropist, playboy, genius. You also met Natasha Romanoff, also known as Black Widow.

Ms. Potts had met you at the door, opening it and extending her hand. She immediately thanked you for coming in the cold and praised your photographs. It surprised you when she admitted that as famous as your Soulmate Series was, she was more intrigued by the tenderness of the candid shots you routinely represented in your work, not your actual choice of subject. She had also done some research and found various college articles where you took pictures of local businesses and restaurants. “The intimacy that you captured of the most mundane of places… they were beautiful. I knew you were the person I wanted.” You laughed about your naiveite in those days, being only a newbie at photography, but Ms. Potts shushed you.

She led you to a conference room and slid a contract in front of you, asking for your patience and understanding at the long document. After the end of nearly an hour and a half of reviewing, questioning, and a sneaky interview process, you were ready to begin. A lanyard was placed in your hand with your picture and a keycode, giving you access to certain floors of the building.

The contract was complicated, but it boiled down to this: You were hired by Stark Industries to photograph their employees (and future employees) as well as any floor you had access to. It was your job to deliver simple and tasteful photos to represent the Stark image. You understood it to mean that your job was to create a cult of personality for Stark Industries somewhere in the realm of capable, trustworthy, and familiar- as if these people could be your close friends. The contract spanned a 30-day period where you were able to enter the tower at your leisure and convenience, wander as you wished, ask any questions you may have, and ultimately submit a binder of no less than 50 pictures with your detailed notes (including personal opinion on each photo).

Ms. Potts strongly suggested that if this assignment went well, she had high hopes for your future at Stark Industries. She kept her promise and continued to reach out to you about assignments.

At 21, almost immediately after your graduation, you met Thor, Hawkeye, and Dr. Banner- you prayed you would never meet his other half. That same year, you also met him.

Captain America. Every child in America knew about Steve Rogers. When news leaked that his body had been found frozen and that he was living in New York, it stunned you. He was a (newly) living (dead?!) legend; the idea of him was too much. When it dawned on you that you would be photographing him, you immediately threw up.

You would never forget that day. Your stomach hurt all night. It hadn’t done that since you were a child.

When you entered Stark Tower- you were too nervous to even notice that it had been transformed to the newly dubbed Avengers Tower. You rode the elevator up to the conference room where you scheduled to meet Ms. Potts, but Mr. Stark was there instead. Next to him, was the unmistakable physique of Captain Rogers. Your stomach twisted itself into a pretzel and you had to suck in a deep breath to continue walking upright.

You were so nervous that when Stark asked you for the umpteenth time to please call him Tony, you nearly twisted your ankle by mis-stepping. Sadly for him, you wouldn’t utter his first name for another few years. Captain Rogers had narrowed his eyes at you and the camera bag hanging limply on your hip. You could not stop trembling under his scrutiny. Even Tony offered you a drink to take the edge off.

Finally, he spoke.

“Good morning,” he said quietly, giving you a gentle nod.

You didn’t stop to look as you bolted out of the conference room and down the hall. As soon as you reached the toilet, you threw up.

The bile and acid that burned a path up your throat lingered all day and flared constantly in Captain Rogers’ presence. Your chest burned like a blaze. He in turn, gave you inspecting, worried glances and never tried to come any closer than 10 feet. You thanked him silently from across rooms and hallways. Mr. Stark joked that the best candid moments with Captain Rogers were in the showers, but if you kept getting sick like that, you’ll never get a chance. Your stomach did not appreciate the insinuation whatsoever.

Ms. Potts was infinitely more helpful. She sent you down to the infirmary but they could find nothing wrong with you. The nurse helping you, however, did notice that you had suddenly formed a bright pink rash right in the middle of your chest after watching you nervously rub your torso.

You thought nothing more of it, and by the time you got home, it had vanished.

The contract Ms. Potts emailed you that night detailed the next assignment, and upon completion, you would be paid 20 thousand dollars, more than double the amounts you’d previously received. Her postscript thanked you for your hard work with the Avengers, specifically, your patience with Tony and his constant quips, but that she wanted you to take some time to yourself and explore the world. Twenty-one, she said, was a tremendously important year for young women, and that she hoped to see more of your photography that was special to you, rather than necessary to her.

That night, you broke your apartment lease and made plans to travel at the end of the month. For the next 30 days, you took some of the best photos you had ever taken of the Avengers. However, you deeply regretted every photo you took of Captain Rogers. They were never as detailed or intimate as any of the rest. He was always either in a group setting, or far off, jogging, training, perhaps reading a book… across the kitchen, on the other side of a window.

You were afraid of him. Or rather, you were afraid of how your body reacted to him. From time to time, you’d see him look at you apologetically, which made it a million times worse.

After your assignment was finished and the rest of the payment was deposited in your account, you sold your furniture and packed two bags. For the two years, you spent time in Thailand, Russia, Italy, New Zealand, Saudi Arabia, and even a few icy weeks visiting the Arctic.

Once again, you picked up your Soulmates Series. This time you solely focused on what you lovingly called peculiar pairs.

In Thailand, you found a pair of non-gender conforming soulmates who lived in a large community of entirely non gender conforming people. Most of the country itself was extremely accepting and kindhearted, something that pained you to think about in regard to your own home. You learned so much about sexuality and identity in your time with them, and at the end of your trip, you felt entirely changed about your perspective on what it was to be male and female- and whether or not it actually mattered!

In Russia, you met two people who identified as asexual- one being intersex. On the day you met, he identified as male and wore trousers and ordered the strongest coffee you had ever tasted. The next day, you hardly recognized him in a lavender gown, and were surprised and happily obliged when he asked you to use feminine pronouns. Upon your departure, he was back again in trousers and let you use masculine pronouns in your writing. It broke your heart to learn about their struggle in a country that shunned and viewed them with contempt.

Your travels brought you to many identities and many facets of love. There were couples who never engaged in romantic activity, but cherished each other more than you’d ever felt from another soul. There were others still who’s lives were kept secret from their families and their society, at large. There was a household in Italy with a husband and wife, not soulmates, living with another man, whose soulmate had been the husband. They met by chance on the train. The wife was 7 months along, and there was incredible tension under their roof. Most days, they made it fine, some days, she expressed to you, she couldn’t help but fall asleep crying.

Sometimes, you would meet soulmates that made you truly question the work. These pairs haunted you.

In New Zealand, a man was 65 when he met his soulmate; he had waited all his life. She was a young volunteer at the day care center where he worked. He thought she would reject him because of their age difference, but she loved him. They spent one blissful day together. The next day, she was involved in a fatal accident on her way to work. You sat in silence in his living room as he held onto a picture of her and sobbed.

At the end of your travels, departing from Saudi Arabia, your heart was full of grief about soulmates. The last pair you visited was in a dimly lit home, where the husband smoked profusely, and you could not see his wife until the very end. When she came into the light, her eyes were both blackened, and she could not speak due to the stitches in her mouth.

Returning to Manhattan, at age 23, you had given up on not only your own soulmate, but all soulmate indoctrination. Your heart was hardened by the knowledge that predestiny could usher in such suffering, and that love could be so terrible. You began to resist.

Next Chapter

[meta-squash]

Brick Club 1.4.2 “First Sketch of Two Equivocal Faces”

Time to meet the two least likable characters in this book, after Tholomyes. Mme Victurnien and Bamatabois try, but they can’t beat the Thenardier parents for slime factor.

The Thenardiers are animals (cats specifically) before we ever get to know them as people. Also I think this is one of the only instances where Hugo frames cats in a truly negative light? Usually cats are Liberty and Revolution and also Secret Lions. This time they’re cunning creatures taking advantage of a tiny mouse.

Hugo making quick work of some Class Opinions here. Hugo is describing this sort of in-between class, a limbo between middle and lower, made up of two types of people, of which I assume both Thenardiers are the former. When he compares them to the working class and the bourgeoisie, it’s about what they don’t have. I’m guessing that by “generous impulses” of the worker, he means solidarity? Working class people were/are more likely to help each other and engage in mutual aid, at least to a larger extent than others. Unless he’s emphasizing impulses, in which case maybe it’s more about being reckless? FMA says the bourgeois have “respectability”; Hapgood calls it “honest order.” Either way, that seems to be referencing a more “polite society,” a set of expected characteristics or behaviors and a certain level of success or money. I don’t know. It’s weird. Hugo’s class opinions are complicated and I don’t think I understand enough about French class history and culture to properly analyze all of this.

“There are souls that, crablike, crawl continually toward darkness, going backward in life rather than advancing, using their experience to increase their deformity, growing continually worse, and becoming steeped more and more thoroughly in an intensifying viciousness.”

I can’t help but think about Valjean here. Javert isn’t Valjean’s opposite, he’s Valjean’s weird parallel. Thenardier is Valjean’s opposite. Valjean is a soul that climbs towards the light despite spending so long in darkness, while Thenardier crawls towards darkness. In the moments when Valjean is actively working to become better, Thenardier is simultaneously actively becoming worse. After rescuing Cosette, Hugo mentions that Valjean had been on the brink of falling back into old habits and instincts from prison, but Cosette rehabilitated him and reminded him to work towards being good. At the same time, the Thenardiers are presumably falling into poverty and in the process of losing their inn. Later, Valjean decides to teach Cosette charity and bring her with him to help the poor. I think in general he is, at this point, doing more charity work than ever before. Thenardier kidnaps him and tries to hold him for ransom; in the process he also destroys parts of his own home. When Valjean saves Marius, after an active effort to realize that he needs to sacrifice to make Cosette happy, Thenardier is in the sewers stealing from corpses (or presumed corpses, anyway). As Valjean is dying, again sacrificing himself for what he thinks will be the good of Cosette, Thenardier is trying to trick Marius into doubting Valjean’s goodness and reputation, and trying to get money out of him. As Valjean dies loved and good, Thenardier goes to America to become a slave trader. Valjean and Javert’s entire lives run parallel to each other; Thenardier is like a perpendicular line that they both end up crossing at the same time each time. Thenardier is Valjean’s opposite in that he embodies exactly what Valjean had the potential to become.

Hugo says “We only have to look at some men to distrust them” and I wonder if that’s part of why we don’t actually see M Thenardier until now. The entire scene last chapter was full of all these bad omens and ominous imagery, so we were already suitably aware of the danger. Only, now we’re getting a real grasp and a true description of the reality of that danger for Cosette.

I really like that we get the line “he knew how to do a little of everything--all badly” because it’s yet another way in which he is Valjean’s opposite. Valjean knows how to do a little of everything as well, only he manages to do those things well and to succeed.

Hugo talks about Mme Thenardier’s love of trashy romance novels and throws in a bunch of references, conveniently in chronological order. Clelie goes with Mlle de Scuderi; Madeleine de Scudery wrote her novel Clelie (10 volumes!) in the mid 1600s. As far as I can tell, Clelie is about the siege of Rome and the romances between a bunch of different characters, and it’s very elaborate with a lot of long conversations. She used Roman/Persian/Greek characters as a thinly veiled disguise for contemporary society figures and political commentary. Lodoiska was a 1791 opera based on the novel Les Amours du Chevalier de Faublas by Jean Baptiste Louvet du Couvray. The opera (and presumably the novel) is a classic story of a nobleman rescuing his fiancee from a man who has kidnapped and wants to marry her. There isn’t much I could find on Mme Barthelemy-Hadot, except that she wrote melodramas in the early 19th century.  Mme de Lafayette wrote La Princesse de Cleves, a highly realistic psychological novel, in the mid-1600s. She also wrote La Princesse de Monpensier, which was a prototype for the historical novel. There’s not much on Charlotte Bournon-Malarme, except that she was a writer in the late 1700s. Hugo is criticizing the chronological downturn of classic “romance” novels, how they’ve gone from realism and critique to dumbed-down adventure novels. It seems as though Mme Thenardier fills her time and her head with the latter.

Okay I’m not sure if I’m going to interpret the “Mégère parted company with Pamela” line right, because it might be a detail from a romance novel that I just can’t catch because I haven’t read romances from the 17th/18th century. However, I do know that Mégère was one of the Furies, the “jealous one,” and can be slang for a jealous or spiteful woman. The Pamela reference is a little bit harder, since there were two popular Pamela-based novels, but what I’m guessing at is that as Mme Thenardier aged and became less fierce and jealous all the time, she was just a woman who had been forced to marry a man 15 years older than her, who didn’t think much and was boring. I’m really not sure.

I can’t find much on Guillame Pigault-Lebrun, except that he was a fairly popular novelist during the Empire, whose quality flagged during the Restoration. He also apparently wrote some anti-Christian works, which seems to make sense for M Thenardier.

First of all, “the anarchy of baptismal names” is a fantastic band name.

So, from what I can figure out, pre-Revolution, a baby was named after a saint whose name was associated with the day of birth. For example, my birthday is April 14, so I would have been Ludivine. (I’m not sure what happens if someone’s birthday falls on a day with an opposite-gender saint associated with it. Did they just masculinize/feminize the name?) The French Revolution, as well as doing away with the old calendar, also did away with this tradition. People were now allowed to name their children (or themselves, if they did the paperwork) whatever they wanted. In 1803, this law was changed, and from what I can tell, you could either name your children the names of (Catholic) saints, or the names of people from classical/ancient history.

I’m not really sure how the Thenardiers got around this law, at least for Azelma. Epona is a Celtic goddess. Euphrasia was a saint from the 4th century. I have no idea what Azelma is. I suppose that’s the “anarchy” indicated. But maybe I’m missing something? Please someone correct me if I got stuff wrong.

Anyway, Hugo praises these changes as an aspect of equality. People aren’t restricted to the few names associated with their name day. They can branch out. Anyone can have the more “elegant” names associated with the classical/ancient history names, even workingmen. It’s also something that can’t be chiseled away like the Ns on buildings or removed like statues. People with those weird names from the decade they were allowed are living, breathing proof of the progress of the Revolution and force people around them to confront the fact that it happened, even if they’re back to celebrating the Restoration. Yet another minor but weirdly significant ripple of change.

[silver-lily-louise]

Planes, Trains, and Portalmobiles

‘Y’know, there’s a lot more standing around and waiting than I thought there’d be.' Magnus shrugs. ‘Why do you think I haven’t bothered with planes before now? Compared to a portal, they’re horribly inefficient.’

Post-Canon. On their way back to Alicante from a trip to Scotland, Magnus and Alec decide to take a few Mundane modes of transport for once. There are... mixed results.

Read it on AO3, or below!

~oOo~

‘Y’know, there’s a lot more standing around and waiting than I thought there’d be,’ Alec comments, readjusting the straps on his rucksack for the seventh or eighth time. Magnus shrugs. ‘Why do you think I haven’t bothered with planes before now?’ he points out, managing to add a surprisingly high dose of disapproval to his quiet words. ‘Compared to a portal, they’re horribly inefficient.’

The line moves up, and Magnus turns to him more fully, frowning a little. ‘You still have the passports, right?’ ‘Yes, Magnus,’ he says, fondly exasperated. They’ve been in this line for less than twenty minutes, and he’s given that same answer three times already. He leans closer, dropping his voice low enough that it’s only for his husband’s ears. ‘Not like you couldn’t conjure another couple if I had lost them, anyway.’ Magnus gives him a half-hearted glare. ‘True, but I might make a mistake if rushed,’ he insists. ‘What, like, put your real birthday or something?’ Alec says, his lips twitching up into a small grin. ‘I already think you’re pushing your luck claiming to be thirty-seven, by the way.’ Magnus smirks. ‘Hm. Afraid of being seen with a partner so much older than you?’ he teases, reaching out to straighten Alec’s collar. ‘Whatever will the good people of Edinburgh Airport think?’ Alec just stares at him, barely suppressing a laugh. ‘Everyone we know is fully aware that I married someone who’s started counting in centuries,’ he says, his tone ringing with exaggerated patience. ‘But sure, ten years would make me self-conscious.’

Whatever reply is undoubtedly forming on Magnus’ tongue is lost as they reach the front of the line, Alec producing their tickets and passports with an easy smile. Ordinarily, he’d let Magnus take the lead in situations like this, especially with things that require a little deception. But he hasn’t missed the tension in how Magnus is holding himself, nor the way his eyes dart to each unexpected sound. Alec doesn’t want to give him anything else to be nervous about. Or, for that matter, for his anxiety to be noticed by any airport staff and arouse suspicion.

Thankfully, it’s not too much longer until they’re actually on the plane. ‘Aisle or window?’ he asks, stowing his rucksack overhead. Magnus had insisted that they fly first class, which means that their seat is a duo, rather than the usual trio. Alec’s grateful for that now – they’ve got enough to think about without having to be mindful of a random Mundane sitting right next to them. ‘Aisle,’ Magnus says decisively. Alec had expected that, knowing that being hemmed in gives Magnus less space to wield his magic if he needs to. ‘Okay,’ he says, taking his window seat and settling back into the comfortable padding with a quiet sigh. Magnus snorts. ‘How are you so calm?’ he asks, taking his own seat. ‘It’s not like you’ve been on a plane before, either.’ Alec shrugs. ‘Thousands of Mundanes use them every day,’ he says. ‘And statistically, they’re incredibly safe. I was probably in way more danger walking around New York, especially while I was glamoured and invisible to traffic.’ ‘You have a point,’ Magnus admits.

Alec doesn’t miss how his husband still doesn’t relax, though. ‘It’s gonna be fine,’ he says quietly, reaching across to squeeze Magnus’ hand. ‘You know that, right?’ ‘For the most part,’ Magnus says, wearily. He gives a small, frustrated smile. ‘I’ve just… grown used to being in control of my own transport,’ he says. He gestures vaguely around them. ‘I’m not in control of this. I wouldn’t know how to be, without jeopardising the whole operation. And I know that it’s ridiculous to be anxious, but I also don’t know how my magic reacts at high altitudes, without proper connection to the earth – if we get into trouble, I don’t know if I can keep us safe, or – ‘

‘Well, that’s what the parachute is for,’ Alec says, cutting off Magnus’ increasingly-agitated tirade. Magnus looks at him, stunned. ‘…Alexander,’ he says carefully, ‘you are aware that planes don’t come with parachutes as standard, right?’ ‘Of course I am,’ Alec says, rolling his eyes, though carefully keeping his soft, reassuring smile in place. ‘That’s why I brought my own. Why else did you think I needed a carry-on?’ Magnus’ eyes briefly do their best impression of dinner plates. ‘You - Where the hell did you even get a parachute?’ ‘The Gard armory’s pretty well-stocked,’ Alec says, shrugging. ‘Even with some of the more obscure stuff. And there’s no metal in the mechanism, either, so the airport scanners would have just thought it was a bunch of fabric. A blanket or something.’ He smiles, a little pleased that he hasn’t lost the ability to surprise Magnus just yet. ‘So, if things go wrong when we’re up there, hold on to me and we’ll get out,’ he says simply.

Magnus just stares at him for a few moments longer, shaking his head silently as a voice over the intercom welcomes them aboard. ‘Nephilim,’ he says eventually, sounding practically awed in his disbelief. But when he settles back in his chair with a quiet, breathy laugh, he doesn’t look quite so nervous.

And when the seatbelt signs turn off a short while later, and a quick shimmer over his fingertips apparently confirms that his magic is under control, he relaxes completely, returning Alec’s smile with an honest one of his own.

***

The flight takes about ninety minutes, and by the time they’ve disembarked, collected their luggage (which is mostly for show, because travelers without luggage might draw Mundane attention) and are standing on the right platform at Heathrow’s train station, it’s mid-afternoon. The train pulls up from the right-hand-side, and they board. They’re promptly asked to show their tickets; but once that’s done and the conductor moves on, they’re practically alone, the rest of their carriage almost empty. (When they booked the tickets, Magnus said something about super-off-peak, which Alec still doesn’t see the point of. Surely the train runs the same no matter the time of day?)

Magnus leans against Alec’s shoulder, letting his eyes drift closed. ‘Perhaps it’s the adrenaline comedown, but I’m suddenly exhausted,’ he says, stifling a yawn. ‘Remind me why we had to get up at such an ungodly hour?’ ‘I asked you that this morning, and you said it was all part of the experience,’ Alec reminds him, letting his voice turn a little husky as he quotes his husband. Magnus huffs in displeasure. ‘I do not sound like that, Alexander,’ he protests. ‘Yeah, you do.’ ‘Hm. Do not,’ he argues, closing his eyes.

Alec chuckles. ‘Are you seriously going to sleep through this part?’ he asks. ‘What happened to experiencing Mundane transport?’ ‘I’ve been on trains before,’ Magnus points out, lazily waving a hand and throwing up the barest shimmer of a ward, just around their seats. ‘You can appreciate it enough for the both of us,’ he suggests. Alec snorts quietly - but Magnus really must have been tired, because he’s already asleep.

Alec looks out of the window, surprised to find that they’re already surrounded by greenery, despite having left London a relatively short time ago. Apparently, England’s not quite as rural as Alicante, but it’s a damn sight less urban than New York. His gaze flicks up to the scrolling banner above the doors, the one that declares which stops are coming up next. Their stop, Guildford (which, for some weird British reason, is apparently pronounced ‘Gill-furred’, instead of by saying the words which actually make it up) is pretty far along the list.

Magnus’ breathing is slow and rhythmic, now, and Alec feels tiredness tugging at his own awareness, like it’s trying to pull a comforter over his thoughts. But they can’t both fall asleep in public, no matter what the alluring quiet and warmth of the train carriage is saying. He ought to activate a stamina rune. Unfortunately, his stele’s in the pocket that Magnus is currently lying on top of; and he doesn’t want to wake his husband up, knowing that he didn’t sleep well last night.

I’ll grab it in a few minutes, he reasons. He’ll let Magnus sleep a while longer, and then make his attempt, just in case he wakes him irreversibly. He can make it a few more minutes.

He jumps to attention as Magnus’ phone goes off, reaching for a seraph blade that isn’t there – before gaining a little awareness and settling back down, glancing around to check that he hasn’t inadvertently made a scene. Thankfully, the only person close enough to have noticed his reaction is his husband, who extinguishes the dim sparks at his fingertips, raising a seemingly-amused eyebrow at Alec’s jumpiness before answering the offending cell phone. ‘Hello?’ ‘Magnus, w… ‘l are you?’ Alec catches through the speaker. ‘You sh… Gilf… ‘ly’n hour ago.’ ‘Ah,’ Magnus says, looking over at the scrolling banner – which now says The next station is Portsmouth Harbour, and Alec’s stomach drops as he realises what must have happened. ‘It seems we’ve taken a little detour. We’ll get off at the next station and portal straight to you as planned.’ He pauses, Ragnor’s reply lost in his grumpy tone. ‘Yes, all right. See you soon.’

Magnus hangs up, turning to Alec and giving him a sheepish smile. ‘It seems that we’ve missed our stop.’ ‘Looks that way,’ Alec mumbles. ‘Well, no matter.’ He snaps his fingers, apparently unfazed. ‘There. Two tickets for Portsmouth Harbor. Problem solved.’ ‘Great,’ Alec says, attempting a smile of his own. He sits back in his chair, looking down at where he’s unconsciously started fiddling with his wedding ring.

Magnus is too well-versed in his brush-off tactics to let him get away with that, though, and Alec soon finds his face gently pivoted towards his husband with a careful hand. ‘Alexander, is everything okay?’ he asks, his brow furrowed in soft concern.

‘Yeah,’ Alec says. ‘I mean it,’ he insists, when Magnus tilts his head as if to say come on, now. ‘Everything’s fine. It’s just…’ He sighs, one corner of his mouth twitching up into a rueful smile. ‘It might not have been. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I’m sorry.’ ‘It’s okay,’ Magnus says, his frown deepening a little in confusion. ‘You fell asleep first. Which means it was my watch,’ Alec points out.

At that, Magnus rolls his eyes, heaving a long-suffering sigh, though a gentle smile tugs at his lips. ‘It wasn’t your watch, darling,’ he says. ‘We’re not on some… quest through dangerous territory. You fell asleep on a train. It happens.’ ‘We’re still out on our own in public – ‘ ‘Which makes it a little embarrassing, especially since we missed our stop, but not dangerous,’ Magnus says firmly. ‘You saw me put up a ward before I fell asleep. I doubt your subconscious would have let you sacrifice your alertness, otherwise.’ ‘Magnus-‘

But he’s silenced by his husband holding up a finger to his lips, just shy of touching. ‘It’s good to let your guard down sometimes, Alexander,’ Magnus says softly. ‘It’s good to feel safe.’ He flashes a small, teasing smile. ‘Especially when you’re with me.’

Alec’s stomach twists again, but this time, it’s a warm, fluttery sensation, and he relents. ‘Okay,’ he murmurs – and he hums a little in contentment as he’s rewarded with a kiss.

They get off the train, their magically-adjusted tickets not giving them any problems at the gate, and they quickly discover that Portsmouth Harbour is a fairly literal name for this station – it’s practically on the water. ‘Those seagulls are huge,’ Alec says, as they wander through the streets to a quieter area, trying to find a safe place to glamor and portal without visibly disappearing. ‘Disproportionate,’ Magnus agrees. ‘A tiny country and a tiny stretch of water, and they’ve practically got albatrosses? I can’t say it makes a lot of sense to me.’

It’s not long before they’re ducking into an alleyway, and Magnus twirls one hand, calling a portal. His other hand reaches out to Alec’s, and he orders, ‘Hold on,’ like he always does when he knows their portal destination is new to his husband.

They step out onto a rolling expanse of green – large enough that the clouds above them cast the soft outlines of shadows, slinking across the grass like ships going by. Ragnor is there waiting, standing before them with a raised eyebrow and a small smile. ‘Took you long enough,’ he comments. ‘Oh, shut up,’ Magnus says lightly, stepping forward and embracing the other warlock briefly. They hadn’t seemed like those sort of friends, at first – both from what Alec himself had seen of them, and from what Clary and Jace had told him. He’d mentioned that casually to Magnus, once; and Magnus had thought for a second, before quietly explaining that he’s just found himself doing that more often – reaching for a hug, or accepting one – since Ragnor’s apparent ‘death’.

Which… yeah. Alec can definitely understand that.

He’s pulled back to the present moment as Ragnor extends an arm towards his impressive house, at the top of the hill and not too far from where they’re standing. ‘Shall we?’

Ragnor’s home proves to be pretty much exactly what Alec expected. With the eclectic furniture, old-world charm, and shelves of copious books and artifacts, it’s similar in a lot of ways to Catarina’s home, and to Magnus’ loft before it was Alec’s, too. Or, actually, if he’s being honest, for the first few months after. It was only in the process of moving their lives to Alicante that Magnus had insisted Alec assist with ‘a long-overdue redecoration.’ Magnus, he’d protested, we don’t have to, I like your place the way it is- But that’s exactly it, Alexander, Magnus had interrupted him. It’s our place. And if it’s going to feel like our marital home instead of my bachelor pad- (Alec had smirked at the phrasing, and had received a withering glare) - then it needs your input, too. Now: couches facing northwards, or east?

And maybe Alec had gone along with it just to appease his husband, at the time. But these days, he can’t deny that there’s a certain comfort in coming back to a home he’s had a hand in shaping.

Across the room, now, Magnus is looking at a painting hung in the stairwell, out of Alec’s eyeline, and shaking his head. ‘When will you get rid of this thing?’ he asks, with no small amount of distaste in his expression. ‘It reeks of a narcissism that doesn’t become you.’ ‘I will get rid of it when – or, more likely, if – it stops being useful,’ Ragnor says, holding a cup of what smells like very good coffee out to Alec, and returning his smile of thanks before pointing at a seat, silently inviting him to make himself comfortable. ‘Especially since you insisted I get rid of my wall of fire,’ he continues, glancing back at Magnus. ‘Because it was a ridiculous drain on your resources, and beyond superfluous once Valentine ceased to be a threat,’ Magnus scoffs, summoning his own drink before collapsing into the seat next to Alec’s like he owns the place. ‘If you’re not careful, you’ll end up with this place looking as tacky as Lorenzo’s,’ he adds, pointing accusingly at their host with his free hand.

Ragnor glares at him. ‘You ought to take that back whilst you still can, Magnus,’ he warns. Magnus raises his eyebrows, his mouth shrugging irreverently. ‘Or?’

But Ragnor doesn’t answer him directly. ‘Tell me, Alexander,’ he says, a wicked shine seeming to spark in his eyes. ‘Did your husband ever regale you with the story of the weekend he spent in Tuscany with Signor Simoni? How he ended up –‘ ‘All right,’ Magnus says loudly, huffing out a disgruntled breath. ‘All right, comment withdrawn.’ He glowers, though the effect is somewhat lost when he’s peering above his cup of tea. ‘Blackmailer. I try to look out for your good taste in your dotage, and this is how you thank me?’

Alec chuckles, not too bothered by the loss of a promised story. They’ve hosted Ragnor enough times by now that he has a general idea of how this evening’s going to go, and so he’s fairly certain he’ll get to hear it anyway.

One excellent roast beef dinner and several glasses of honeyed wine later, he’s proved exactly right.

***

The night they spend at Ragnor’s passes quickly. The three of them while away most of it talking, and when they eventually turn in, Ragnor’s guest room is inviting and comfortable, from the wooden floors that are warmer than they ought to be to the cool cotton sheets that are almost as soft as Magnus’ preferred silk. The magic that hums around them, guarding the house, is different, of course – it’s a little less heady, quieter and more distant, yet more persistent than the wards around their own home. But just when Alec is beginning to wonder if it’s too different for him to be able to fall asleep, Magnus rolls over and semi-consciously wraps an arm around his waist, his breathing evening out against Alec’s neck moments later.

A more familiar hum seems to resonate within Alec at the possessive gesture, and he smiles, closing his eyes. He sleeps the whole night through, peaceful and undisturbed.

The house comes to a sleepy start after the late night, and they partake in an indulgent ‘Full English’ brunch before deciding to make the most of the sunshine, going for a walk around a few of the meadows and small stretches of forest bordering Ragnor’s own land. Alec walks a little in front, taking in the fresh air and occasionally thinking of practical uses for what’s growing around them. The small flowers underfoot, he’s pretty sure, are birdsfoot trefoil, and he knows that Catarina sometimes combines the darker petals of that with powdered adder scales, to make an infusion for patients with particularly stubborn fevers. The treeline nearby is fairly yew-heavy, and Alec’s thoughts drift once again to the fanciful idea of taking up bowyery someday. After so long refining how to use a bow, he guesses it’s pretty natural that he’d catch some sort of interest in how they’re made. He’s heard that old mundane bows were often made of yew wood, so perhaps that’d be a good material to work with; providing he avoided prolonged, long-term exposure, the kind that used to poison traditional woodworkers.

When he isn’t busy daydreaming about craftsmanship that he definitely doesn’t have the time for right now, he listens to what Magnus and Ragnor are discussing as they walk along. Right now, for instance, they’re debating the usefulness of platinum cauldrons – Ragnor claims that they’re a trinket and a fad, whilst Magnus is preaching the merit of their unique and subtle inert energies during the potion-brewing process. Sometimes, when they get like this – bickering over magical theory, neither willing to give an inch – Alec wonders how on earth they ever managed to live together. Maybe he ought to ask Catarina about it sometime.

They eventually turn back towards the house, Magnus linking arms with Alec as they walk. ‘I hope we weren’t boring you,’ he says, more indifferently than Alec suspects he feels. ‘I do worry about leaving you out, sometimes.’ Alec leans a little closer to his husband in reassurance, nudging Magnus’ ribs affectionately with his elbow. ‘Are you kidding?’ he says. ‘You know I find all that magic stuff interesting. Especially when you’re the one talking about it.’ He grins. ‘Though, I gotta say, I think Ragnor has a point about moose antlers being more potent than reindeer.’

Magnus looks at him in sheer offence, apparently speechless in the face of such betrayal. Ragnor chuckles, clapping Alec on the shoulder. ‘I knew I liked you for a reason, Shadowhunter.’

 ***

In the evening, they take their leave, thanking Ragnor for his hospitality before stepping through their portal. It takes Alec a moment to notice, because the world looks different at night, but they end up in the exact same alleyway they portaled to Ragnor’s from. ‘See?’ Magnus says, as they step out into the streetlight and the last remnants of dusk. Across the water, orange lights flicker from where the coastline curves round, like stars at the horizon. ‘Our train mishap was helpful, as it turns out,’ Magnus continues, linking his arm with the one Alec isn’t currently using to drag their suitcase behind them, the wheels rumbling quietly over the sidewalk. ‘This is far closer to the ferry port than I would have been able to portal us before. We won’t even have to call a cab.’

He’s right; it’s a very manageable walk to the ferry port. The city is quiet at this time – though a New Yorker’s perspective on that is always a little skewed, Alec will admit – but they do pass a couple of dog walkers, among others. And when they run into a third group of young people, laughing raucously and moving in herds, Alec raises an eyebrow. Magnus shrugs. ‘College town,’ he says by way of explanation, gesturing to a building nearby – one that bears the same purple livery as several others they’ve passed tonight. ‘And eighteen’s the drinking age here, so they’re not limited to the secrecy of frat parties.’

They reach the ferry port soon after that, and board quickly. Magnus finds a quiet corner to surreptitiously banish the suitcase, and then they head out to the stern of the top deck. The boat begins to move towards Caen, the water rushing loudly below them, and Magnus’ arm is warm around Alec’s waist as they watch the city lights grow distant across the sea.

He wakes to a heavy weight on his chest, smiling fondly even before he opens his eyes. At home, Magnus might be justified in calling him an octopus; but when they’re sleeping away from the loft, his husband gains a certain charming clinginess of his own.

Alec turns his head to the left, gazing out of the porthole. Neither of them had wanted to be underwater – or in a windowless room that might make them feel as if they were – so they’d paid the extra for a glimpse of the outside world, and at this moment, Alec thinks it might be among the best decisions they've ever made. He breathes slow and steady, a sense of calm washing over him, and watches as the dark orange clouds twisting across the violet sky gradually shift into a brighter hue.

Magnus shifts, his breath tickling Alec’s chest a little as he yawns. ‘Good morning,’ Alec says softly. Magnus rolls off of him, stretching and sighing heavily before curling back in, planting a light, smiling kiss to Alec’s shoulder. ‘Morning.’ Alec turns his head back towards his right, deciding that watching Magnus watch the sunrise makes for a better view than watching it himself. His husband is beautiful in any light, but something about the blue and gold of dawn makes him look soft and ethereal - like a really good dream, but one that Alec’s somehow gotten lucky enough to hold and taste and keep.

‘Hey,’ he says after a few long, quiet moments, drawing Magnus’ eyes back to him. He flicks his own gaze briefly over his shoulder. ‘Nothing against air travel or trains, but I think that this one might be my favorite,’ he says with a small smile. Magnus chuckles, the laughter creasing kindness around his cat eyes as he reaches up, tenderly brushing Alec’s hair away from his face. ‘Mine too,’ he agrees.

 ~oOo~

[kinghoranshit]

Just Another Normal Story (HS) - PT 1

I yanked on dark denim skinnies. Then pulled on an oversized, ugly, reindeer sweater. Tonight’s the Lowry family, white elephant Christmas. Since there were more than twenty of us, this was how we did it. 

“Nichole! People are arriving! Are you almost ready?” My mom called up the stairs. 

“Yeah!” I replied and walked out of my bedroom to look over the railing so she could see me. Then I went into the bathroom to brush out my silver, mid-length, wet hair and I did little makeup; it was just my family.  

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was immediately pulled into hugs. 

“How’s our little Nikki?” uncle Jeffy gushed. 

I laughed. “I’m doing alright. Got some of my own novels in the works. Started my new freelance editing work too.”

“Heard that’s not super stable,” someone commented. 

I turned around and rolled my eyes. “Writing is a career, Daren, and I’m quite good at it.”

His blue eyes laughed, but his lips pressed in a firm line. “Money will be tight.” 

“I know that.” I huffed. “Everyone keeps telling me that. Leo and my friend Sonnie are the only ones that haven’t. They trust my choices.”

“I think writing is a great career,” a deep, soothing voice stated. One that was completely unfamiliar, and British.

“Says the one who’s making music,” Daren, a great friend of our family, remarked and turned around to look at whoever it was. 

I peeked around his shoulder to see a guy the same height as him. He was obviously closer in age to me. His green eyes caused me to catch my breath. Holy fuck. He was attractive. I felt my cheeks burn at the realization that I am, in fact, wearing an ugly sweater. And my hair was still becoming an unruly mess as it continued to dry. I tried to not make my fingers running through my hair too obvious. 

Though, I felt better when I noticed he was wearing a somewhat ugly sweater as well. Green to match his eyes with grey snowflakes aligning across the chest. His hair was a little messy. Curls that looked the color of melted dark chocolate. His features were strong. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. 

His eyes met with mine and I couldn’t stop myself from changing my sight to Daren. I think my hands were shaking; I managed to fold them together to help stop my nerves. This always happened when anyone I found attractive remotely looked in my direction. 

“Nichole, this is my second cousin Harry Styles,” Daren introduced. “Harry, this is Mark’s daughter, Nichole Lowry. I feel like I’ve done my part.” A sneaky grin placed on his lips as he walked away and into the kitchen where everyone else had congregated to talk and eat. 

“Hi,” I breathed, my cheeks still burned. 

He had his fairly large hands in front of him, folded, and a cute smile crossed his lips. “Hi... So, you’re an author?” 

I nodded. “Yeah, sort of. I copy-edit for others right now.” 

“What do you write?” he asked, seeming naturally interested. 

An easy, big smile now replaced the nervous line I had moments ago. “Novels. All mostly YA mysteries and supernatural. I’ll basically write anything though.” 

A devious smirk replaced his smile. “Do you write, like, smut and stuff?”

I wasn’t going to question why he knew something like that. There were multiple reasons, but it wasn’t my business. 

I cleared my throat with a fake laugh. “You think you’re funny. Yes, sometimes, I do… What about you? You write music, right?” I was hoping to change the subject off of me. I’m not one to talk about myself. 

He brought a hand through his hair. I could almost guarantee that he had a popping bicep underneath that bulky sweater. He looked like a fantastic hugger by his stature and demeanor. I’d love to be wrapped up in them. I averted my eyes back to his to avoid any further (dirtier) thoughts. 

“I do. The lads and I are trying to make something of ourselves. Our working name is One Direction.” 

“I’m sure you’re great! What’s your main genre?” 

“Pop. A little mix of pop rock.” 

I slowly nodded. “Nice, my kinda thing. Maybe I could hear a song or two some time?”

His face brightened up like a little kid’s on Christmas morning. “Yeah, of course, love.”

My heart fluttered at the word ‘love’. I bet it was something that he used a lot on the daily considering he was british, but it was just so soft and sweet. I couldn’t help the butterflies that filled my internal organs.

I noticed the mass of my family coming out of the kitchen and gestured to them. “Later then… I think we’re starting soon.”

“Okay. I won’t forget.” 

I laughed. “Same. I’m gonna get a drink. Want anything?” I walked past him and headed towards the kitchen. For some reason, I just knew he’d follow. 

I grabbed a wine glass from the kitchen and poured some of the rose wine my mom had already opened. 

“I don’t know,” he replied. 

I raised a brow. “How do you not know? Either you’re thirsty or not.” It came out a little more snappy than I had intended and I shot him a sheepish look. “Sorry. Are you thirsty? We have water. I know a couple beers in the fridge. Rose wine. A bottle of white somewhere. Uhm… We also have some sparkling juice I believe.” 

He chuckled. It sent shivers down my spine. He rubbed his chin and it was now I noticed the rings he wore. God, those made the thoughts I was trying to suppress worse; I’ve only just met the guy, I needed to chill. But the fact he wanted to keep talking to me… Why?

“I think… I think I’ll have the rose.”

“You got it.” I reached back up in the cabinet on the middle shelf for another wine glass. The last one happened to be in the way back and I was having a hard time reaching. I felt something hard against my back and a hand lightly brushed mine before taking the glass. My face heated up furiously now at how close we were. 

I turned around and looked up into his intense eyes. I couldn’t help glancing at his luscious lips then back into his eyes. I noted he did the same. 

“Here you go,” he whispered, his voice a bit raspy, and handed the wine glass to me.

“Are you two coming?” Daren called. 

I groaned internally. “Yeah, Schumaker, we are.” 

Harry chuckled again. “He is quite annoying.” 

“You are right on that one,” I remarked and poured his wine. I corked the bottle before I picked up mine. “Ready for some fun?” 

He took a sip of his and tasted it thoughtfully, his eyebrows furrowing, “Yeah. How is it done?”  

I smiled and went on to explain it. We all got a number out of a hat or bowl and went in that order. There would be a couple rounds of the starter gifts, and then once round of the large gift. Items were locked down after the round was officially over. Families sort of became smaller teams when it came to getting certain items; we had the rule that items could be stolen up to three times before it was locked.

He tapped his chin. “Okay… I think I have it. Are we on a team?” 

That caught me by surprise. Usually, it was my two brothers, my mom, my dad, and I who are a team. When Daren came last year for his first Lowry christmas though, he just joined our team. 

“Yeah, sure. Our team also includes my two brothers Leo and John, mom, dad, Daren, and I,” I stated, pointing them out from where we sat on the carpet. My parents had a thing for naming us kids after famous actors. Leo was named after Leonardo DeCaprio, John after Johnny Depp, and I was after Nicholas Cage. They thought I was going to be a boy, thus they only changed a couple letters and still got their way.

“Okay… Uhm, not sure what to take so just tell me.” 

He was so freaking cute. He was both cute and sexy, he was basically a nuclear weapon. 

I giggled.“It’s not rocket science. Take whatever. Don’t be afraid to steal, we’re all friendly here.” 

He licked his lips. “You do know stealing is wrong?” 

“Not here. It’s all part of the fun. Seriously, don’t worry about it.” 

“Okay. Am I supposed to tell you what number I am?” 

I shrugged. “You can. Everyone will know eventually.” 

“Number twenty two.” 

“Hey!” I exclaimed, lightly whacking his arm. “I’m number twenty one, and you’re the last one. We can tag team.”

“Alright, everyone knows their number and is ready?” my aunt Dianna asked, who sat over by the massive pile of starter gifts. She always went overboard every year; she thrift shops a lot. 

“Yeah,” everyone chimed in on their own account. 

“Okay, let’s get this started!” She clapped her hands. 

***

I shook my right leg nervously. We were in the large gifts now; the final round of the white elephant. We had three rounds of the starter gifts. So far, no one had taken the gift I wanted to go for. An HP Envy 5525 printer. I knew which one it was because it’s one our family contributed. I didn’t know why. My mom knew I’d been needing a new one, yet she didn’t get me one for Christmas when it was one of the only things on my short list. 

This was the sucky part of being the second to last person. The anticipation. 

My cousin Jeremy was two numbers before me and my heart clenched when he went straight for it. Everyone ‘ooed’ after he’d revealed it, and it was now that I noticed other family members were interested. It wasn’t impossible for them to get it if they had the means. But Jeremy and his wife seemed to be smitten with the gift; it was a nice ass printer. 

I looked down at my hands in my lap, then looked back up when I knew it was the next person; Leo. Suddenly, I had an idea. Subtly, I texted him. He gave me a short nod and I let out a breath. We’d always been a great tag team. 

Leo stood up and walked straight over to Jeremy to grab it. Everyone ‘ooed’. And knowing he’d go for what Leo wanted, I’d steal from him when it was my turn. I watched as Jeremy went to take the FIFA games away from cousin David. Cousin David only laughed, eyeing all the presents. He decided to go for another large gift; there were only three left. It ended up being a toolset, which was up more his alley anyway.

My heartbeat quickened as I got up and went to Jeremy to take the FIFA games. There were ooo’s and laughs once again. I saw him look at Emily, his wife, and I mentally cursed. Jeremy took Emily’s gift and of course, she went to take the printer from Leo. 

Leo looked around and I internally cheered seeing my family plan the next moves. My oldest brother John and my mom had worked together so John could get the weight set and my mom could get the running gear. Leo took the toolset from my dad, and then he took the printer from Emily. 

I smiled widely, then frowned as she took, Jeremy’s mom, Nancy’s gift and in return she got the printer. Gah! It’s never ending! My dad looked at me and shrugged. I shrugged back. My dad went for one of the two last gifts. It was a movie, candy, popcorn basket; that worked for our whole family. It was two movies we already had though-- ‘We’re the Millers’ and ‘Battleship’. 

I looked over at Harry. “Your turn.” 

He looked at me thoughtfully and whispered, “You really want that printer?”

“Yeah, but you-”

Without hesitation he took it away from Nancy-- the last alliance for Jeremy’s side. 

He plooped back down beside me and presented it to me.“You said stealing was okay.”

I laughed under my breath. “Thanks, but now you didn’t get a large gift. I’ll wrestle my dad for that movie basket.”

“No worries, love. Your smile is enough.”

The heat came up my neck again and I forced myself to watch the end as a distraction. Nancy just took the final gift. It seemed like the large gift round was always equivalent in time with the amount of rounds we did for the starter gifts. 

Everyone who tag teamed switched their gifts around and all was right. Now, it was time for whatever before those who had to drive home did so. I might eat. 

“I’m gonna heat up leftovers, want anything?” I asked as I stood up and straightened out the sweater. 

He stood up as well and smirked. “I could eat, especially with you.”

It took a second for his words to click and I cocked a brow. “Did you just ask me out?” 

“I did.” He chuckled. It vibrated in my chest. 

“I’d love to.” I smiled before I headed to the kitchen.

Next: 2

[Masterlist]

[jaehyun-eclipsed]

Before I Met You | Twelve

Updates: Sundays

Pairing: NCT (Jaehyun, Lucas, Mark, Jaemin, Johnny) X Reader/OC

Genre: Romance, Angst, Coming of Age

Summary: Four. There were four people before I fell in love with you… Here are their stories.

Warnings: Some swearing

Before I Met You Masterlist

Prev | Next

“Okay, I’m stuck.”

This morning, I had decided to text Jaemin to help me with my physics assignment. He agreed and we promptly met at one o’clock in the piano room. We sat at one of the two work tables, occupying the two chairs directly next to each other with our backs to the window.

Jaemin leans over, placing his hand on the edge of my seat right next to my thigh to get closer to my laptop screen to read the question. His shoulder is brushing against mine, but I don’t move away.

Okay, dude, you’re invading my personal space. I’m pretty sure you don’t actually need to get this close just to read the question.

But I’m also guessing that this is another sign you like me because you don’t seem to be bothered by it at all.

“It’s asking for the distance,” I say, trying to distract myself from our close proximity. “So I’m going to need the acceleration, but I’m not sure how to get that.”

“You can solve for it. They give you enough information.”

“They do?” I read the question again, a sudden epiphany occurring mid-read. “Oh, I’m dumb. I can solve for delta v and divide by the time.”

“Yep, that’s right! And no –” he turns to look at me and smiles “– you’re not dumb.”

I return his smile and glance at his laptop screen. “What are you working on?”

“Nothing really. I’m supposed to be working on a coding project, but I don’t really want to.”

So you’re just sitting down here – on your own time – helping me with physics when you should technically be working on a project…

“Oh, I’ve never tried coding before”

“It’s pretty simple. See, you can define ‘x,’” he says, quickly tapping several keys on his keyboard. “You can say ‘x’ equals five and then” – he hits ‘enter’ to move to the next line in the terminal – “‘x’ plus two and hit enter, and it’ll return seven!”

“Oh, that’s cool.”

I remain in the same position, comfortably seated all the way back in the chair, only turning my head and leaning in just enough to be able to see the small font on his computer. Okay, you definitely don’t need to be getting that close to me just to see. I can see perfectly from here. And you don’t even wear glasses… unless that’s why you’re leaning in… because you actually do need glasses… Eh, no matter, you wouldn’t be leaning into a complete stranger even if you did need glasses.

I shake my head, returning my focus back to my own computer, filling in the values into the equations in a notebook and punching the numbers into my calculator.

“So, who’s your other roommate?” I ask while submitting my final answer into the online assignment.

“Which one? Renjun?”

“No, I met Renjun. Who’s the other?”

“Oh, Jeno?”

“Jeno… so that’s his name…” I murmur to myself.

Jeno’s pretty cute. He has a very… manly look.

“Yeah, why?”

“No reason. I haven’t met him yet, so I was just wondering who he was.”

“Oh,” he remarks. “Yeah, he’s nice. He’s a chemistry major. You should introduce yourself.”

I nod. “I never see him around, but maybe next time!”

We continue this way for the next three hours. I sluggishly work through the questions, asking for his assistance when needed while he occasionally shows me some random YouTube video or coding thing. Honestly, I was surprised he stayed here with me this long. It’s Sunday afternoon; there are a million other things you could do that are much more exciting than helping your new housemate do her physics homework.

“Yay! I finished! Thanks for your help!”

“No problem!” he says, standing up and shutting his laptop. “I’m going to go upstairs to do my homework now.”

“Now?” I ask, perplexed. “Why didn’t you do it within the last –” I check the time and my eyes widen in shock. “– last three hours?”

He shrugs. “I was procrastinating, but I can just say I was helping you,” he says, following with a slight smirk and a wink.

I deadpan. Did he just – did he just wink at me?

“Anyway,” – his smirk morphs into a smile that’s genuinely warm – “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yep.” I press my lips together in a flat line. “See ya.”

I watch him as he leaves the room and turns left to head upstairs.

What the hell?

Thursday evening, I slowly open my eyes, blinking several times to adjust to the early evening twilight seeping in through the blinds. Stretching my arms above my head, I reach for my phone that I placed at the top of my pillow. I squint at the sudden bright light as I unlock it to check the time.

5:30. I napped for an hour and a half.

Jia was out for some club meeting so I had the room to myself for the next few hours.

Gradually, I sit up in bed, looking around the room as I try to shake off the sleepiness. In my groggy state, I decide that I’ll make a sandwich for dinner and then come back up to the room to call my dad.

While grabbing some groceries out of the fridge, I turn my head towards the door, hearing a muffled sound of Jaemin’s voice. In the short time here, I had learned that the walls in the house were not soundproof whatsoever. Unfortunately, the way I figured this out was because I heard some “things” going on when the girl living across from me brought her boyfriend back to her room.

Stepping out of my room, I look down the hall to see that the door to Jaemin’s room is wide open. He walks out of his room, holding a phone up to one ear and glances at me before continuing. He’s dressed nicer today – blue and white vertical striped button-up loosely tucked into his blue slacks. I shut my door and begin walking down the hall.

There’s a little inlet halfway down the hall with a small table and chair. A number of times, I’d walk by in the evenings and see one of my neighbors sitting there with a laptop. Something comes over me – a desire for more attention to continuing testing my suspicions. I walk into the inlet, setting my bag of groceries on the table and stand with one foot in the hallway, placing my weight on the other leg. I pull out my phone to read the text messages I received from Hyojin when he walks back into his room, gripping a package under his arm.

“Hey, I gotta go,” I hear Jaemin say.

When I look up again, Jaemin is walking towards me. He smiles. “Hey! What are you doing?”

“I just woke up from a nap so I’m going to go make a sandwich.”

“Oh, okay.” He nods and presses himself up against the wall opposite of where I’m standing. “Hey, so I was having some trouble with this physics problem… I think it was one you had last week. Do you think you could help me?”

I deadpan immediately, shifting my eyes to the right before returning my gaze back to him. Fortunately, I’m still groggy from my nap and can’t properly contort my face to express how confused I currently am.

You want me to help you with your physics problem when you’re in a harder class? What? Aren’t you the one that helps me?

“Uh,” I begin hesitantly. “Sure…”

“Okay! Uh, you can go make your sandwich and then I’ll meet you in the piano room?”

“Yeah…”

When he leaves, I continue to stand in place, unable to fully comprehend what just happened. I try to attribute my confusion to the residual sleepiness, but I know I can’t be convinced. He really just asked me for physics help, didn’t he? This sounds like another excuse to spend more time with me…

But I do as he says and make my sandwich, grab my backpack, and then find him at the same table we were at last weekend, except this time, we’re facing the window.

As I pull up last week’s physics homework, I sit there wondering how in the world I’m going to help him. If he doesn’t understand it, it’s unlikely that I would have understood it last week. The most I could do is let him see the solution and that’s not exactly helping him.

And guess what? That’s exactly what happens. The only saving grace is that he doesn’t understand the solution either; so he inputs the answer and calls it good because “it’s not like these homework questions are representative of the exam anyway.” He’s not wrong. Even I know that.

“I have to go meet some friends for dinner,” he says, quickly packing up his things. “So I’ll see you later.”

While he’s gone, I decide to do some reading for tomorrow’s lecture and finish up any of the prelab questions before tomorrow’s lab class. However, I find it difficult to concentrate as my brain wants to perform intense analysis on Jaemin rather than trying to understand Vibrio isolation.

Maybe he really only wanted the physics help because he knew I already had the solution. I’m sure he knew I wouldn’t be able to explain it to him and it’s not like he stayed either… I sigh. But that doesn’t explain the winking or sitting with me for three hours… Ugh, whatever, you need to finish studying for tomorrow.

After about an hour and a half, I hear the front door of the house open and I look over my shoulder. The light from the dining room across the way provides just enough light to make out Jaemin’s figure as he walks into the foyer. He glances at me and waves before going upstairs.

I purse my lips, feeling a bit disappointed that he probably wasn’t going to come back. I truly enjoyed his company. He was fun to talk to and showed me interesting things, including his water bottle collection he had accumulated from attending job fairs. Though I wasn’t interested in dating him, I did want to be his friend. At the very least, I could designate him as someone to go get dinner with and just hang out.

“Hey!” a voice says behind me.

I jump slightly upon realizing it’s Jaemin. He has his laptop and backpack in hand and pulls out the chair next to me to sit down. Oh! Huh… you came back.

“Hi, you came back to work?”

“Yeah, I just have something that should take a half hour.”

Several other residents had returned home and were sitting on the couches a few feet away discussing Pokémon Go.

“Have you ever played?” Jaemin asks me.

“No, have you?”

“Yeah, I played all summer,” he says, pulling out his phone. “It’s pretty fun, see? But yeah, I was here for an internship during the summer so I’d walk around campus trying to catch them.”

He spends the next few minutes searching up different Pokémon on the internet, showing me pictures and telling me about their abilities. I nod, commenting on the ones I found particularly cute. It’s nice; it’s so easy talking to him and we can easily talk about nothing without it ever feeling forced.

“Yay, I finished!” he says.

There’s that feeling in my chest again – the one of disappointment when I thought Jaemin wasn’t going to come back to hang out. I internally chastise myself.

“You going to turn in for the night?”

“Nah, I’ll stay down here.”

Three hours later, at eleven p.m., after having finished my biology homework, I decide that it’s time to return to my room to shower and get ready for bed.

“All right,” I say, gently closing my laptop and packing together my things. “I’m done for tonight.”

Jaemin trails behind me as we go up the stairs, telling me about an interview he has next week. There are three directions you can go once you reach the top of the stairs: right, left, or up to the next floor. Jaemin’s room is the first one on the left when you turn right. My room is at the end of the same hall.

As we near his room, I expect him to stop in front of his room and bid goodnight. Only, he doesn’t do that. He continues to follow me to my door as we pass his room.

“Hey, can you get my keys out of the top zipper?” I ask, turning my back to him. “My hands are full.”

“Sure!” 

I feel him tug on the top of my backpack, followed by a jingling of my keys as he hands me my lanyard.

“Thanks!” I say as I try to separate the key fob from the rest of my keys.

“You’re a Vulpix!” he suddenly says.

“A what?”

I look at him and see that he’s looking at the printed photo on my door of a brown animal resembling a fox with a fluffier tail. Each door had the names of the residents living in that room and a Pokémon to “represent” each resident. He points to the photo above my name tag. “It’s a Pokémon. It’s one of the cuter looking ones.”

I blink several times, unsure of what to say given that I didn’t have much of an interest in Pokémon. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I think it suits you.”

I turn to look at him and he’s smiling again. He does have a nice smile. And I’d have to be blind to miss it, but there’s that look in his eyes again. The mischievous one.

You’re definitely charming, I’ll give you that.

I return a small smile back, allowing the slightest bit of amusement to be detected in my eyes. “Which one are you?”

“Charmander.”

“Does that one fit you?”

“Yeah, I’d say so.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll let you get to bed. Thanks for helping me today.”

I give him a crooked smile. “I didn’t really help you at all…”

“Of course you did!” he insists.

He still has his hand on my shoulder and as I look back at him, he’s gazing at me with an expression that I can only describe as ‘lustful.’ He’s conventionally attractive, but I still can’t say I’m interested in him. I just happen to like the attention. And I’m not flirting with him either – at least, I don’t believe I am.

But the next thing he does shocks me to such an extent I nearly drop all the books in my hand. He squeezes my shoulder and leans towards me, tilting his head down so that his mouth is near my ear.

“Goodnight,” he whispers.

He pulls back, a smug smirk on his lips, evidently amused by the stunned expression he catches on my face before he turns around to walk back to his room. I watch him until he reaches his door, unlocking it and glancing at me before slowly closing it and disappearing inside.

Okay, there’s no fucking way that wasn’t flirting.

It takes me another moment to gain enough composure to process what just happened before opening my own door.

“Who was that?” Jia immediately asks when I step inside.

“Jaemin,” I answer nonchalantly.

“He walked you back to the room?”

“Yeah…”

She gets up from her chair and hovers over my desk as I set my things down. “Did you ask him to help you with physics?”

“Um, no…” I bite my lip. “He asked me to help him with physics.”

“What?!” she exclaims.

“That was my response.”

She follows me into the bathroom, leaning in the doorway as I clip my hair back to take off my makeup and wash my face.

“Do you think he likes you?”

Jaemin’s “goodnight” continues to ring in my ears. The way he was grabbing onto my shoulder was a little more than “friendly.” Hell, whispering into my ear like that is more than “friendly.” There’s no way he’s not – at the very least – interested in me.

“Um, I think he’s interested in me…” I respond, attempting to say as little as possible.

“I saw you guys working together downstairs when I came home. I think he likes you!”

“I have no idea.”

Friday at noon, I returned home for lunch after finishing up my classes for the day. I sat in my room, watching reruns of NCIS while eating a sandwich and some fruit. My plan for the next few hours was to start on the physics homework that was due on Tuesday. I would attempt all of the questions and then ask Jaemin for help this weekend on the ones I couldn’t figure out myself.

I had sort of made an assumption that we would work together every weekend even if it wasn’t for him to help me with my physics homework. He stayed with me for three hours last Sunday and we studied together for the entire evening yesterday. Hell, he came back to study with me after he went to meet his friends for dinner. Dad is convinced Jaemin has a thing for me and even Jia is suspicious, but I’m trying to keep her out of it as much as possible.

I grab my keys and leave my room to run downstairs to wash my dishes and refill my water bottle before starting on my homework. But as I’m about to pass Jaemin’s door, my ears perk up due to the voices coming from his room.

“No, look, it’s really cool!” Jaemin says.

“No! I don’t want to go there! It’s so dirty!” a female voice responds.

“It’s not dirty! And they have really good samgyeopsal!” Jaemin replies.  

I stop mid-step and slowly turn my head towards his door. What the –? Is… is that a girl in his room?

“Noo!” she whines again.

I check the time. It’s 1:45. Last Friday, Jaemin had come to say “hello” to me while I was in the piano room working on an assignment around this time. Our interaction was brief, as he told me he had to be in class at two. Hmm. He should be leaving soon.

I continue walking to the kitchen, figuring it’s probably best that I not get caught eavesdropping right outside his door. As I wash my dishes, I mentally strategize how to stay downstairs long enough to watch Jaemin when he comes down the stairs. I don’t have any of my study materials and I don’t want to risk wasting any time to go get them in case he leaves before that.

After filling up my water bottle, I walk into the dining room and place my things on one of the bar tables near the entryway. I choose to sit in the seat that looks into the foyer and pull out my phone, pretending to busy myself with replying to a text from Hana.

My head snaps up when I hear a door close followed by the voice of the female in question. I wait until I hear them walking down the stairs before getting up, keeping my head down, gaze focused on my phone.

I begin to traverse the stairs, briefly looking at the girl as she comes into view. My heart jumps. Why – why does she look so familiar? Jaemin is following behind her, keeping his gaze to the floor. As we’re about to pass each other, I look up from my phone as if I had just noticed he was there.

“Hey,” I greet.

“Hi.”

I continue up the stairs, rounding the spiral and glance at the girl from the corner of my eye, narrowing my eyes at her. When she reaches the door, she steps to the side, her hands clasped in front of her. She looks at Jaemin expectantly as he extends his hand to open the door for her. My nose wrinkles with a slight disgust at the interaction I just witnessed. She purposely moves out of the way for him to open the door for her?

When I return to my room and sit down at my desk, a sudden realization hits me. Wait a second. I know why she seems familiar!

I log into Facebook and type in a name.

Jisu Choi.

As soon as the page loads, my jaw drops. 

Staring back at me is Jisu’s profile picture of a smiling Jaemin with his arm around Jisu.

Holy shit! Jaemin has a girlfriend!

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Before I Met You Masterlist  Masterlist

[ludi-ling]

Crazy Eights

Well, here it is, a little treat for my followers - the first chapter of Crazy 8′s, the sequel to 52 Pickup. I’m sharing since it’s Day 7 (AU) of Rogue/Gambit Week 2020. I don’t know if I’ll ever finish this story, even though I got a fair way through it, since I wrote myself into a corner, and I’m not sure I like it very much. But I hope you like it anyway. Enjoy!

Crazy Eights

Chapter 1

               Thieving 101.

               Simplest rule in the book.

               Don’t get caught.

               I can hear pere’s voice in my head, clear as day, literally beatin’ the words into all of us, his snotty-nosed, grass-stain-scuffed li’l Fagin’s gang.

               Don’t. Get. Caught.

               And then his face, leaning in towards mine, grinning, saying:

               Unless, o’ course, you have a reason t’get caught.

               Yeah, that was mon pere, full of good, subtle ideas. He’d usually direct them at me cos he knew I was like the worst kind of sponge. I’d be soakin’ all that shit up, swimmin’ in it like a gator swims in swamp water.  As a kid, I’d always figured he was just picking on me. As an adult, I realise all he was doing was laying down challenges, cos he knew this punk-ass kid would rise to the bait every time, pushing every damn boundary he could along the way.

               You got potential, boy. But you got no discipline. Always halfway t’ bein’ in a rage, t’ ventin’ it out on some poor trash. You play de con, kid, you live de con. No heart-on-your-sleeve shit.  Dat stays inside. Cos y’know what? Folks can read dat crap a mile away.

               “C’mon, pretty boy,” the man to my right grunts, as the alarms I’ve set off still scream all around us. “Getcha arse in gear. The boss don’t take kindly to waitin’.”

               He prods me in the back with the barrel of his gun, a little too sharply than is strictly necessary; but I get it, he has a job to do, and actin’ mean is part of it.

               “Yeah, well, that’s what bosses are like, mon ami,” I answer with a smirk. “Never got time for nothin’. Mebbe you should think about goin’ freelance, neh?  It has its advantages.  No calls at unsociable hours… Don’t gotta do all the dirty work y’self… Get t’ have a couple of pretty femmes hangin’ on your every word… Still. I reckon mebbe you two ain’t smart ’nuff yet t’ graduate from the ol’ ‘Crime Boss 101’ course, am I right?”

               “Hey!” The guy to my left gives me a crack on the back of the head with what I assume is also the barrel of a gun. “Shut the fuck up!”

               See? Boring, predictable, run-of-the-mill flunkies. These couyons ain’t never gon’ make it past mid-tier bodyguard material.

               And those alarms are still screaming.  Ain’t some asshole gon’ shut it off already?  It’s givin’ me a headache.

               Whatever. I do as I’m told and shut the fuck up. Mostly because I’m busy scanning the décor of this corridor we appear to be walking down.  The walls are lined with paintings, a mess of eras and styles that could tell anyone with an ounce of taste that whoever’s collecting this shit has none.  Taste, that is.  All it tells me is that this guy has cash, and he don’t mind throwin’ it ’round.  We walk past a Cezanne, and I grimace.

               Hang on in there, li’l guy, I say to myself as we sweep right by it. One o’these days I’m gonna free you.  Soon.

               Cos let’s face it.

               You think I’m gonna leave a Cezanne to rot in Cain Marko’s fuckin’ playboy mansion when it could be on my wall?

               I think not.

               We get to the end of the corridor and, thankfully, as soon as we do, someone finally finds the off switch to the alarms. My lovely escorts throw open the burnished oak doors that I can only assume lead to Marko’s private hidey-hole; and before I have a chance to admire the woodwork, I’m being pushed inside in yet another unnecessary show of who’s boss.  I stumble a little over the threshold, and there he is.  Cain Marko, kingpin of London town.  A big, ugly, concrete slab of a man with a mat of red hair and a jaw like a foot.  He’s sitting on a burgundy-red velvet sofa that looks to be late Victorian.  Possibly a Chippendale? Something to research later.  True to form, he has a girl on each knee.

               Crimes bosses.  I toldja so.  Predictably borin’.  Boringly predictable.

               “Well, well,” Marko greets me with a menacing grimace and a Cockney rasp. “Robert Lord.  Your reputation precedes you.  Finally, we get to meet face ta face.”

               It’s at that point that Jake decides to kick in, a harassed voice in my earpiece, hissing: “Remy? Remy, where the fuck are you? Is everything okay?”

               I jerk my head to one side and Jake’s panicked questioning cuts out.

               “Yeah,” I address the man on the sofa. “Coulda been under better circumstances, though. Don’t much care for bein’ kicked around and chained up.” I clink the restraints at my wrists and ankles meaningfully. “Unless, o’ course, it’s consensual and there’s a woman involved.”

               An ugly grin crosses Marko’s face.  He shifts a little and pats each girl on the ass; they get the message and get to their feet, tottering out on stilettos that take a certain art to walk in – neither of them have it.

               “Well,” Marko says with mock disappointment as he, too, gets to his feet. “If ya wanted to meet under better circumstances, you coulda made a less shitty attempt to rob me, Mr. Lord.  I’d heard you were supposed to be some thief extraordinaire, but you ask me? You, breakin’ into my safe? That was pretty fuckin’ amateurish.”

               “Hey,” I banter back good-naturedly as I watch him walk over to the bar and pour himself a drink. “I got through most of your li’l traps jes’ fine, mon ami.  You wanna talk amateurish, let’s talk ‘bout your alarms. They’re more fuckin’ painful than Tante Mattie boxin’ me onna ears.  And it takes too long to shut ‘em off.  Either that, or your flunkies are too stupid to figure out how.”

               Marko, who’d looked half-amused up to this point, lets his mouth drop into a disdainful sneer.

               “Y’know somethin’, yank?” he growls at me, turning back from the bar. “You talk too fuckin’ much.”

               I raise a wounded eyebrow at him.

               “Yank? Hey, now you’re just insultin’ me.”

               “Oh really?” He laughs; and I take back the comment about his alarm system. This is worse. “Mr. Lord, insults are gonna be the least of your problems tonight. No one steals from Cain Marko and gets to just walk out again. You picked the wrong house to rob, mate.  This is one job you ain’t walkin’ out of.”

               He lifts his chin slightly and calls out:

               “Klein?!”

               There’s no answer, and he gives an irate little pause, looks over his shoulder and says again:

               “Klein?! Where the fuck are you?”

               “I’m here,” a woman’s voice replies from a darkened corner, her presence so unexpected it even causes me to jump.

               “Fuck me, woman,” Marko rasps at her. “How long you been standin’ there?”

               The woman says nothing, simply stepping out from her corner.  I realise there’s a door there.  It’s impossible to say whether she’d just walked through, or whether she’d been there all along.  Marko ain’t big on lighting.  Which is a shame, ‘cos Klein is a woman to be looked at.  Mile long legs and a figure to get all wrapped up in.  Brunette hair scraped back into a bun that begs to be loosened. A glance like wildfire.

               “Sorry,” she says with a small twist of humour, all delivered in a perfectly delicious and proper English accent.  I feel some sorta expression begin to form on my face; an appreciative little smile begins to shift round my lips.

               Forget pretty girls tottering around in sexy stilettos they can’t walk in.  This is a woman.

               She glances over at me, then back at her boss with an expectant expression.

               “This shit thief stole me old lady’s engagement ring.” He takes a cellphone out his back pocket and stares at it. “Lesse how fast you can find it for me.”

               Klein don’t waste time mincing words.  Unlike the two couyons behind me, she’s calm, quiet, efficient.  She marches on up with a roll of the hips that’s entirely unconscious.  When she’s finally in front of me, I catch a whiff of her perfume – a barely-there scent that’s not quite fruity and not quite flowery.

               I cock my head to one side and hitch her a smile.

               She doesn’t take the bait.  Her expression is composed as she sizes me up, wondering where to start.  It’s as if she hasn’t even noticed my smile at all.

           “Be gentle, chere,” I quip.

              That’s when she raises her eyes and gives me a look – part disinterested, part unimpressed. Her facade is almost frosty, but it don’t fool me. Beneath the cargo pants and the bomber jacket and the unadorned face, there’s a something to this woman. It’s in the sway of her hips and the sensuousness of her scent. It’s in a whole lot more besides.

              She frisks me in all the usual places, and, Goddamn, her hands alone are enough to set me on fire. Her movements are precise, clinical... yet as insinuating as the touch of a lover.

              Did I mention yet I haven't had sex in 8 fucking weeks?

              She gets on her knees and runs her palms down my legs, and it’s almost more than I can take.

              “While you’re down there, chere...” I can’t help but say; and she pauses, looks up at me with steely eyes and says... Nothing.

              Her gaze fixes on my fly like it’s the only option left, and now we’re talkin’.

              She holds eye contact as she raises both hands, and thumbs open the button of my pants. Her look is impassive; but there’s an undercurrent there, a something that’s signalling to me loud and clear. She unzips my fly slow as a strip tease, and that’s when the shadow of a smile flickers across her face – a brief split second of something more, something to work with.

              Jesus Christ, I’m holding my breath.

              She knows what I’m thinking. She rises to full height and this time she doesn’t bother to hide the smile. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

              “Thought you were s’pposed t’be lookin’ for contraband, p’tite,” I can't help but drawl. The comment wipes the smile from her lips and her gaze drops. She yanks open my fly and within a few short seconds she’s found the fob pocket hidden inside the waistband of my pants. Another split second later and she’s found the ring.

              She turns and flashes it triumphantly at Marko.

              “You made record time, Klein,” he observes approvingly, glancing up from his phone. “Twelve seconds. I’m impressed.”

              Twelve seconds? I swear it coulda been a lifetime...

              She throws the ring to her boss and I watch on, with a wistful sense of loss, as it arcs across the room and into his hand. Oh well. Next time, maybe.

              “If you’re done, chere,” I pipe up behind her, “mebbe you could zip me up again? O’ course, if you ain’t, we can always take dis somewhere a li’l more private... ...”

              I hadn’t exactly been expecting an answer, so I’m doubly taken off guard when she whips round and socks me hard with a fist to the face.

              I totter a bit, tasting blood and seeing stars.

              Damn, this woman packs a punch!

              In the background, Marko’s laughing raucously.

              “Looks like you chose the wrong woman t’ try and charm, yank.”

              Seriously? Enough with the ‘yank’ thing already!

              I grit my teeth and scowl as he continues:

              “Zip ’im up, Klein. I can afford to be charitable to trespassers. I think we can let him leave here with his dignity, if not his life. He has taste after all. Me old ma’s engagement ring,” and he grins sardonically over at me, “is my favourite piece outta my entire collection.”

              Klein obediently turns around and zips me up with more force than necessary. No more smiles and subtle flirtation. She doesn’t even look at me.

              “Sentimental value,” Marko is saying, turning the ring between thumb and forefinger as he approaches me. “That’s what this ring has, Mr. Lord. Me old ma woulda been turnin’ in her grave if I lost it. Specially to some shitty low-feeder like you.”

              I lick the blood from my lip slowly. Low-feeder, huh? This guy is really throwing out them punches tonight.

              “Yeah, I getcha,” I retort with a sarcastic grin. “Momma woulda slapped ya t’ kingdom come if you ever messed wit’ her jewellery. Beat you wit’ a belt, prob’ly, told ya you were a good f’nothin’ piece o’ shit, I’m willin’ t’bet. Sure, I can read a mommy complex a mile away, homme, and you got it bad.”

              I dunno what’s gotten inta me tonight. Or maybe I do. Frustration is a thing and a half. I'm fuckin’ wired, and I can’t stop running my damn mouth off. I ain’t usually this lippy. Honestly.

              Anyways, I’m steeling myself for a beating from my End-of-Level-Boss, but surprisingly he don’t take the bait. Judging from his get-up, he’s ready for a night out, and he don’t want my blood soiling his purple Savile Row suit. Which is good for me, ‘cos the rings on his fingers look like they could double up for some pretty nasty knuckle dusters.

              “I take it back,” he sneers down his nose at me. “This bloody yank don’t deserve jack.”

              He sweeps away and grabs his jacket.

              “You’ve been lookin’ t’prove yerself, ain’t’cha, Klein,” he throws over his shoulder at the woman still standing beside me. “Take care of Mr. Lord for me, and consider yerself one of the gang.” He walks over to a side table, pulls open a draw and takes out a gun. When he throws it to her, she catches it like she doesn’t even have to think about it. “Just make sure you keep some suitably gory keepsake for me to remember ’im by. I’m thinkin’ his teeth. He’s got them pearly whites you can only get in ’Murica. It'll remind me of ’is charmin’ smile.”

              He laughs to himself, throws the ring up in the air, catches it, and deposits it into his pocket.

              “Sorry, Mr. Lord,” he addresses me, “but I have places to go and people to kill.  Don’t worry. Klein’ll entertain you in the playpen.” He waves absently at a door to the right. “I’m sure she’s just itchin’ to get her hands on you.”

              He chuckles and heads for the door, followed by one of his henchmen, leaving with a final, gleeful, “So long!”

              The door bangs shut and now it’s just me, Klein, and Henchman #1.

              Wise strategy on Marko’s part, if Ms. Klein is basically untried and untested.  I might break her little heart, and Henchman #1 might have to put me down instead.

              I suppress a laugh at the thought.

              Klein says nothing. She turns abruptly and sticks the barrel of the gun into the small of my back.

              “Move,” she says.  Her voice is deadpan – nothing to work with.

              “Y’know, chere,” I venture conversationally, as I start shuffling over to the door, “I could speed up some if you’d jes’ untie these chains… Then we could get t’ playtime in the playpen a whole lot faster…”

              “Hey, shut up will ya!” Henchmen #1 barks at me, punctuated by a sharp poke in the back by Klein’s gun. All right, all right, already. I get the message.  They hustle me up to the door and next thing I know, I’m being shoved inside.  Henchman #1 shuts the door behind me and I hear the locks thunk shut.  Now it’s just me, and Klein.

              It turns out the playpen could give H. H. Holmes’ hotel of horrors a run for its money. It’s a pokey little room, and someone’s done gone and painted the walls in a nice shade of red and crusty brown. Blood, gore and brain matter.  The whole place stinks of death.  Merde. The light-hearted mood I’ve managed to maintain so far immediately takes a dive.

              “I take it housekeepin’ don't come round often,” I quip in an undertone – hardly as insolent as it could've been, but it earns me a kick up the ass anyway.  I stagger forward under the momentum, turning to face my would-be executioner as I do so.

              She has the gun pointed at me.

              “Chere, I’d put my hands up if they weren’t tied behind my—”

              The gun fires.

              And the bullet hits the wall over my shoulder.

              The crazy femme don’t give me a moment to recover.

              In a flash she’s lowered the gun and is marching right over to me, grabbing the front of my shirt and jerking me down into a hungry kiss.

              “It’s okay,” she whispers when she sees I’m too shocked to respond. “There aren’t any cameras in here.”

              The words are barely out of her mouth and she’s kissing me again. This time I slip easily out of the chains that I’ve been working on ever since they were clapped on me, and as soon as they hit the ground, I let my palms slide up over her cheeks, pulling her closer, deeper into our kiss. Her fingers wind into my hair, tugging lightly; her body presses against mine, reminding me exactly what I’ve been without the past couple of months. I grab handfuls of her perfect ass and pull her in closer.

              God, I’d fuck her right here, right now, if we weren’t in this shithole and this wasn’t a very important job.

              We kiss until we have no air left to breathe.

              “Lord, I’ve missed ya, Remy,” she murmurs against my lips.

              “Mmm, not as much as I’ve missed you,” I answer sincerely, stealing another kiss before adding heatedly, “Eight whole weeks without you, chere... It’s enough t’ drive a man certifiably insane.”

              She laughs, soft and sexy, her fingers combing lightly through my hair as she backs up a bit and regards me.

              “Darlin’,” she murmurs with a smile, “you were the one who said no contact...”

              “Didn’t wanna risk breakin’ your cover, Anna,” I reply, bridging the slight gap between us and feathering light kisses along her jawline. “Cain Marko’s gang don’t got a real nice reputation, sweet.”

              “Pfft,” she scoffs. “I can handle myself.”

              “For sure,” I agree. “But I’d prefer it if we didn’t tank this mission ‘cos we couldn’t keep our hands offa each other.”

              She hums with vague agreement and runs her thumb across my bottom lip.

              “Sorry about the fist to the face, babe,” she apologises. “Hope I didn’t hurt you too much."

              “Peh.” I wave it off absently – I'd pretty much forgotten it already. “You do what you gotta. Speaking of...”

              But she’s already way ahead of me, rooting around in her utility belt and taking out the small mem-chip case.

              “Nice distraction, by the way,” she congratulates me wryly as she hands me the goods.

              “Didja like it?” I ask her, pocketing the small case.

              “In theory. Thought you had more style, though, Cajun. You managed to set off every alarm in the fucking building.”

              “Heh. Just wanted to make sure you had enough time to pull the heist, cherie.”

              She rolls her eyes expressively.

              “You thought it was funny pissing everyone off, admit it. And what was all that business with the fob pocket?”

              “Chere,” I answer with mock sincerity. “Eight weeks of celibacy and you think I’m gonna pass up the chance to have you feel me up? C’mon.”

              The punch she lands on my bicep is enough to hurt.

              “You are such a troll!” she shoots at me with more affection than ire, I’m happy to say.

              “You love it,” I mutter, grabbing her helplessly and kissing her mouth soundly. We end up wasting a few more precious seconds making out again.

              “So what we gonna do, huh?” I ask her once we break apart. “Henchman #1 is waitin’ outside, and I figure we could both take him out pretty easy...”

              “Nuh-uh,” she cuts me off with a mischievous grin. “That’ll break our cover for sure. You, sweetheart, are taking the back door out.”

              Her gaze slides over my shoulder, and when I look back, I see that the back door is actually a chute in the wall. From the amount of gore it’s covered in, it’s pretty obvious it's a disposal chute – for corpses.

              “You have got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me, p’tite,” I groan under my breath.

              “Think of it as payback for kicking me down that garbage chute back at the Plaza hotel,” she banters back lightly, clearly enjoying this.

              “Anna, after this, we’re even and then some,” I say dolefully.

              “Yup,” she replies cheerfully. She swoops in for another quick kiss before saying: “I’ll be waiting for you by the East gate in about 30. Got some stuff to finish up here, otherwise they’ll get suspicious.”

              “All right.” My response is half-hearted. I ain’t relishing goin’ down that chute, that’s for sure. Anna, however, is completely indifferent to my plight. She’s almost at the door already when I stop her.

              “Uhh… Anna?”

              She stops, turns.

              “What?”

              I point down at my chained-up ankles.

              “Li’l help, please?”

               She gives a theatrical sigh; but she comes back anyway, dropping to her knees and undoing the chains round my ankles.

              “I’m pretty sure you could do this yourself faster than I ever could, Cajun,” she says pointedly, to which I shrug and reply:

              “Sure. But havin’ you down on your knees in front of me brings back all sorts of happy mem’ries I’ve been denied the past couple of months.”

              The chains clatter to the floor and she quirks an unimpressed look at me.

              “Jesus. You’re puttin’ out more pheromones than a skunk puts out spray.”

              “Chere, I been insulted ’nuff today, bein’ called a ‘yank’ an’ all. You reckon you could find an analogy a little more flatterin’ than a skunk?”

              She gets to her feet and plants her hands on her hips.

              “Swamp boy, there ain’t enough analogies in the world for the dirty things I wanna call you right now,” she declares in her gorgeously titillating and rarely-bestowed native Mississippi accent.

              “Oooh,” I banter back. “Dirty, huh? Beb, when I get you home tonight, you can call me all the dirty things under the sun. I can’t wait.”

              She chooses to ignore the statement, walking over to the chute instead and pulling it open. When she looks back at me, she’s smiling sweetly.

              “Sugar, when we get home tonight, the first thing you’re gonna do is take a shower. Cos once you’ve gone down this here chute, you’re gonna be dirty as hell, and not in a good way.”

              Trust her to kill the mood. I peer down the hole gingerly. The miasma wafting up from down below is worse than any skunk’s.

              “Chere, you wanna rethink this? Only I get the feelin’ one shower ain’t gon’ be enough t’ get the stench out...”

              “Quit being such a baby!” She’s smiling way too hard for my liking at this point. “The sooner you get this over with, the sooner we can wrap up this job.”

              I step reluctantly up to the edge of the hole, and she leans in over my shoulder, murmurs in my ear: “And the sooner I can get my hands on you again.” She lets that suggestion linger. And, Dieu, does it linger.

              “Now buckle up and hold onto the railings,” she warns me.

              “What railings?” I manage to get out, before her boot heel connects with my ass, and I’m suddenly tumbling through the filth and mire down, down into the depths of the Marko mansion.

-oOo-

[Chapter 2 now here!]

[keepswingin]

What about something with Wyatt and.Cobalt Silver? (I know I'm not much help)

so apparently the cobalt silver is the stuff that’s used in that part in flesh and bone in case anyone was wondering like I was lol but that’s all you really need to know for this one!

.

i’m here (but don’t count on me to stay)

.

There’s something about humans in their environment that makes his skin crawl.

He doesn’t like the way they eye him from their balconies, their laughter ceasing until there’s nothing but silence and hallow gazes that seem to sear his skin. He doesn’t like the way families huddle closer together as he passes, holding their children tight, because they still see him as threatening even with a grocery bag in one hand and a jug of milk clutched in the other.

He doesn’t like the teenagers that hang around the liquor stores, drinking from paper bags - whiskey mostly, he can smell it from down the street - obnoxious as they drone on and on with drunken babble no passerby listens to. He doesn’t like the loners either, the ones out in thick jackets with their hands stuffed into their pockets on a night that’s far from chilly.

Being out in a world that isn’t his, one he’s still learning about years later and still not fully used to, it puts him on edge, and the humans do nothing to make that edge any less sharp.

This place made Seabrook look like something out of a fairytale, he thinks to himself bitterly.

His phone chooses then to ring from his pocket, startling his already ansty heart. He exhales slowly as he shifts the jug of milk to his other hand, careful not to tip the grocery bag or shuffle around the donuts he had snuck in for himself with the things they had actually needed.

“Hello?” he answers as he shoves the phone beside his ear, keeping half an eye on the surrounding buildings bustling with activity around him.

“Hey,” Addison replies, and she sounds...worried? Something inside him twists suddenly, his eyes catching on a car that revs from where it sits at the light.

“You sound worried,” he tells her quietly, trying his best to keep his voice steady. He was probably overreacting because of this new city, with all these new people and all this new noise.

“Only a little,” she admits, and he can hear the pitch in the breath she releases, “are you close?”

He looks at the street sign at the corner he’s approaching - 5th Street - which is still a few roads over from where their apartment sits on 10th. He could cut through an alley, save some time, but he’s not really feeling an alley is the best way to go right now as he passes another family that goes out of their way to be away from him.

He sighs, “I’m still a few streets over.” He decides to cut right to the point. “What’s going on?”

“There was an armed robbery a few minutes ago and - “

He can’t help the scoff that escapes him. “So much for this place being safe,” he mutters.

“No city is safe,” his fiancée rebukes, a bit of an edge to her tone. He doesn’t answer, instead adjusting his grip on the milk. He should’ve gotten the half-gallon. “I’m sorry,” she says a moment later, “this place was supposed to be safe. Apparently it’s the first big crime around this place in a while so,” she trails off, and the irony isn’t lost on him.

“So we’re just lucky,” he finishes for her, and he’s successful in making her laugh at least. He smiles. There’s a cop car heading down the street, slow as it stops at the light, dark in the shadow of the full moon above. “Where was the robbery at?”

“Close enough for me to be worried that you’re out right now,” she says wryly, “they stole a bunch of stuff from the Walmart and the gas station next door. A few took off in a car, one took off on foot. The police haven’t found anyone yet.”

“Stealing from Walmart is a new low isn’t it?”

He watches as the cop car passes him, it’s tires crunching on the cracked pavement. Addison chuckles, “Were you able to get everything?”

The car makes a u-turn behind him - he can hear it, the sharp turn of the tires, the hiss of the engine - before pulling up next to him. The window rolls down, revealing an officer in his mid-forties with a goatee that’s turning grey.

“Hold on Ads,” he whispers, directing his attention to the police now rolling alongside him.

“Heading home?” the officer asks, his squadmate watching from the passenger seat.

“Late night shopping trip,” Wyatt answers with a light laugh before turning his attention back to Addison. “Sorry. Just some cops asking where I was going.”

“Why are they asking where you’re going?” He shrugs, and is hyper aware when the cop car rumbles to a stop.

“No idea.”

He keeps his voice as even as possible, not wanting to worry her more than she already is. “It’s a load of bullshit is what it is,” she responds, and it’s then that he hears boots behind him.

“Can you stop walking, wolf?” The same officer from before calls, raising his voice enough for passerby to stop and look and murmur amongst themselves.

Wyatt turns around, coming to a stop as the officers approach him. The older officer has his hands clasped together, but the younger officer - who barely looks old enough to be a cop - has his hand over something small on the back of his belt. Wyatt can’t see what it is but his heart is beating faster and faster by the minute.

“Something wrong officers?” he asks, calm and collected, Addison asking him what’s wrong with increasing panic from the phone line. “I’m just trying to get home to my fiancée for some late night movies.”

“Do you have your ID on you?” the older officer questions.

Inside he curses himself, because of course the one time he didn’t bring it with him he needed it - he hated carrying a wallet with a passion, something he still didn’t enjoy about human life one bit. He didn’t like anything weighing him down, in the forest that wasn’t the way things were done, but outside it, humans enjoyed carrying more than they needed.

Wyatt’s heart is thrashing against his ribcage now, his moonstone humming with more urgency, and something inside of him telling him to run. To leave, to get as far away as possible, because these officers were barking up the wrong tree, and he was at the center of it.

“No sir, I don’t,” he replies, “didn’t think I’d need it for a run to the store a few corners over.”

“Wyatt,” Addison begs from the phone, her voice crackling against his ear, horror stories from her father and from the history books flashing through her head. No police were good when it came to werewolves, or zombies, or anyone different.

He hears it before he sees it.

His eyes snap to the younger officer, to the thing he pulls from his belt.

It’s a small container, something printed on the side of the metal that he can’t see, and then it’s spraying in his direction, and even with the dodge he uses with a jolt of power from his moonstone, whatever it is that comes from the container catches the corner of his elbow and then his skin is on fire.

He cries out, the grocery bag falling to the ground, the jug of milk breaking open against rough cement, his phone skidding across the sidewalk.

He reaches for his elbow with his opposite hand, his fingers lightly brushing against the skin that’s bright red and burning silently, and his fingers begin burning before he can pull them back fast enough.

“Goddamn it!” he hears the older officer shout, two pairs of boots advancing toward him, but the fire is twisting and thrashing like his heart is, and when someone’s hands go to grab at the excat same elbow that’s burning, he growls and shoves them off.

His eyes flash brightly as he moves away from the men, but they push forward, their hands still reaching.

“Why the fuck would you do that?” the older officer contuines, his voice muffled in Wyatt’s roaring ears.

“It’s a fucking werewolf, no matter what we did it was just going to attack us anyway!”

One hand is successful in closing around his elbow, but that just closes the fire in, drags it across his skin, and he growls again and pulls back, but before he can get far there’s someone on top of him, attempting to pin him to the ground.

That same something from before is sprayed at his back, catching arms and sinking through his shirt to the skin underneath, fire everywhere, blossoming and igniting and rippling. His moonstone hums angrily and flashes bright blue as he pushes the men off him with little difficulty, and then stumbling to his feet and running, power flowing through his veins and making his legs pump faster.

He needs to escape, he needs to go, to run, because he doesn’t know what will happen later, but he also doesn’t want to find out what happens now if he sticks around. Nothing good, his brain supplies, if the fire still racing across his skin was any indication.

The pain distracts him from hearing the cock of a pistol, the action of a bullet being slotted into place from inside the gun.

He doesn’t hear the bullet.

He feels it, something rupturing his skin and mixing with the fire, and sees it, when the bullet brings him to a sudden stop, looking down and seeing dark red seep from the middle of his chest.

He brings his hands to the red, pressing his palms flat against it before pulling them back, almost in disbelief when he sees them slick with dark red liquid that should be inside his body, not outside it. He hears shouting, and screaming, and so many other noises, and before he knows what’s happening there’s the shattering sound of another bullet unloading into his back, and another, and another.

His moonstone hums, louder in his ears than the noise around him, and then everything goes black.

[theuntamedproject]

"If the face says nothing, listen to the heartbeat" - Lan WangJi, Mo Dao Zu Shi (Weeks 3+4)

https://zhtheuntamedprojec.wixsite.com/theuntamedproject 

... those who have read the novel know the real context of this line in the scene BUT taken out of context and used in a completely different (*cough* our) scenario..."If the face says nothing," translates to "Even if we seem calm on the outside,""listen to the heartbeat." translates to "we're so stressed to the point of ventricular fibrillation." (dunno if that's even a likely story but the overly exaggerated point still stands: we just handed our uni applications in and we're dreading admission tests and awaiting interviews...)

Quick overview

So aside from school work and university prep, TUP has taken up whatever spare moment either one of us has. However since Zara's Physics coursework began (good luck Zara!!) and both of us prepping for our respective admissions tests, we've decided instead of marching onwards with research on architecture and other food science related stuff, to settle on more relaxed Google seshes on MDZS (and totally not using this as an excuse to read the source text again) and beginning to design the buildings on CAD and paper.

So I'm going to introduce to you the barebones framework of what we plan to include in the design: characters, buildings and effects~ apologies in advance for not including the accents/tones in names (I cba tbh ;-; )

Characters

Because all these little dudes are just going to be cut out gingerbread men, we could include as many characters as possible (we did say we're making a universe are we not?). Those in italics are "maybe" characters depending on the dough remaining (or whether we like them to be part of the universe or not...) or how much gingerbread we're willing to eat ourselves (though huge shout out to everyone thats offered to eat our spare and broken gingerbread during materials testing - which I will get to a bit later :3)

Gusu Lan (the pretty sect)

Lan XiChen / Lan Huan (Sect Leader - simped so hard for his sworn brothers that both of them ended up dead)

Lan WangJi / Lan Zhan (repressed gay but we love him still)

Lan Yuan / Lan Sizhui (he's part of the Lan sect now goddamnit)

Lan JingYi (the most unLan Lan yet has the highest chance of being the next sect leader lmaoo)

Lan QiRen

Lan Yi / Lan An

QingHeng-Jun (Twin Jades' father)

Madam Lan (Twin Jades' mother)

Yunmeng Jiang (arguably the only "normal" sect here...)

Jiang Cheng / Jiang Wanyin (Sect Leader also an "angry grape" as put by Zara)

Jiang YanLi (OUR QUEEN)

Jiang FengMian (loved Wei Ying more than Jiang Cheng lol jk xd)

Yu ZiYuan (BAMF)

Wei Ying not included here since technically he defected from the Sect (; - ;)

Qinghe Nie (fans and sabers my bros)

Nie HuaiSang (Sect Leader - yeah, I can't believe it either)

Nie MingJue (noooooooooo)

Honestly, I swear this clan is either "big muscles or big brain?". If you have neither, you can't be part of their clique. I mean sect.

Lanling Jin (rich rich rich rich rich)

Jin Ling / Jin RuLan (Sect Leader - totally not named after Wei Ying's crush/ husband's family)

Jin GuangYao / Meng Yao (*smiles*)

Jin ZiXuan (peacock but JYL's husband nonetheless)

Jin GuangShan (gross)

Jin ZiXun (double gross)

Mo XuanYu (literally did not sign up to any of this. He just wanted to end his suffering at Mo Manor)

We decided against including everyone from Mo Manor since they literally died within the first few chapters of the novel / first episode of the drama so were kinda irrelevant. Also, we don't care about them like we care for the Lan Sect members either.

Off topic side rant, Zara has been on my case whenever I bring up Jin GuangYao. I have to say, he's way more lovable in the drama than in the novel (didn't really leave much of an impression on me in the novel, NHS did a better job at that). I'm here to briefly explain why this boy is misunderstood and deserved more than what he got (and also why you should love him because he deserves love).JGY is a poor soul who's goal in life was to please others because no one was ever satisfied with him. His mother wasn't satisfied. His father wasn't satisfied. Hell, even his sworn brother NMJ wasn't satisfied with him eventually. BUT GUESS WHAT Xichen the angel is the only person that showed any love or thanks to JGY that's why he didn't kill him in the end - he wouldn't kill people that actually cared about him. IF ONLY EVERYONE ACTUALLY PAID ATTENTION TO HOW CLEVER AND CUNNING THIS MAN WAS, THERE MAY NOT EVEN BE WENS THREATENING THE WORLD. end of brief rant.

Qishan Wen (too hot, hot damn)

Wen RuoHan (Sect Leader - could have taken over the world if his children weren't incompetent)

Wen Qing (half the reason why included this sect)

Wen Ning / Wen QiongLin (the other half of the reason)

Wen Yuan (WE NEED THIS BABIE ALONGSIDE SIZHUI OK)

Wen Chao (questionable)

Wen ZhuLiu (also questionable but less annoying than Wen Chao)

Rogue cultivators (including people we didn't really know where to put)

Wei WuXian / Wei Ying (Can work out how to cultivate resentful energy, fight against the biggest cultivation clans in the world and gain a formidable reputation as the Yiling Patriarch yet can't figure out that Lan Zhan has a crush on him. Makes it look like cultivating resentful energy is easy as pie.)

CangSe SanRen (Wei Ying's mother)

Wei ChangZe (Wei Ying's father)

Xiao XingChen (honestly, the nicest guy ever. Could rival Xichen in terms of kindness. But then again... where did that kindness lead either of them? Moral of story: screw kindness)

Song Lan (Wen Ning's dead buddy~)

Xue Yang (he was cool in the novel, a bit questionable in the drama ngl)

A-Qing (didn't report her situation to the police...)

Baoshan Sanren (without knowledge of her existence, Jiang Cheng may have given up on life after he lost his golden core)

Ouyang ZiZhen (I didn't know who he was at all from the novel (ie he left no impression) but since he's technically part of the juniors, we have to include him)

Wang Ling Jiao / Jiao Jiao (just so Wen Chao has a friend perhaps... I don't know if we're that kind)

Su She (ew. just. He's not our favourite. The whole thing could have gone smoother if he didn't exist)

Luo Qingyang / Mian Mian (that one girl that made Wei Ying think Lan Zhan was straight)

Whew! That's all the character's we've considered! We have yet to come up with individual designs for the clothes and what not but at least we know there are going to be straight up cutting them out using the gingerbread man cutters.

Also! let's not forget:

Li'l Apple (didn't sign up for any of this either)

Fairy (gift from JGY to JL, also good doggo)

All the bunnies in Gusu (yes.)

All the fans and sabers in Qinghe (it's part of their aesthetic)

Locations and Buildings

This section's going to be MUCH shorter than the previous one haha since we've basically come up with 5 main buildings and in 7 locations. We're planning these buildings to be architectural masterpieces (okay, that's a slight exaggeration but that's the point). These buildings will take SIGNIFICANTLY more time than the gingerbread characters and is the reason we've put so much effort into researching what would make the most stable type of building. This is because we've planned to mirror the buildings as close as possible to the drama. We haven't yet drawn 2D sketches as I've left that job mostly to Zara (sorry!) so it's sort of hard to describe in words but by next post, we hope to have these down~ (though please see the mood boards from Zara's post previously)~

Gusu Lan - Cloud Recesses

The Wall of Discipline

The Courtyard

The Orchid Room (the main classroom/hall)

Yunmeng Jiang - Lotus Pier

The Main Pier

Lotus Pod Lake

Qinghe Nie - The Unclean Realm

The Main Courtyard and stairs

Lanling Jin - Koi Tower

Koi Tower

Qishan Wen - Nightless City

Main building and stairs

Yiling - Burial Grounds

The Mountains (and farms/Wen settlements)

Demon-Slaughtering Cave

And of course, Yi City.

We don't know if we want to include any more places but we'll let you know if there are any changes to this list. Plus the effects of LEDs and other arts and craft jazz besides gingerbread, we plan to make sure each Sect get's their own spotlight~

Please enjoy our baby Cloud Recesses, they're going to grow up and be a fine specimen of society worthy of the Lan name :D

The plan going forward

Although unfortunately, things haven't gone totally to plan due to fairly busy circumstances, we still have some major events along the way before starting to build the whole thing (which would probably be around mid-to-end of December) which have indeed started preparing for. Including:

Material testing gingerbread and icing (ie finally, bringing our research to the real world) - a lot of gingerbread will be made, so thank you to the willing volunteers who wanted to eat our failed experiments!

Finding / creating a suitable recipe for the gingerbread people

2D and 3D sketches of the buildings

Designing costumes for the gingerbread people

Another thing that we kinda want to do is to make this project benefit the wider community (we wanted to set up a GoFundMe at some point and raise some money for charity~). But we don't know how to do that as of yet T-T . Any ideas, feel free to contact us and let us know! We want to help others through this project (if at all possible haha)!