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ihearthoon · 2 years ago

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zb1 most protective/ possessive to least

jiwoong

gunwook

ricky

these three are honestly tied 😭😭😭.jiwoong being older i js feel like he always has the need to protect anyone and especially the person he loves the most. these three hate seeing u get in any pain or if anyone causes you pained TRUST these three would deadass fight for u. gunwook hates how everywhere u go u get stares, hes like ur bodyguard 😭. type to say it’s okay bae u can wear whatever u want cuz ur boyfriend can fight.he’s got the biggest staring problem and would look right back at any weirdo trying to get at you. he would deadass laugh in there face and walk away or if they went to far he would js start swinging. ricky is so over protective he would never wanna see his baby getting hurt:(. he would be the most caring and thoughtful bf ever.:(ricky gets so jealous so easily and is scared of the thought of ever losing u.but he knows he can’t get replaced and no one will ever be him

zhanghao 😭SASSY ASS MAN. LORD DONT PISS HIM OFF AND TRY TO MAKE HIM JEALOUS CUZ TRUST THE ONE WHO WILL END UP GETTING HURT IS U. come on now.. he’s a leo…..nothing else to say…he HATES the thought of anyone even being close to u that’s not him. he wants u to himself and only him. he doesn’t care if he’s selfish. your his and only his.he doesn’t care. he knows he’s worth sm and that u will never be able to find any one better/ or even close to him.but at the same time he would do anything for his baby even if it was something small like holding a pot of hot water js cause the handle was hot :( he wouldn’t want his baby to get hurt now would he:(

matthew HE SWEARSSS HES OPPA MATTHEW😭😭AnD..he lowkey is… tbh he all three possessive, jealous and overprotective. but he gets jelaous the most. idk why but i feel like matthew js sees u as the most perfect gf ever and feels like any second u could possible find someone better..:( he js genuine loves u sm and HATES the thought of u with some else that’s not HIM. his bear hugs>>>>if anyone tried to flirt with u i feel like he would js walk away holding hands with u and go home to show u who u belong to and why there’s no one else that can have what’s his.

hanbin he’s definitely the overprotective type. but at the same time he knows how much u both genuine love each other and is secure in y’all’s relationship to the point he doesn’t even see anyone taking u from him.i mean why would u want anyone else when u got HANBIN? jealous hanbin is a SIGHT TO SEE🥵.tbh i feel like he gets jealous all the time with dudes that are handsome but would never tell u. if anyone tried asking u for ur number while he was in another aisle and came back he would give the guy the most stank look ever and put his arm around ur neck and walk away and laugh. he would say haha it’s so funny how these dudes even think they have a chance of having what’s mine. he’s very mature and has lots of trust in u and the relationship.

gyuvin he’s also protective but js not as much as the other guys… he’s just chill and he knows no guy would come up to you when ur with him. i mean js look at him. his height alone scares man away from even thinking about asking u for ur number. he’s another one that has sm trust in u and he sees u as his first and last love forever. but don’t get it mixed up he would fight the whole world if anything hurt u.he would do anything and everything for u. i need a gyuvin………

taerae

TAEEEE..now HEs the jealous and overprotective type but not rlly the possessive type like that.i mean yes what’s his is HIS. and ONLY HIS. he would let u wear anything and everything u want. HE HATES SEEING U CLOSE WITH ANY OTHER GUYS THATS NOT HIM. HE WANTS U FOR HIMSELF AND ONLY HIM.ur his baby

#zb1 scenarios #zb1 reactions #zb1 imagines #zerobaseone #zb1 ricky smut #zb1 x reader #zb1 headcanons #zb1 drabbles #zb1 smut

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archergrid · 1 year ago

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<< Chapters 1-5 Chapters 6-10

Chapter 6

The brewery was an unassuming stucco building a few blocks from the university. One of Lear’s murals covered the east wall—a massive, dynamic figure carved with intricate geometric textures. An article once described his work as Klimpt meets Basquiat, but Lear’s murals were mathier—frenetic, for sure, but playing more with geometry and dimension. He used clay and wood to give the paint and figures a kinetic, blocky depth, painted gold and carved with reticulated patterns. Even amidst Valpo’s cacophony of street art, it stood out.

I checked my phone. 2:04 PM. Lear’s been to jail, I thought. I could ask him what it’s like. If the gang does have something nefarious planned, I could just offer to turn myself in. I’d get swept off to the US federal prison system, and they’d never see or hear from me again, as good as dead. After a few more shaky breaths, I marched my badass black boots through the graffitied steel door.

The brewery proper was a maze of stainless steel metal vessels, lined up like redwoods on either side of the cavernous back room. It was like walking into a grand estate, or a prison. Squat windows near the ceiling drained light in, casting the brewery in sleepy, afternoon blue. Every step echoed. I was almost at the opposite end of the building when Lear popped out from behind a brew kettle. I nearly shot out of my shoes.

Lear looked like an arrow—rail-thin, sharp features, long gray hair puffing out from under his beanie. The wrinkles of his drawn face pointed up towards his high forehead, so he always looked like he was pitying you. “Whoa, whoa!” He checked his watch, then spread his balsa-wood arms, snapping his fingers like jabs. “Don’t be so jumpy-y-y.”

There was a dark spot under his linen shirt where he kept his gun. A deep breath balmed my frazzled nerves. “H-hey, Lear. The crew around?”

“Might be. You got your computer?”

I hugged my laptop bag and nodded.

“Cool. Let’s jam.” Lear swaggered into the shadow between the back 2 brew kettles, checking his wrist and whistling Ennio Morricone.

I didn’t follow. “Lear, p-please tell me what this is about.”

Lear’s tight shoulders slumped. He pursed his heart-shaped lips. “Come on, now, don’t make this hard on me.” His voice was flat. Panic reached up from my stomach and choked me. I backed up, but bumped something solid and warm. I spun, twitchy as prey. Cat raised her wooly-bear-caterpillar eyebrows at me.

Cat was the muscle in the crew, a big woman with a strong jaw, long silky hair, and a manslaughter rap Lear helped her out of. Her grease-stained tank top showed off meaty arms holding a tall baking dish with a lid on it. “Hey, Dom.”

“You’re late!” Lear scolded, jutting his knobby chin out at her. “Jig’s up, I guess.” Throwing an arm around my shoulders, Lear pulled me with him around the corner towards a black shadow between cylinders. My heart hammered my ribs. The dark alcove in front of me, Cat behind me blocking the exit. There was nowhere to go.

“Lear, please, just wait. You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, I think I do.” Lear clapped his hands once, the sound shuddering against the stainless-steel kettles.

“No, really, I promise, I’ll leave and you’ll never-”

Overhead fluorescents blinked to life over the picnic table we used to look over blueprints, count money, and eat greasy takeout. It was Jackson-Pollucked with every color of sticky acrylic paint. Unfamiliar paper cones were stacked on it. Inscrutable chalk-scrawls covered an ancient, wheeled blackboard situated beside an equally antique television, also on wheels. Paper streamers hung haphazardly off pipes and valves. A few feet back, U.H. stood beside the fuse box in skinny jeans and a pornhub hoodie, their phone in one hand. “Um. Surprise?”

Behind me, Lear crackled out a raucous chorus of cumpleaños feliz. I twisted around in time to see him elbow Cat, who grudgingly joined in. U.H. pointed their fingers at me as they ran up, hooked an arm around my neck, shouting the song in my face.

“Wh-what?”

“Well, you wouldn’t tell us when your birthday is, so I thought we’d pick one for you,” Lear said. “September 18th. One hell of a surprise party, right?” One hell of a surprise party was right. September 18th wasn’t my birthday of course, it was… January, definitely January. The 27th, maybe? The 23rd? “Look at her face, Cat! Told you she’d never see it coming.”

“Yeah, Boss, you made up a birthday for her,” Cat said flatly, bumping past Lear to set her ice-white dish down on the picnic table.

“Why did you tell me to bring my computer if you were just throwing a party?”

“You’re so paranoid, I had to pretend it was for work. Plus, I want to talk over your idea.”

“It’s not an idea, Lear, I’m just curious.”

Cat lifted the lid of her baking dish. The cake was a puffy cloud of chantilly cream drizzled with caramel. A rum-colored puddle covered the bottom of the plate. U.H. sat down across from us, smoking weed from an electric-green vape pen.

U.H. was an adrenaline-junky from a young age. By the time their rich parents gave up on them, the teenager had accrued 10 charges for driving without a license, 8 for reckless endangerment, 13 for destruction of property, 6 for grand theft auto, 24 for drug possession, and 1 for public nudity. U.H. was a gearhead with an obscene knowledge of cars and no slouch when it came to gadgets either. They once escaped from a Hyundai they crashed by fashioning a high-powered laser cutter out of the CD player, but beyond working Tinder, they weren’t very good with the software side.

Cat slid a slice of cake my way. The yellow sponge glistened with rum, bifurcated by a layer of icing and dulce de leche in the center. U.H. promptly reached across the table, dragging the plate towards them with a single finger. Cat flicked them behind the ear. “That’s for Dom, you gremlin.” U.H. flinched but took a bite anyway.

Lear passed us 4 unlabeled beer bottles, each one foaming at the mouth. “You tell her about the bike?”

“Oh yeah,” U.H. said, hopping to their feet as they licked their plastic fork clean. “Cat ’n me stole you a bike. It’s out back, wanna see?”

Still gobsmacked by my fake birthday party, I followed Cat and U.H. in a daze, unable to process this new piece of information. We took 2 lefts through brew kettles and mash tuns to the loading bay doors that led to the brewery’s gravel back lot. Cat slid the garage-style door up.

When U.H. said they stole me a bike, I assumed they meant something with a basket and some tassels. I didn’t expect the sleek-black paint job, angry headlamps and chunky engine. I should have—Cat and U.H. didn’t run a chop-shop for bicycles, after all.

“I know the 400 is baby’s first bike, but I didn’t know how much experience you had with motorcycles,” U.H. said (none was how much experience I had with motorcycles). “They had this moronic turbo setup—because, y’know, let’s strap a rocket to a tricycle—but I fixed it for you. We figured you don’t come out much because you must live real far away, right?”

It was less than 2 miles, but I didn’t have the heart to tell them that. I couldn’t explain why it wasn’t safe to be around me; that if I get caught, the crew will too. Besides, trying to drive a motorcycle through the roller-coaster hills of Valpo sounded like the definition of a death wish.

“Anyway,” U.H. went on as we walked back inside, “buy a helmet, not a shitty one, spend half a mil at least, otherwise your head’ll be-” U.H. made a wet noise as they scraped the palm of their hand across their skull. “Can’t let you die until we kill your new job.”

“It’s not a job,” I said as we walked back to Lear at the table. “Is that really why you called me down here?”

“Nah, nah nah,” Lear protested. “It’s about the party, a rowdy row wrapped in ribbons. Job’s just the bow on top. After what you said about the campaign I confabbed with a few folks around town who might be in the know. You weren’t kidding about this law and order angle.”

“The kids are out of control!” U.H. mocked. “They’re delinquents, they’re violent, they stole my 1984 Pontiac Firebird and crashed it into a Starbucks!”

“So, I took your advice and sent Cat and U.H. in. Told ’em to push the mayhem angle.”

“Yeah. I threw a brick through a window,” U.H. bragged.

“That was you?”

“Oh yeah. Didn’t even get yelled at. I might quit boosting cars and just do this now.”

“You got in no trouble at all?”

“No,” Cat said. “They said to keep up the good work.”

“My god… He’s really doing it, he’s paying people to be violent to validate his message.”

“And when U.H. is already validating his message so well already,” Lear japed.

“Fuck yeah I am!”

Chile had seen fascism. The right-wing dictator installed by the CIA in the ‘70s “disappeared” thousands of Chilean citizens for protesting his “presidency.” If Godoy played dirty like this, he could go full Pinochet once elected. What would happen to Valparaíso, Chile’s bastion of bohemian revolt? “You’ve sent all this to Teresa, right?”

“Nope,” Lear said, checking his watch. “In fact, it’s imperative she doesn’t find out.”

“Lear, there’s no score.”

“Oh, but there is,” he said, walking to the ancient TV. “See, I did send Teresa one tidbit from the whisper mill. It was just a rumor to me, but she did her multiple sources thing. She said it’d break at 2:30.” Lear switched the TV on.

There was Teresa’s scolding gaze and severe haircut. She leaned over a glass desk, oversized and gleaming with studio lights. A picture-in-picture of the Ek building was up on the screen beside her. “In an unexpected move,” Teresa told the camera, “presidential candidate and television personality Adalberto Godoy is holding his campaign fundraiser in the city of Valparaíso instead of Chile’s capital, Santiago. Ek Inc., the tech company best known for its Ekko mobile phones, plans to host Godoy’s gala in its newly-constructed and controversial office building in Valparaíso’s historic district. Godoy’s pro-business agenda is expected to attract corporate donors from across the globe who use Chilean copper and lithium in a broad range of electronics. Sources close to the campaign report they expect up to $20 billion pesos in donations the night of the gala.”

Lear whistled, muting the TV. “I’ve been to plenty of charity blowouts. Small donations go into envelopes on the tables, but the big stuff gets entered into a tablet.”

My job. $20 billion Chilean pesos—about $20 million USD—donated through a piece of technology. “You want to rob the fundraiser,” I realized aloud.

Lear grinned, all graveyard teeth. “No, you want to rob the fundraiser. This was your call, D-zero, and you called it. It’s only right that you manage it.”

“Me? I-I just wanted to see what Godoy was up to.”

Lear lowered his voice as U.H. chatted to Cat. “Exactly. You’re in it for the right reasons, D-zero, just like I am. The money isn’t what you’re after, that’s just icing.” Lear dipped a knobby finger into his slice of cake, popping the wad of chantilly cream in his mouth. “We want to even the odds. We want these bastards out of Valpo. What do you say?”

What a stupid, sloppy idea, I thought. The last time I went up against Ek directly, he ended up acquitted and I ended up here. I’d be risking detection, capture, federal prison, or worse: another 4000 white-knuckle miles of static. Yet, how could I sit back and watch Ek and Godoy take over Valparaíso, the town that had sheltered me for 4 terrified years? How many more times would I let Julian run me from my own home? Lear, as off-kilter as he was, took care of me when I arrived in Valpo in a broken down car, delicate as an exposed wire. Paula too, who gave me a dark and quiet place where I felt safe. I loved Valparaíso, with its crooked streets you couldn’t help but get lost in; never be found in. I felt safe cradled between the mountains and the sea, holding me in cupped hands with paint-stained fingers.

He can’t just get away with it. Not this time; not your thumb; not this scale. If the law can’t stop Julian Ek, I’ll black his eye for them. “I’ll do it. I’m in.”

“Good,” Lear said. “I’ll take care of staffing, you just figure logistics. U.H. and Cat will keep looking for limits on hell-raising. I’ll drag for contractors.”

“We should get someone in the campaign staff.”

“See? You’re bossing me around already.” Lear’s smile went soft around the edges. “You’re a peach, Ms. Mysterio. Sorry to do this on your birthday.”

“It’s OK. It’s not my birthday.”

“Oh, you about to tell me when it really is?”

“No.”

“Then far as I’m concerned, it’s September 18th, baby.”

“Don’t call me ’baby’,” I said, rolling my eyes while trying to decide between 1/23 or 1/27. Lear set an occupied brown paper bag on the table. Whatever was inside was the mass, volume, and density of a textbook. “What’s this?”

“What’d I just say? Sept-tem-ber 18th, baby.” Lear tapped the bag with each syllable.

“And what did I just say?” Reaching inside, my fingers found something solid and poly-smooth. It was heavy, and I needed both hands to pull it up and out of the bag. The sturdy frame had hinges drilled into one side, attaching a small, squat door. A dollar-store lock held the door shut, covering whatever painting the frame was framing. With a bit of digging I fished the small, notched key from the bottom of the bag. The lock clicked open with spring-loaded satisfaction. I unhooked it from the latch, then opened the door like a book.

It was me. Bands of butter yellow and daubs of ultraviolet chiseled me out from the black canvas. Gold geometric patterns marched along the seams of my jacket and zigzagged through my textured hair. It still smelled like turpentine. In the painting, I was laughing, my sunglasses in my hand and my eyes wet with molten gold. Looking at it was uncomfortable. The girl in that painting wasn’t a big, bad cyber-revolutionary. She was small and jagged, laughing through her tears. That girl couldn’t do what I’m about to. That girl was an open wound. “It’s beautiful, Lear,” I said, and meant it. “How is it meant to be displayed? With the door open or closed?”

“Suppose that’s up to you, D-zero.” Lear smiled, but barely. “That’s not my name, y’know.” He tapped 4 sweeping, capital letters in the bottom-right corner. L-E-A-R. “It’s Reyes. But you knew that already, right?”

Yes. You were arrested by Pinochet’s military police after one too many avant-garde acts of vandalism. After that, the Universidad de Chile’s art program revoked your admission.

“Why do you think they call me that?”

“Seems obvious. You’re the king, and…”

“And?”

“And you’re a little crazy.”

Lear nearly fell off his seat, howling with laughter. “Nah, that ain’t why. It’s because I let little girls like you push me around.”

You treated jail like the university you couldn’t go to. You learned; networked, and not just with the other political prisoners. You graduated from avant-garde to direct action. “I’m not a princess,” I said.

“Don’t I know it. So? I showed you mine, you show me yours.”

You have a real daughter in Santiago that refuses to see you. I know what kind of soap you use, what kind of porn you watch, what kind of emails you write but never send. I know everything about you, and you don’t even know my name. “I think it’s better if you call me Domino,” I said as I shut the door on the painting, “and I call you Lear.”

“4 years and you still don’t trust me.” With a heavy sigh, Lear stood up from the table. “Guess that makes you a good criminal.”

I couldn’t process any kind of answer to that. Had 4 years turned me into a criminal, or did my chemical makeup fundamentally change the moment I opened that video? It seemed like a lifetime since I’d gone on the run, that 2-month road-trip panic-attack, screaming south until no one knew my name.

A strange revelation hit me then—a bug in my code. What was my real name again? I hadn’t used it since I left, and the news only referred to me as “Former Ek Inc. Employee.” It was on the tip of my tongue. My brows pressed together, as though the information could be folded back into my brain. My thumb was running down the stained wood of the painting’s closed door when the syllables floated up from a dusty corner of my mind, like a piece of trivia.

Lia. My name is Lia.

<< Chapters 1-5 Chapters 6-10

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