#NAME DROPPING DANTE WAS FOUL HELP | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

voidselfshipp · 4 months ago

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Aftermath// A love thats fractured.

Cw: mentions of period,blood, injuries,implied body image issues from Vs side. Lmk if im missing any.

Summary: In the aftermath of the DMC's crew defeat, they reccuperate and regroup. Jerico is on a mission to recover their lovers,scattered to the winds and lost. And though one of them is not whole,its one of the split parts that so lovingly comforts him

>only mutuals allowed to reblog. For context look at this. (@tex-treasures )

Jerico had trotted past the broken lands of Red Grave city. They had split away from nero and Nico as they had other plans, to reunite with V who had stayed to Keep watch after the original retreat post defeat of the DMC crew.

They were searching with fervor ,utter desesperation from the fear of losing the love of their life since they were young. Age was a funny thing to them,being stuck in the body and mind of a twenty year old- they could learn and mature but in a way they always remained the same age they were when they had been adopted by the Devils.

Across the ashen and blood tainted ruins of the city,their steps crunch with each movement and the foul scent of death in the air made their stomach churn.

There was no space for joy in this place. As Tolkien very well had put it.."No trees grow here"

But they search regardless, carrying a heavy pack over them. They go up Fallen homes,broken roadways, they slide down to drops that could kill you on the slight mistep. Sweat Began to pool at their temples a few hours in, they were following instinct.

Sun shine above but no heat bothered them.

The sweating was a physical show of their worry,anxiety and fear. They also felt frustrated because they knew,all this over sibling rivalry- When they found Dante,they would pay vergil- Urizen,a visit. And have a stern talking to.

Even in that form,he could never strike them. For even like this his love remained,always did.

It must be past midday when they finally collapse and sit against a heap of rubble, they breathe with this heaving, this hardness of breath that only happened when they were in physical pain.

A weakening adrenaline surges Through their veins,instinct and calculations could only do so much. Connecting ideas, using context to their advantage could only do so much.

They allow their crown to appear,relieving themself of hiding their nature to not attract unwanted attention. The flaming black crown hovers,shaped Like dark sunrays and a Fire thay made it seem like they wore a perpetual eclipse.

Whistling leaves their lips,cracked and chapped. The sclera of their eyes turns black,contrasting Like a void surrounding a single isle of lush green.

From one of their sides a flame erupts,bright Orange and gold and a dark shape appears. Howling,slobbering. An eclipse of a hound that walks to its owner and folds her pointy ears against her head and whines pitifully as she bows. The doberman- Like hellhound,Missy.

--Hey...-- They pat her head-- hey girlie..-- they smile a little as the dog licks their hand-- I need help finding Dante,can you do that for me?

Missy nodds,and they offer from their bag a shirt that still smells like the hunter. She takes a moment to sniff it and then breathe in the air,she seems hazy for a moment- As if shes between two scents.

She exhales smoke,and begins to walk. Jerico stands up and follows, summoning in their left hand the grand sword- The Solar Flare- A beautifully made,black iron claymore with the handle carved in gold. Trouble wouldnt take long to come.

By the end of the afternoon they find what they were looking for. They see embedded on a rock,the Sparda- dantes sword named after his father.

--Thats why you couldnt find him well,it was covering for him-- Jerico allows their beetle wings to unfold,missy flashes in that bright flame and is gone.

They fly up to the sword and Gently pat it--Hello father in Law..--They murmur, and then look around to their vantage point. They sigh and find Dante Fallen across a statue of an angel.

God does have a sense of humor.

Flying down to him,they kneel and look for any signs of life. Hes drenched in blood,absolutely covered in it. Even his white hair is crimson.

--Dante,honey...--They murmur as missy flashes beside them and sniffs at the Man. She whines and whimpers,never a good sign.

Jeri shuffles closer,the flames of their crown brushing against the loose strands of hair. They dont burn,but embrace the top of his head as they lean closer to hear for breath. Keen ears,no breath.

They check for pulse,and its barely there. Missy curls up on the Mans lap and keeps whimpering.

--What happened to you?--They drop their bag to the side and embed thr Solar Flare on the ground. They hold his face in their hands and turns it around,its almost like hes in a coma. -- God,I havent seen you look this bad in decades.

They tend to what wounds remain,his healing factor still kicked in. But they take their time to desinfect what they can and use some hydrogen peroxide to clean out the blood in his hair.

"Just like cleaning period blood" they told themself in a bizarre turn to Keep themselves from spiraling. And when both face and hair are clean from crimson they sigh and simply shuffle to sit on his lap.

--I was so,so worried-- they murmur,pressing their forehead to his-- If you can hear me,nero and V and me are here. Please hold on,wake up. I love you.

Their hands press against his chest,a Hail Mary to Keep him alive. It would look counter intuitive to use this,given his lineage but he was still human, so here it was.

An old,holy healing incantation. There were almost no components needed, holy water, gold dust and a "bearing of a heart"

Some would interpret it as an actual heart...

--There hasnt been a sunrise where ive felt whole. You and your twin scattered to the Winds and gone. -- they whisper,mixing the golden dust and water into almost a paint as they draw these words in Enochian,the languages of the angels-- I worried,every Day and night. There wasnt a day of rain where tears didnt fall. Finding you so helpless,and with little I can do,and finding Vergil split and undone..

They breathe out shakily as the nature of the incantation burns them like a bad sunburn. But it takes Effect as they finish saying

--May we reunite,the three of us again. Like old times,where things were easier to gain. May joy find us, may we walk the same path...-- the rhyme ends and they simply say-- I love you.

Golden light wraps around him and they swear they hear him almost gasp. It scatters in a circle to Keep him safe like a shield.

--Ill be back for you,Dante. I promise-- they kiss his lips with tender sadness,scared to lose him even with everything they have done to help. Its a mournful kiss, the idea of this nigh immortal, irreverent Man they adored and loved for decades May not walk the same path with them anymore.

They stand up,looming over him like an angel of mercy. Their crown dims as they whistle,Missy is sent back home and their crown fully dissapears like Fire being put out.

With Open wings they fly away,theres just one more stop to make before they reunite with V and Nero. And this one they couldnt wait for it to happen. They might scream themself hoarse.

-♡-

It wasnt hard to enter the chamber where Urizen resided. Sitting in his throne and absorbing the pool of blood around it. The Doors storm Open to see a figure carrying a big sword over their shoulder and heaving with effort.

--Vergil!--Jerico howled as they threw the Solar Flare to embed inches away from his head-- vergil! You come down here right now!.

They walk up to the throne and look with anger.

Urizen looks down,tilting his head almost amused. A deep rumble comes from his chest as his Many eyes narrow, that blue color they always loved now awakens anger,deep,burning anger.

--Why did you do this?--Their voice shakes. No answer given.

They jump and the air ripples like the sound barrier is broken. Their mortal form dissapears as their demon form appears,almost as big as Urizen with a flaming crown made of an ever burning eclipse,the black shape of the crown glimmers like volcanic obsidian.

A body made of chitinous shells of beetles,glimmering yellow and black and emerald green,their horns much the same. Their eyes burn green as their mandibles click. Many arms fold as a heavy tararantula abdomen expands with their angry breathing.

Fangs show as they scream,causing the whole room and Qlipoth tree its Housed on to shake with their fury.

--Answer me!--Their throat burns,eclipsian Fire roaring as they speak.

--Do not wilt over this-- answered urizen as a clawed,Dark blue hand goes to stroke their cheek. Their mouth opens and their fangs dig into his fingers. But he doesnt seem to mind as he simply pushes away their hair,flaming and floating like cobwebs on the wind and swaying like kelp within the Ocean. Slow and beautiful.

--How?!

--Once I beat Dante,we'll be reunited. Do not weep for me,my light-- His bloody hand still messes with their hair,they wish it actually could burn him

--I wont let you kill him,Vergil-- they insist grabbing his wrist and squeezing-- I dont know how we fix this,but we Will. I Will.

His head tilts. His eyes narrow.

--You could never choose between us. Do not interfere-- he insists.

--You arrogant,stubborn bitch!--They roar as their flames grow and arch like a solar expulsion-- I wont let you get away with this. Im going to-

They reach for their sword that grows to their size. They swing it and Keep it an inch away from Urizen's neck. He watches with Curiosity as a molten tear falls down their cheek,then Another, and another...

Something in him,despite his nature,goes to wipe away those tears that sizzle against his scales. His gaze softens and for a moment theres a flash of the Real vergil, pained for their lover.

--to see you wilt...It pains me--he said,low enough for only her to hear. Even now he couldnt let go of his pride.

--You wont love me openly in this form. -- they answer-- And I think that hurts the most.

They pull back the sword and sling it back so it slides Into this silk Made sheath. Soft,made of moonlight to contrast all the sunlight they carry. Their form returns to mortal, and they look up at the towering form of Urizen.

He tries to speak but no words find him,that sensitive side missing from him. And in a flash,his companion is gone.

-♡-

Jerico walks back to Nicos Van,it wasnt hard to spot against the bleak remains of the city. They are openly weeping as they angrily kick rocks and debrie out of their way. Tears down their facr

They see V cone out from the living part of the van and he looks soft with concern. He blinks with confusion and gets startled as they collapse in his thin arms. They openly weep,curling into themself like a flower in winter and fields during a drought.

A paining sight.

--To see you wilt, it pains me so-- he whispers,cuddling them to his chest as he sits on the steps of the vans door. Their knees rest on the ground and their waist is caged in his scrawny legs.-- it breaks my heart,my love.

Jeri hugs him tighter and breathes in his scent. His thin fingers stroke their scalp and he kissed the top of their head. He can feel the sadness and anger,warm, coming off of them.

They heave as they cry,their face Burning with effort as their lungs cant Keep up. He coos and begs them to breathe,his voice soft and with such care.

--Just breathe in,and then out. I need you to breathe--He coos over and over again until he sees them relax. They fall on to him,deadweight on his weak form. His back meets the step that follows the one hes sitting on.

He waves Nico off,as she comes from the back of the vans living area. She nodds and retreats to the Driving part. Then he embraces his lover and rubbs their back soothingly.

When their crying slow down,when they can hide their face in the crook of his neck,he quotes..

--Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,Who countest the steps of the Sun:

Seeking after that sweet golden clime

Where the travellers journey is done. -- his voice is silky smooth as he recites the poem. Their poem. The one that always made vergil think of them-- Where the Youth pined away with desire,

And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow:

Arise from their graves and aspire,

Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

He feels them smile against his neck,and he hugs them tighter like que childhood plush. His heart squeezes at such a sight,his black hair brushing against the crown of their head.

To have his weight and voice was comforting. Though V felt like he could do so much more,but it hurt him to see he was unable. He cant give them what they want,to hace Vergil whole again,but he can offer the comfort in the way he always did. Vitale was a part of Vergil after all. He remembers it all well.

--Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date-- its so special that he remembers their poems like the back of his hand.

He cant see it, but he can feel their joy return.

--Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;-- he continued,rocking them side to side--And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;

They sigh and relax into his arms. They murmur "Keep going"

--But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;

Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

He slowly helps them up,seeing the ghost of a smile on their lips. He leans in and gives them a shy kiss,puppy dog love. Yearning as well written poetry,story book tenderness. He brings the love portrayed in literature to the Real life with this kiss. He cannot be vergil,but he can be the love he has for them.

A love that could outshine any novel and any sonnet, any theatre play or any poetry.

When they part,he sees them drunk with love and they hug him again. He hugs back and quietly tells them to rest. Ever so Gently,like nudging a scared kitten, he brings them inside.

He makes them a cup of tea,cuddles with them and they can taste his love in the drink. Nobody made it like he did,he always remembered each and every detail.

Then,V takes some much needed time to reccuperate by dozing off with jerico. To hold them as best as he can in his scrawny form,this form they loved so much. Hes healed their sorrows for now,and he always Will.

#dmc s/i #vergil #v/vitale #dante

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zer0pm · 6 years ago

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Diverging Jealousy: You x Vergil

A/N: A continuation of Diverging Jealousy Vergil, inspired by these wonderful people.

Vergil rose victorious over Dante this round. The blue twin was particularly rough on his brother this time around. Instead of gloating, Vergil sheathes his katana and promptly walks away. Meanwhile, Dante was flat on the ground, spent from his defeat. You rush over to him, making sure he is okay. What you found was as expected, him wearing a huge grin on his face. The man sure smiles in the most inappropriate of situations. You all were still in hell, afterall.

He outright starts laughing as soon as your face came into his view. You raise your brow at him.

You: “What? Did he knock you over the head too hard?”

Still chuckling, he shakes his head, his chest rumbling erratically in humor. Dante covers his eyes with his sweaty forearm.

Dante: “Didn’t think he had it this bad. Must be V’s fault.”

This made you freeze on the spot. V? What did V have to do with this?

V was a former client of the Devil May Cry crew and a devil hunter in his own right. You didn’t know him for very long, but you developed a fondness for him that was evident in your interactions. The idea of possibly taking a step further in your relationship beyond platonic was entertained, especially when V admitted his attraction to you himself when he pulled you to the side after an arduous battle. By then, V revealed to you that he was dying and moment his words passed his lips, your heart shattered to pieces.

You wanted to hate him, hate him for not telling you sooner, to curse him for stringing you along, but the way he looked at you, the way he held you with your head pressed against his chest to listen to his erratic heartbeat, stopped your reproach. The man was practically on the verge of crumbling to dust, yet he held a gleam in his eyes that spoke nothing of adoration for you. His last request was for you to help him live long enough to defeat Urizen and although you were bleeding tears from the inside, you loved him too much to deny him.

When you and the rest of the crew reached the demon king, Urizen laid defeated thanks to Dante’s newfound strength. Instead of dealing the killing blow, Dante allowed V to execute the demon at the latter’s request. What happened next, you did not expect.

In place of V and Urizen, within a pillar of light that which pierced the sky and shattered the illusion within the demon tree; was a man unknown to you. He was clad in a long, blue leather coat and possessed a cold and unapproachable aura - the opposite of Dante and his twin brother. The man was handsome for certain, but there was something frightening in his piercing gaze as he held those before him: his brother, Nero...and you. You have since learned that his name is Vergil and he is the original person of both Urizen and V combined. For awhile, you had wondered where V went although in your heart you knew he was gone, although not “gone” at all. Not really. He lives still...as this man.

It’s not the same though... With a sigh, you extend your hand and help Dante back up on his feet. With a groan, he stands and places a hand on your shoulder for balance. He must have moved too fast as he almost stumbled into you.

You: “Easy there, big guy.”

Dante: “Yeah, yeah. I know, I know.”

The legendary devil hunter straightens himself but not before nearly brushing your nose with his own. To anyone else, it would look like such an intimate moment especially with the way Dante smiled at you. A knowing and almost pitiful smile on his rugged face.

Dante: “Oh, man. I’m gonna have my ass handed to me for sure.”

You: “Aha. What are you rambling on about now?”

Dante: “Talking about my brother. Now that he’s whole again, he’s adjusting to all these...new feelings. Now he’s sappy and I don’t know whether to make fun of him or root him on. Or better yet...”

You suddenly feel leather brush along your cheek and found Dante holding your face in the palm of his hand. The cheeky smile on his face drops slightly to that of a soft smile matched by the intense gleam in his eyes. Half a mind told you that he was flirting with you again, the same way that he did when he and V were fighting over you, but this time was different. Dante was being careful this time, but what was he wary of? The man bends over slightly, his head dipping to a path where it almost looked like his lips would meet yours, but instinctively you twist your head to the side. He seemed to have expected this and chuckles lowly and you felt his warm breath tickle against your ear.

Dante: “...taunt him.”

With his other hand he subtly points his finger somewhere and your eyes follow. In the distance, your eyes catch the form of Vergil who stood a ways away like a statue. The man was facing you, watching the entire exchange with a coldness that made you freeze in place. For some reason, your heart drops at his expression. Vergil, he looked...murderous? And just as you thought this, he strides his way back over to you two.

Vergil: “Are you quite done?”

Dante, without even looking, took a step back and relaxed his posture, acting as if he did nothing wrong.

Dante: “Why, brother, whatever do you mean?”

Vergil: “May I remind you, brother, that one of us is not blessed with demonic blood in their veins?”

The man in blue was eyeing you purposefully and it felt like daggers piercing right through your very being. Why does he keep glaring at you like you did something wrong?

Dante: “And?”

Vergil: “Tch. And the longer your friend remains in the underworld, the more their fragile body will suffer from its corruption. If you don’t care, that’s fine with me.”

The way he said that, it stung. Meanwhile, Dante who glances at Vergil from the corner of his eye, chuckles before shaking his head.

Dante: “Well, can’t have that on my conscience now.”

The man stretchest, the most over-the-top stretch of the limbs you have ever seen him do before he squares his shoulders and casted a wink your way for all to see.

Dante: “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of ya. Hey, Vergil. Imma look around. Keep an eye on my partner, okay?”

Without so much as another word, he left, patting you softly on the side for reassurance as he went. Vergil scoffs at the gesture and folds his arms, mumbling something you didn’t catch. You were left alone now...with Vergil. There is an uncomfortable silence between the two of you, you were looking down at your feet, balancing on the balls of your heels to distract yourself. You wished it was easy to start a conversation with this man as you often did with V. But presence itself felt like an impenetrable wall. Still, you felt the need to say something.

You: “We should probably see if there’s an area we can safely set up camp while Dante scouts ar-”

Vergil: “It’s all your fault.”

You: “Excuse me?”

You honestly didn’t expect him to speak with you. Every time he engaged anyone it was either Dante or Nero. But you, not a single word. So to hear and see him talk to you so directly caught you off guard. And of course, his personality towards you leaves nothing to be desired.

Vergil: “If you didn’t come along...”

He was closing the gap between you now, a harsh glare in his cold eyes, a hint of a snarl on his lips. A biting tone laces each word like venom.

Vergil: “Then I-!”

You: “Can fight Dante without distractions. Is that it?”

This stop him in his tracks and he gazes at you as if you caught him in a trap.

Vergil: “What?”

You: “I heard it all from V before he...before you...”

You couldn’t even begin to explain who to appropriately address this man.

You: “You and Dante. All you guys have ever done since you were young was fight each other. It’s like it’s all you’ve ever known. And it drives you crazy to see your brother having something else that isn’t revolving around you or your eternal clash with one another. You may be the reason why Dante fights, Vergil, but people like me and Nero and the others are the reason he stays and keeps going.”

Vergil: “His reason to...stay?”

He scoffs that derogatory scoff as if he tasted something foul, turning his head towards the ground at your fear as if he was spitting at it.

Vergil: “That is ridiculous. He is trapped here as much as yourself and me.”

You: “Don’t play dumb with me. You and I both know that it’s only a matter of time before he finds a way out of this hell. Will probably do it in that over-the-top roundabout way he’s so fond of and ride out on a motorcycle. Oh yeah, he should probably thank you for that one.”

Vergil: “Hmph.”

You: “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You shouldn’t be jealous of me. Dante is my friend too. He has a circle that exists outside of you, Vergil. Just because you’re not in tune with your human feelings doesn’t give you the right to take it out on me.”

Vergil: “Jealous of you? ...You’re a fool.”

You: “C-Come again?”

Vergil: “When, at any point, did you come to believe that I’ve held any contempt towards you? Did your V consider his human emotions as weakness?”

You: “N...No. But you’re not-!”

Vergil: “Not- who? Not V, is that what you were going to say? Then let me ask you this.”

He continues his stride to you now until he was right in front of you. Just one more step and his chest would bump right into yours. He is peering down at you now and you can feel the entire weight of his eyes pinning you in place.

Vergil: “Is this not the rhythm of the man you thought lost to you?”

Before you can ask what the hell he was talking about, Vergil pulls you towards him in an embrace that confounded you. His hold was tight and you instinctively tried to worm your way out and curse him but he held you in a way that had your head pressed against his chest. And that’s when you heard it. The erratic beating of his heart. It was the exact same sound of V’s, the exact rhythm that played on the day he told you how much he cared for you...and that he was dying. But this heart was within Vergil who was very much alive and left you with questions of his intent. Questions whose answers was gradually unraveling with each passing moment in his embrace.

Vergil: “I was never jealous of you. I never hated you. Yet you drive me mad...constantly. When I said those words, it was because...”

You hear an almost aggravated sigh on his lips and you wished you were able to see his expression. But the man was bent in keeping you where you are, in his arms. Atop your head was a pressure of what can only be his cheek, his breath casting down in soft, warms huffs. You can practically feel him trying to gather his thoughts.

Vergil: “This is proving to be much more difficult than it needs to be.”

A moment of clarity washes over you and without thinking twice, you wrap your arms around him too, bringing him closer to you. Your ears barely pick up a shark intake of air from his lips.

You: “We have time.”

Against the skin of your forehead, you swear you felt way can only be soft lips. The ends turned upward.

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forgottenpasta · 6 years ago

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Wednesday

Summary: Each day of the week was reserved for one member: Jimin on Mondays, Namjoon on Tuesdays, Hoseok on Wednesdays, Seokjin on Thursdays, Taehyung on Fridays, Jeongguk on Saturdays and Yoongi on Sundays. Juggling a relationship with seven boys was difficult on its own. Add to that your insecurities, your mother’s disapproval and Hoseok forgetting your anniversary and you had the makings of the worst Wednesday ever. (...Or the best Wednesday ever?)

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader, Ot7 x Reader

Genre: Angst, Smut, Fluff

Warnings: Unprotected Sex, Oral (female receiving), Rimming, Creampie Rough Sex, Public Sex, Fingering, Orgasm Denial

Word Count: 12.2k

A/N: Enjoy! :)

“Where is it?”, you muttered, throwing open your closet to scan the contents of your scarf drawer. After a short second you slammed it close with a curse.

Your favourite green scarf with pretty red lace tulips sewn in on the edges was nowhere to be found. You’d checked the laundry and every inch of your living space with no luck. Pouting at the thought of losing the precious gift Jimin had given you after returning from the European leg of their tour, you slumped on your bed. Snatching your phone from where it had been charging on the bedside table, you dialled Hoseok’s number, not giving a mind to the loud clack as the charger’s adapter pulled free of the socket and fell on the floor, the wire still connected to the phone at your ear.

There were two reasons for your foul mood this lovely Wednesday morning. One was the scarf, and the other…

Hoseok hadn’t called like he did every Wednesday morning to confirm he wasn’t busy and that he’d be spending the night with you. But that wasn’t all. Today was special for the two of you. Just the two of you. And despite your myriad hints leading up to this day, Hoseok hadn’t shown even the slightest proof that he remembered.

He hadn’t called you and now he wasn’t picking up his phone.

With a frustrated sigh, you dialled Jin instead. He answered on the third ring.

“Babygirl.”

A content smile flitted on your face at the eldest’s soft endearment of a greeting, temporarily easing the unknown frustration you’d been feeling the last few days.

“Good morning Jin.” His name was a sigh on your lips, and you knew he’d be able to pick up on your current temperament from just that. Out of all of them, Jin was the most attuned to your emotions, often the one you sought out when you were feeling down or moody or if you just needed someone to cuddle away all your worries. No wonder he was the one you’d automatically called.

Sure enough, he sounded more alert when he asked, “What’s wrong, __?”

“I can’t find my favourite green scarf.”, you whined. You sounded like a petulant three year old complaining to her mother, but you knew Jin would never make fun of you.

An amused snicker sounded down the line. “Aww, did babygirl lose her blankie?”

You scowled at your iPhone, then slapped it back against your ear. “Seokjin, you traitor. You’ve been hanging out with Taehyung too much.”

“What can I say,” You heard the sound of a door closing, likely Jin coming out of his room. “He’s been unusually generous lately. Been paying for all our food, insists on it even.”

“He’s upto something.”, you said without a second thought.

“Oh I’m sure. Likely wants in on the rap line now that he’s secured a spot on the dance one. That boy won’t rest till he’s had a cypher of his own.” Jin yawned and you heard the distinct sound of the fridge opening. “Just last week I saw him disappear into Yoongi’s studio for hours. Just to come out with an intense look of determination on his face. Like he was about to go to war. I was scared.”

You chuckled, a sudden urge came over you to kiss Taehyung breathless, till he could no longer conjure up all kinds of schemes in that adorable head of his. More and more often, similar surges of emotion regarding the guys would pop up in your brain when you were away from them.

If a sweet love song played at the cafe you worked at, you started craving Jeongguk’s soft, whispered singing in your ear. If you read a particularly interesting book, you immediately wanted to discuss it with Namjoon. You shivered every time you passed a sex shop on the streets, remembering Jimin’s expert hands binding you with his silken ropes till you quivered with anticipation. Jin’s affectionate gestures were always at the back of your mind when you saw a couple on the streets or a lifetime movie with too much romance and not enough plot. And even the most random things reminded you of Yoongi. A cat cuddled into a ball outside your window, an oversized black hoodie on someone, the smell of brewed chocolate (his favourite drink ever since you’d rendered all his recording equipment unusable by pouring a cup of it over them).

And Hoseok. He was the start of it all, the member you had met even before you knew seven boys were going to crash into your boring, monotonous life and turn it upside down. The first person you had fell in love with. The one who had introduced you to the rest of them.

The one who was supposed to be your one and only boyfriend.

Till you’d come to the horrifying realisation that you felt more than just platonic affection for the six other boys who’d come attached with him like a buy one get six free package deal.

Jin’s voice snipped that train of thought in the bud. “I can tell you’re not listening to me, babygirl. I’d feel offended but thankfully the size of my ego is directly proportionate to my handsomeness.”

You rolled your eyes, too used to his boasting. “Can you ask Namjoon if he saw the scarf? He was here last night when I was wearing it.”

Jin huffed and you heard him moving through the dorm again. “You only call me when you need something, __. I’m sure I don’t like it.”

You grinned. “What happened to your invincible ego? Besides, I distinctly recall you getting off to my moans when I called you last Thursday, just for you to turn it into phone sex—”

“I was 587 miles away from you, woman! We had a show the next day, I couldn’t just book a flight from Narita to Incheon just to spend a few hours with you like last time.” Jin groaned. “I needed you so bad and my hand was a piss poor replacement.”

Your heart was melting into a sympathetic puddle. But before you could reply to his impassioned declaration Jin started laughing.

“Yo, what the fuck!”, he managed in between guffaws.

Perking up , you asked, “What is it?”

“What did you do to poor Namjoon last night?” You heard a little shuffling, then a groggy voice groaned in the background. “He’s out cold on the couch, muttering in his sleep. Here listen.”

“…mmhfh y/n-ah, juft one mor paghe n weh cann fuk…hmf…”

“Oh my god!” You giggled, not being able to understand the sounds coming out of his mouth anymore. Jin must have brought the phone close to his mouth.

“What did you do to him?!”

In between suppressed laughter, you managed to explain, “He wanted to have sex so bad last night but I had a ton of classwork, so he helped me complete it, hoping it would get done faster and he’ll get some. But he fell asleep on my desk writing an essay on Turko-Mongol war strategy and weaponry.”

“You and your essays on dead people.”, Jin teased, still chuckling. The boys were well aware of your love for history and literature, even indulged your interests by buying you all kinds of first editions of rare books and published articles. During your Medieval era European poets phase, Yoongi had bought you some early 16th century illustrations of Dante’s Divine Comedy. They were so priceless that you’d cried at the sight of them. When you’d haltingly asked where and how he got them when even reputed museums had difficulty finding early Dante illustrations, Yoongi had evaded your question like the plague. To this day you suspected he had some very high connections in the black market.

“Oh and by the way”, Jin said offhandedly. “I think he’s drooling on your scarf.”

Mirth disappeared and your eyes went round. “What?!” Then you remembered you’d wrapped it around his neck early this morning while you were still half asleep, hoping he wouldn’t catch a cold on his way to the dorm. “Aagh, get it away from him!”

The doorbell went off just then, surprising you. You weren’t expecting anyone.

“Umm Jin, I’ll call you later,” you told him, getting up from your bed. “Save my scarf please. That’s the only gift I have from Jimin that isn’t a sex toy. And also, ask Hoseok to call me please.”

“Sure.”, he reassured. “Are you coming to our photoshoot today? I know you don’t have any classes scheduled.”

“Miss a chance of seeing you guys all dolled up and posing sexily? Hell no.”

Jin laughed. “I love you, you pervert. Bye.”

“Mmhm, I love me too.” You hung up, knowing full well that Jin would be rolling his eyes at your antics.

“I’m coming!”, you shouted as the bell went off again, striding out of your bedroom and towards the front door. The smiling face of your mother was the last thing you were expecting to see when you opened it.

“Mom!” You hugged her automatically. “What are you doing here?”

She patted your back, dropping a kiss on the side of your head. Her ever youthful face coming into your view as she pulled back. “I was in Seoul to attend a soiree some of my friends were hosting. I couldn’t leave without meeting you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”, you said cheerfully, ushering her in and closing the door. “Let’s talk in the kitchen. I’ll make some tea for you.”

She followed you into the kitchen, seating herself on one of the breakfast barstools as you set about making her a hot cup of her preferred beverage. “Thank you, dear. I really appreciate that you keep tea in your kitchen for when I visit, even though you don’t drink it.”

“Oh, umm, it’s nothing mom.” You stared at the water filling the kettle intently, not having the heart to tell her that you also kept it for when Taehyung stayed over. He didn’t like the taste of coffee.

Your mother knew about your relationship with the seven boys. Your father didn’t. After those first few weeks of being with them, you’d taken the risk of telling her because you had no one to talk about such a big change happening in your life. You couldn’t tell any of your college friends because technically Bangtan were not supposed to be dating anyone, let alone all seven of them dating one, lest their fangirls (and boys) get mad. You couldn’t risk outing them. The only one you hundred percent trusted to keep a secret was your mom. So you had told her. And as expected she’d kept your secret even from your father.

But that did not mean she approved or supported seven men being with her one daughter.

“Hows college going, sweetheart?”, she asked, watching you put in a tablespoon of sugar in her tea, just as she liked.

“It’s going good.” You paused. That was a lie. “Actually I barely get time to complete my class projects. It’s kinda hectic.”

“__, please tell me you finally broke it off with those boys.”, she blurted out as soon as you poured her a cup.

There it was. Of course she would assume you didn’t get time because your boyfriends took up all of it.

Rubbing sluggishly at your eyes, you sighed. Your mother was never one to beat around the bush.

“Mom, I love them.” You looked up into her eyes so she could see how sincere you were. “I’m not going to end it with them.”

She took a cautious sip from her cup, a contemplative expression coming over her face. You braced yourself. When your mother got thoughtful, it meant she was about to drop some serious truth bombs and painful facts that you were likely not going to like or want to hear.

“So, are you waiting for them to end it with you?” She raised a brow, phrasing her question like she was genuinely curious. You knew better.

“ You’re a very intelligent girl, dear. Do you seriously see such an arrangement lasting?” Her mouth twisted at the word “arrangement”, like it tasted foul.

Gazing at the ceiling, you prayed for her understanding, even though a part of you understood her reservations and that she was only looking after you.

“You don’t know them like I do, mom. They love me too. Very much so.” Your voice came out strained, ruining the conviction you’d wanted to infuse it with.

“I don’t doubt that. Look at me, __.”, she ordered softly.

You did and she offered you a tentative smile. “I don’t doubt that at all. You deserve all the love in the world and more. But a little pragmatism goes a long way, __. How is it possible that seven men keep themselves limited to one girl only?”

She took your hand that was fisted on top of the counter, slowly prying the tensed muscles open till you gave her your palm and she kissed the middle of it. “I don’t want you to get hurt, y/n. And you’re only setting yourself up for a seven times bigger fallout if you keep this thing up. Men are notoriously possessive creatures, if they don’t seek out other women, they’ll likely fight amongst themselves for you.”

Shaking your head, you took your hand out of her grasp. “No, mom. They’re very close, like brothers. They do get jealous when other men hit on me but never each other.”

Your mother sighed, frustration creeping up on her face. Her tone hardened as she said, “Then they would not hesitate to kick you to the curb if you threaten their unity even the slightest bit. I did not want to do this but you have to stop being so naïve, __. Haven’t you thought about why they agreed to this thing with you so easily?”

You almost said because they liked you so much, but you knew that wasn’t the answer your mother had in mind. “I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me.”

She leaned forward with a scowl. “Because it’s convenient. They’re insanely popular right now. Everywhere they go they’ve got eyes on them. Even your recluse of a father, who only concerns himself with politics and sports knows their songs. It’s easier for them to keep and share one woman then deal with seven.”

The kitchen was deathly silent save for the blood rushing in your ears. You did not want to hear this. You did not want some half baked ideas your mom had raise doubts in your mind about the boys.

Forcing back the tears that threatened, you softly murmured, “Mom, please.”

But she wasn’t done. “You drop everything to go to them. You keep yourself available 24/7. At their beck and call seven days a week.”

“It’s not like that.”, you exclaimed. “They support me just as much, if not more. They never ask for more than I’m comfortable giving.”

“That’s the problem, y/n.”, your mother snapped. “You’re willing to give too much of yourself. Better reel yourself in before you find yourself utterly vulnerable and exposed, with no one to lean on.”

“What does that mean?”, you asked, just as harshly.

“It means…”, she paused, as if debating wether to continue or not, before shaking her head. “I’m telling you to be ready for the time when they find partners of their own.”

Aggravated at her continued belabouring, you threw up your hands. “I’ve told you they aren’t interested in other girls—”

“Yet.” She cut you off. “Or maybe who knows, they might just be keeping company of others behind your back. Though you’re smart you’ve never been very observant.”

“Mom!”, you almost shouted, horrified at what she was insinuating. Even the thought of them going behind your back like that was unbearably painful. But you trusted them, so this whole conversation was unnecessary. “You’re just saying that because you haven’t met them. Once you’ll get to know what kind of people they really are, you wouldn’t say such things.”

She sneered, clearly put off by even the idea of meeting them. Then she delivered the final blow. “That’s not gonna happen, Y/n. The day you bring home seven men at once, your father will have a heart attack. And I’m not ever going to be interested in meeting the men who treat my daughter like a communal shower.”

“Mom.”, you breathed, pinching the bridge of your nose for patience and to quell the tears that were waiting to burst free. You couldn’t believe she actually said that. “I think you should leave.”

“I think so too.” You heard her get up from the barstool, opening your eyes to gaze unseeingly at her half empty cup on the counter.

The sound of her retreating footsteps stopped at the entryway. “I’m your mother, __. I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you. Remember that.”

And with that parting reminder, she left. As soon as the door closed behind her, your tears fell like a dam burst free, crumbling all your emotional defences along with it. Slowly, and not-so-gracefully you crumbled to the kitchen floor yourself, your butt hitting the cool tiles as you buried your face in your knees, wrapping your arms around them to make a rolled up, human ball of woe.

When initially you’d told your mother about the boys almost half an year ago she’d been disbelieving at first. Later, when she’d finally accepted you were not joking, she’d told you that you would get tired of “this new polyamory fad” soon, not being able to handle dealing with so many people in your love life at once. You guessed that after almost a year of you dating Bangtan, she’d finally come around to the fact that this wasn’t just a phase in her daughter’s life. Today was the first time she’d gotten so vocal about her disapproval though. Usually it was just snide remarks, invasive questions or straight up ignoring that you were even dating someone. You knew that keeping such a big thing from your dad because of the promise you’d extracted from her also weighed on her conscience.

The chill seeped from the cold tiles to your whole body and you shivered as you wiped your tears, frowning when more rushed to replace them. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t asked all those questions your mother had raised yourself. Trepidation had racked you when you’d first ventured into such a daring commitment with them. Will you alone be able to satisfy them? How would you divide your time amongst seven men? What if they got bored with you, or worse, jealous of each other? Would they seek out someone else?

But slowly and surely, the boys had shown you that trust and loyalty, though hard earned, were bonds that survived the treacherous potholes of navigating a polyamorous relationship. You trusted them, you were loyal to them. They trusted you, they were loyal to you.

Or were they?

Shaking your head, you got up off the floor with a huff, stalking to your bedroom with an irritated gait. This is why you did not want to talk to your mother. You were only human. The seeds of doubt once sown, germinated into assumptions and suspicion you absolutely loathed. Mainly, because you were self aware enough to realise that they had no real substance to them, they only reflected your own secret fears back at you. But again, you were only human and no matter how much you tried to shake off the encounter with your mom, your mood soured further when your overactive imagination supplied images of the boys with other women.

And your age old enemy, insecurity, reared its ugly head. Taehyung was an ass man, maybe he’d like to be with someone with a bigger butt. Were you even intelligent enough for Namjoon? Jin would suit a more wholesome woman who knew how to cook something other than ramen. Yoongi liked breasts, maybe someone with a perkier pair. You could not sing to save your life, so why did Jeongguk like you when all his female celebrity crushes had killer pipes? Jimin used to train submissives before you came into his life, did he think about those happier times?

Did Hoseok resent having to share you with his members when you’d pledged to love him and only him?

You were angrily yanking open your closet to look for something to wear to their photoshoot when your phone flashed from where you’d thrown it on the bed before your mom had officially ruined your day.

Peeking a look at it, you wondered if you should have read your horoscope. Because the day was far from over.

Hobi: Few high school friends invited me for drinks tonight. Rain check?

~.~.~

Exactly one year ago ~

The bookstore became eerily quite after 10 pm. Only a few last minute stragglers sometimes showed up to look for some obscure book they obviously couldn’t find anywhere else.

You loved being with your lonesome self behind the cash register. Usually with a book in your hands, reading up on all kinds of historical fiction, medieval fantasies, long forgotten poems of equally unknown poets and of course the occasional bodice ripper.

Which was what you were doing when the bell above the entrance chimed, indicating someone was indeed, on the prowl for some late night book hunting. You didn’t look up from the raunchy text in your lap as a dark figure passed by, clearly no more interested in exchanging pleasantries than you were. With a shrug you went back to focus on the guilty pleasure of a novel you’d picked for yourself tonight. A courtesan heroine during renaissance Italy who entertained patrons from not only the newly emerging Humanist circles but also the corrupt members of the clergy? Oh yes please.

But when, out of the corner of your eye, you saw the newcomer heading for the comic book section you grew intrigued. Late night hunting for…comic books?

Close proximity to the Seoul National University meant that the bookstore you worked at housed mostly academic readings. And as such the people who came here were also mostly students who wished to buy a copy of the expensive publishings they could otherwise also find in a library. That alone meant that the bookstore was never buzzing with customers. Let alone ones who were looking for some flashy illustrations and superhero escapism. The comic books you had on offer usually just collected dust.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you abandoned your heroine in midst of a wanton tryst with a nobleman to observe the anomaly currently browsing the comics on display.

He had on a long black trench coat, leather pants encasing the muscular legs below and Dr. Martens on his feet. His hair was covered with a black cap and from what you could see, a mask of the same colour stretched across his face. It wasn’t unusual to see people with their face fully covered, so you didn’t think much of his all black ensemble. Though he would blend in perfectly outside at night, under the store’s bright lights he stuck out like a bat during the day.

Maybe he’s a fan of batman.

When he’d chosen his pick he turned around, making you duck your head down quickly. The light chuckle that reached your ears meant that you weren’t fast enough and he’d caught you checking him out. You flushed red.

“Can I get these gift wrapped please?”

Two comic books landed on the counter in front of you, the sound accompanying the husky lilt of the man’s voice.

Left with no choice but to interact with him, you softly replied, “Of course.” Strangely, your heart beat spiked as you reached forward to pick the thin, glossy books up. He’d placed his hands on the wood counter, palms down, his sleeves pushed up a little. For a second you stared at his long fingers, a ridged vein stretching from the knuckles to the back of his right hand, forking out on his bare forearm before disappearing under his clothing like a purplish blue tattoo.

As if on cue, he started drumming his fingers, snapping you into action as you quickly scanned his purchase.

“That’ll be 15,430 won.” Opening a cabinet to pull out a selection of wrapping papers, you deliberately took your time to avoid meeting his eyes. What was going on with you? You couldn’t even see his face properly but you were acting like a teenager with her first crush. You decided it was time to stop reading romantic fantasies.

Clearing your throat you presented the options to him with a flourish, this time looking him straight in the eyes. “Which one would you like?”

He gave a cursory glance to the colourful sheets before glancing back at you with a quirked brow. Was he laughing at your flustered form? You couldn’t tell what with the mask, but there was definitely mirth dancing in his eyes.

A shrug. “Whichever. I really don’t care.”

“Fine”, you huffed, really not appreciating being the source of his amusement. You chose a blue paper with green stripes, placing the comics in the middle.

“I like that one.”, he commented graciously. And you were just about to reply when he continued cheekily, “I also like your choice in books.”

Your hands froze, eyes darting to the unfinished

novel you’d placed face up on the table. The salacious cover showed a woman in medieval garb, her mouth half open in a silent moan as a blonde man wearing a billowy white shirt kissed her bare shoulder, the open neck of her gown threatening to expose her breasts.

In a flash you flipped the book, cover side down, opening a drawer to hastily throw it inside. Slamming it closed, you glared at the man who was now outright laughing at you.

“Don’t be embarrassed.”, he cajoled in a tone that suggested you should, in fact, be embarrassed. “Everyone’s gotta live vicariously somehow.”

Was he suggesting you read erotic books because you didn’t get laid in real life?

You narrowed your eyes. “Is that why you’re reading children’s books?” You indicated the My Little Pony picture book and the Superman comic he’d picked up. “I must say you’ve got varied tastes.”

“Hey now.” He held up his hands. “Those are for my niece and nephew. They’re twins and it’s their birthday today.”

“Maybe that’s what you say whenever you’ve got to stock up on the latest My Little Pony issue. Have them gift wrapped so no one suspects.” Now you were just pushing it, but the burn of embarrassment still irked.

He was grinning behind his mask. “No that one’s for my nephew. He likes ponies.”

You gaped at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

You held up the Superman issue. “And I’m guessing your niece likes superheroes?”

“Only the ones who can fly.” He shrugged. “According to her Batman is an imposter with no real powers.”

“Radical.”, you said in amazement.

“Look I didn’t mean to upset you.” His hand on the counter moved to cover yours. A shock of awareness jolted through your spine, making you sit up straighter. By the way he swallowed, he wasn’t unaffected either. But he didn’t let go of your hand, clutched it tighter actually. “I’m sorry if I was rude.”

“I, umm.”, you stuttered, not being able to look away from his sincere gaze. What were you upset about again? Yeah, the living vicariously comment. “It’s alright. Though I’ll have you know, I get plenty of action.”

No you didn’t get plenty of action. And you did not just say that.

At least you’d managed to shock him out of his sauve demeanour. “I’m…sure you do.” He cleared his throat, squeezing your hand. “I wasn’t insinuating anything. I read smut too, you know.”

Now it was your turn to be shocked. “You don’t.”

“I don’t.” He grinned again. “Just trying to make you feel better.”

“Hey!” You snatched back your hand, scowling at him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”, he breathed in between laughter. “You’re just too easy to rile up.”

“Ha ha.”, you mocked. “Are you living vicariously through me then? Not enough comedy in your life, huh?”

He straightened then, his amusement disappearing. “Maybe.”

Reaching for the hand you’d pulled out of his grip, he brought it closer to him. Wrapping both his hands around yours, he made sure you were looking into his eyes when he said, “Maybe you’re exactly what I need in my life.”

Your breath hitched at that. “I don’t even know your name.”

His eyes crinkled at that. He was smiling behind his mask again. At that moment, you wanted to see his face more than anything in the world.

One hand let go of yours to point at the large S on Superman’s chest on the comic’s cover.

You frowned in confusion. “Your name is…S?”

“No silly. That’s not an S, that’s the Kryptonian symbol for hope.”

~.~.~

Present Day~

Your tears had dried by the time you left your house to head for the Bighit building. The occasional sniffle still persisted though, and you hoped you looked put together enough for the boys to not suspect anything.

The talk with your mother was not entirely responsible for your persisting melancholy. You’d been reminiscing your first meeting with Hoseok ever since his text came in. Something about it being the first anniversary of when he’d come into your quaint little bookshop, all masked up in disguise and asked you out, after thoroughly embarrassing you that is. You hadn’t gotten to see his face on the first date either, or the second or the third. When he’d asked you why you still went on multiple dates with him when he didn’t allow you to see his face (which also meant he didn’t kiss you), you’d joked about having a taste for wanted fugitives.

But the truth was that you’d fallen in love with him even before you really knew who he was. He made you laugh, made your heart flutter when he’d wrap you up in his arms, he wasn’t afraid to push your boundaries when it came to getting to know you. By the time the fifth date had rolled around he knew everything about you and you still knew nothing about him, except for the fact that he had some sinful moves, which you’d gotten to know when he’d gave you a fully clothed lap dance on your birthday. You’d fallen for his mannerisms. He’d pull out your chair, open doors for you, give you his jacket. He was different than all the guys you’d previously dated, he never once tried to get into your pants, the most you’d gotten was a quick brush of his lips across your forehead before he’d quickly slide his mask back in place.

You were the one who’d grown frustrated at him taking it so slow. He’d only chuckle lightly and divert your hand to safety whenever you tried to grope him, all your amateur attempts at seduction thwarted when he’d cage you in his arms instead or pull your attention elsewhere.

The day you’d gotten to see his face was also the day he introduced you to the rest of the boys. When he’d invited you over to his place for the first time you were ecstatic. Finally having his trust was a big deal to you. By now you’d realised he must be someone important (or dangerous) for him to hide his identity for so long, but you’d never pushed him to reveal himself. You’d thought he’d finally realised how serious you were about him.

Oh, he’d realised it alright. When he’d opened the dorm door for you, the first thing he’d done was kiss your mouth senseless, even before you’d registered who it was you were looking at. When he’d pulled back after ravishing your mouth, you’d gaped at him in shock, both at his hungry mauling and the fact that you were looking at, well, him. A world famous artist. Who’d just kissed you like his life depended on it.

His words then were still etched into your brain. He’d smiled wide and you remember thinking it was the most beautiful sight ever. “You have no idea how long I’ve been dying to kiss you, __.”

You clutched your coat around you tighter as you took the familiar route to your boyfriends’ workplace. A wistful smile graced your lips when you remembered how the rest of the boys had embraced you into their group seamlessly, like you were always meant to be right by their side. Your friendship with them had started out innocent enough, but they had always been very handsy when it came to you. You hadn’t minded and neither did Hoseok, when one of them asked you for a massage or laid their head in your lap or if the competitive younger ones tickled you ceaselessly when you’d beat them at a game. You’d developed a rapport with Namjoon and Yoongi, you enjoyed listening to them whenever they had something to say and you were flattered when they took your opinions and suggestions seriously.

Slowly and surely they’d trusted you with all their secrets, allowing you into their private life as you and Hoseok’s relationship had deepened. So it really came as shock to you when one day you’d snapped at Namjoon when he’d come to you asking advice regarding the girl he’d been dating. It hadn’t been your finest moment and for a while it had mired your bond with the boys in confusion and uncertainty. Especially when Namjoon had broken up with the girl the very next day.

The real shocker came when Jeongguk kissed you full on the mouth in the presence of Hoseok. And your boyfriend did not seem to mind at all! Gradually the boys’ handsiness had grown into full-blown PDA. They kissed you, pulled you into their lap during movie nights, back hugs became commonplace. Taehyung even loved to warm his hands against your bare waist, sneaking them inside your shirts whenever he could. Before your moral compass went haywire with guilt you had sat all of them down and talked about the nature of your relationship.

Communication was always key. Hoseok had initially been unsure of the mere idea of sharing you but you’d assured him that you would never go ahead with it if he wasn’t onboard. But the fact was, you’d fallen in love with the rest of the boys too. And he could see that as well.

You still wonder sometimes, if he’d said yes only because he risked losing you otherwise. You wouldn’t have been able to handle secretly pining for the other boys if he’d said no.

As you displayed your id to the guard at front, you wondered if he’d really forgotten that today was your anniversary. It seemed like it. Why would he accept an invitation to go out tonight of all nights if he didn’t? Should you remind him? Or maybe it just wasn’t as big of a deal as you were making it out to be.

You didn’t know what to do, all you knew was that today was a shit day. And with that thought, you entered the spacious conference room converted into a studio for the photoshoot. Namjoon had told you that it was for this years season’s greetings.

From the soft mood lightings against the panel of wall to wall windows spanning one side of the room and the light coloured casual clothing that hung from the racks pushed to the corners, you deduced that they were going for a soft, boyfriend look this time.

You snorted. How ironic they’d sell such a concept to their fans when all seven of them were taken at the same time. By the same person.

The familiar faces of the co-ordis greeted you as you moved in, and you murmured a soft good morning to them. “Where are they?”, you asked, looking around.

Solji, one of the older stylists, answered you with a smile. “You’re a little early. They’ll be here soon.”

“Great. I’ll set up somewhere out of your way then.” You returned her smile, she was your favourite out of all the staff, always friendly and understanding.

Speaking of the staff, your eyes caught a new face flitting among the familiar ones when you scanned the room for a place to sit. You nudged Solji. “Is she new?”, you asked, flicking your chin towards the blonde girl assisting the hairstylist in pulling out all kinds of products from a bag.

Solji nodded. “Miso. She’s a temp. We fell short on hands when Hyoyeon took her maternity leave. Most likely will become permanent if she’s good.”

You frowned. “Does she know about me?”

The staff were well informed about your relationship with Bangtan, the Non Disclosure Agreement they signed when they were hired prevented them from going to the media with any kind of private details about the boys, lest they be sued for their weight in gold. But it always caused you anxiety when a new staff member got to know about you. More so when they got to know you were dating all of them.

“Yes. I informed her myself. She was surprised, to say the least.”

“Everyone is.” Your mom’s sneer came to mind suddenly, but you pushed it away. Patting Solji’s arm, you said, “Time for me to catch up on my studies I guess.”

Spying a small love seat in one corner of the big room you headed towards it. Picking up the empty make up containers strewn over it, you placed them carefully on the carpeted floor instead. Perching yourself on the seat, you pulled open your handbag, pulling out your laptop and the textbook you and Namjoon had been pouring over last night.

This is what you did when they asked you over on a photoshoot, or vocal practice or dress fittings. Watching them from a corner while trying to get some work done. But mostly just gazing at them go about their way from your front row perch, hearts in your eyes.

You’d only just begun reading when the sound of their laughter reached your ears. Looking up eagerly, you promptly forgot your work. Yoongi was already headed towards you, looking downright sinful in a white Supreme hoodie, jeans and converse. Did he even need to change? This was boyfriend look right here.

“My little bird’s already hard at work I see.” He bent to give you a heart stopping kiss, his hand cupping your nape in a proprietary gesture. “How am I gonna focus on the shoot with you looking so gorgeous today, hmm? Maybe we can convince the photographer to take your pictures instead.”

Oh, flirty Yoongi was in the house today.

“I don’t think your fans would like that.” You bit his lip, not even trying to resist the temptation right before your eyes.

Another deep kiss. “Their loss.”

“Hyung, Solji noona is calling you.”, a cheerful Taehyung said from behind Yoongi.

The elder straightened up with a scowl. “Really? You’ll get a knuckle sandwich if you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”, he exclaimed, jerking a thumb behind him. “Go ask her yourself.”

As Yoongi left while muttering something under his breath, Taehyung sprawled himself on the love seat beside you. “I lied.”

You nodded. “Of course you did.”

The shout of “Tae you motherfucker!” could be heard as the subject of the loud curse brushed some stray hair behind your ears, an unbothered boxy smile directed at you as he asked, “So __, I heard Hobi hyung won’t be spending the night with you. This must come as a shock because I’m a busy man,” he polished his nails on the lapels of the Gucci coat he had on, before inspecting them like they were the singular most interesting thing, “but did you know I’m completely free tonight?”

You smiled at his attempt at nonchalance but your heart ached at the reminder. Looking towards Hoseok, you found him and the boys surrounded by the styling team. When Hoseok caught you looking, he grinned wide, moving to make his way to you.

A small hand on his shoulder stopped him in his path. The new temp Miso held up a shirt to his torso, looking up at him with a smile as she said something you couldn’t quite hear. You saw Hoseok nod and reply to her, all plans of coming to you forgotten.

“Is there trouble in paradise?”, Taehyung guessed, looking at his hyung then at you then back to his hyung like a ping pong ball.

Halting his swivelling head by placing a palm on his cheek, you pouted, “Tae, do you know what today is?”

A scared look came over his face. “Oh shit, did I forget your birthday or something?”

You scowled. “No. It’s me and Hoseok’s one year anniversary. It’s the day I first met him. And he doesn’t remember.”

“Oh.” Then a strange look came over his face, somewhere between constipation and indigestion. He was hiding something. “Oh.”

“What are you ohing about?”, you asked curtly, your curiosity growing. “And why are you making that face?”

“What face?”, he squeaked, getting up from the chair in a flash. “Oh looky there, Solji noona is calling me.”

“Wait!” But he was already hightailing it out of there. “Tae you motherf—ugh!”

For the next hour you watched them from your corner seat as they went through multiple outfit changes and all different kinds of poses against the strategically placed props near the windows. The soft sunlight filtering in provided a natural lighting and their beautiful features seemed to glow from within because of the luminescent makeup they wore. All in all it was a mesmerising affair, they looked like angels.

And throughout it all instead of focusing on getting some work done your gaze slipped to Hoseok again and again. All of the boys had come to sit beside you at one point or the other, except him. But it wasn’t for lack of trying.

The pencil in your grip almost snapped to half when you saw the new hire, Miso, bend down to whisper something in his ear as she messed with his already perfect hair. One of her hands landed on his shoulder and you could swear she was caressing him.

For his part, he rested his head on the back of the chair, eyes closed and barely giving her one word answers. But that did nothing to quell the embers of jealousy burning inside you. Solji had said that the new girl knew about you. You did not want to interfere in their work but if she continued feeling up your boyfriend...

You almost catapulted out of your chair when you saw her brush her ample chest against his arm whilst pretending to pick something up from the floor.

But luckily Namjoon made his way to you at the same time, saving you from smacking a bitch into next week.

“I’m sorry about your scarf, doll. I put it in the laundry for you.” He smiled, cheeks dimpling deeply, as if he expected a pat on the back for managing such a feat.

Reluctantly you looked away from Hoseok and the snake coiling herself around him, giving Joon a half hearted smile. “Thank you, baby.”

The dimples disappeared. “Is something wrong?”

The sincere worry in his eyes was all it took for your composure to shatter. The past few days, your mother’s visit, Hoseok’s forgetfulness, your own insecurities and now the bitch a few feet away from you.

With a pathetic whine you launched yourself into the leader’s lap, situating yourself between his thighs and wrapping your arms around him. Your face fit perfectly in the space between his shoulder and neck. You didn’t care if you were ruining his carefully put together outfit or the fact that you were in a room full of people.

Thankfully Namjoon didn’t care either, he immediately pulled you close, bending down to kiss your nose affectionately.

“Doll?”, was all he said in his soft, deep, ever understanding voice and everything you’d been bottling up came hurtling out in a hiccupy word vomit. By the time you were finished tears were running down your face and you turned to hide into his chest so nobody else could see you breaking down.

“Aah your mother is wrong, so so wrong. You’re our centre, the best thing that ever happened to us.” Sighing, he rubbed your back. “But I understand where she’s coming from. If it were my daughter I’d be sceptical too. We’ll just have to convince her that we love you more than anything in the world.”

“She doesn’t want to meet you guys.”, you murmured against his chest, wiping your nose on his expensive designer shirt.

He didn’t seem to mind, brushing away your tears with his shirt sleeve himself. Solji was going to kill you both.

“I’m sure we can change her mind.” Namjoon nudged your chin up till he was gazing into your eyes. “As for Hoseok, don’t you dare doubt his love for you. He worships the ground you walk on.”

“Is that why he forgot our anniversary?”

Namjoon evaded your eyes. “Doll...”

“And why isn’t he pushing away that new temp?”

“Huh?” Confused, he looked up in the direction of the man in question.

“Forget it. Do I even have any right to be jealous when it comes to you guys?”, you questioned softly to yourself. Something you’d been wondering about for a while. “I mean there’s one of me and seven of you. You don’t get jealous when I’m with Jimin or Yoongi. Why should I be jealous if you guys show interest in other girls, right?”

That snapped his attention back to you, and what you saw in his eyes made you shrink in on yourself. He was angry, furious even. He grabbed your jaw, made sure your eyes didn’t stray from him.

“Of the most ridiculous nonsense you could come up with, I never imagined you’d be questioning our loyalty to you.”, he said through his teeth. “Firstly, we have no fucking interest in dating another girl, get that through your thick head. Second, we don’t get jealous of each other but you very well know we can’t stand anyone else putting their hands on you. Thirdly,” he paused, taking a deep breath. “I can’t say for other guys but I love it when you get jealous.”

“What?”, you breathed.

Sheepishly, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you remember when I came to you asking for dating advice before you’d agreed to be with all of us? When you were only Hoseok’s girlfriend.”

“I do.” You were just reminiscing about your early days with the boys a few hours ago.

“I didn’t really want your advice, I suspected you liked me too and I just wanted to get a rise out of you.”

You stared at him. “Is that why you broke up with the girl the next day?”

“Hehe.”, he laughed nervously. “I wasn’t dating anybody in the first place. I only wanted to be with you.”

Your jaw dropped.

Solji’s voice cut through your intimate bubble then. “Namjoon, you’re up.”

“Time to get scolded for ruining my shirt.” He picked you up and set you on the cushions like you weighed nothing.

“I’m sorry about that.” Glancing at the wetness that covered his front from your tears and snot, you winced.

“I drooled on your scarf, you cried on my shirt. We’re a match made in heaven, babe.”, he said, a shit eating grin on his face.

“You’re so cheesy.” You threw a cushion at his face.

He flicked it away with a swat. “You’ve been sitting here for hours, you should stretch your legs. I have that SourPunk string candy you like so much in the drawer beneath my computer. Go get some.”

“Really?!” You jumped up at once. “It’s my favourite.”

“I know.” He left after giving you an indulgent smile, though you heard him mutter under his breath “it tastes like satan’s ass” before he was out of earshot.

Ignoring him, you happily made your way out of the huge room, heading straight for Namjoon’s studio on the third floor. There was a spring in your step. Not surprisingly talking to the leader had put some sense back into you, he’d Expecto Petronumed your insecurities like they were dementors. For now at least, you were sure they’d rear their ugly head again in the future like a chronic disease.

Striding down the hallway cheerfully, you did not expect a hand to shoot out of a door. You shrieked like a banshee when the hand clutched your arm, hauling you inside before slamming the door close.

“What the—“, your shout was cut off by Hoseok’s hand over your mouth.

“It’s me, __. Don’t scream.”

Narrowing your eyes, you licked his palm.

“Aah!” He snatched it back, face scrunching. “What was that for?”

“For ignoring me all day. And scaring me just now.”

“Ignoring you?” He scoffed. “Fuck no. I don’t do childish stuff like that. I’m not Yoongi hyung.”

“I’m going to tell him you said that.”

Hoseok’s glare turned into a confused frown when he saw your face clearly, the dim lighting not helping his vision. “Were you crying?”

Flinching, you spoke sharply, “No.”

The frown didn’t abate. “__, I swear I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“That’s not why I was crying.”

“So you were crying.” He raised his brows, daring you to deny it. His eyes softened when you looked away instead.

“Hey baby, I’m sorry.”, he murmured in your ear, his hands finding purchase on your waist. He nudged your face toward his, nuzzling you softly. “Whatever I did I’m so sorry.”

Melting in his arms, you allowed him to pull you close. “You don’t even know what you’re apologising for.”

Placing a hand on the side of your neck, a thumb at your chin pulled your mouth open. “It doesn’t matter. I hate seeing you upset.”

He kissed your open mouth, his tongue immediately finding yours. The taste of him made you moan, coffee and the sugar coated lemon drops he loved so much. It was a strange but delectable combination.

As you sucked on his tongue, his hands dropped to work on the buttons of your blouse. You pulled away for a second to ask, “We’re really doing this here? Right now?”

“Not we.” Pushing your blouse and bra out of the way, he freed one breast for his hungry mouth.

“I just want to make you feel good.”, he breathed against your nipple before taking the cold, hardened bud between his warm lips.

Head thumping back against the door, you clutched him to your chest. “Hobi, oh my god!”

Taking your sensitive nipple between his teeth, he pulled, making a jolt of arousal go straight to your core. He chuckled as a moan tore from you. “I haven’t even started and you’re already invoking god. You won’t be able to keep quiet, would you? Do you want everyone to know your boyfriend’s worshipping you?”

Pulling him up for another messy kiss, you confessed against his lips. “Yes. I want everyone to know that you belong to me.”

Something primal and unrestrained entered his eyes, and you almost regretted your words for a second. With a swiftness that defied gravity, he picked you up and strode to a nearby table. After clearing the surface with a sweep of his hand, he placed you gingerly on top. The clink and clatter of jewellery and other accessories hitting the floor echoed in the room, but you only had eyes and ears for Hoseok.

“Be careful what you ask for, __.”

What had you unleashed?

He made swift work of your jeans till you were clad only in your blouse and soaking wet panties.

“Look at that, you’ve already made a mess.” Cupping your crotch, he stroked your clothed labia slowly, smirking when you swivelled your hips for more. “How badly do you want me to eat you out, __? Tell me and I might let you have my tongue.”

You wanted him too much to care about how desperate you sounded. “So bad. Please! I want your tongue on my pussy.”

“What my baby wants, she gets.” He dropped to his knees between your spread legs, pushing at the back of your thighs to expose your genitals in the most lewd way possible. Pushing aside your soaked panties, he dove in with fervour like he was about to devour the most scrumptious meal ever.

The first flick of his tongue on your clit had you gnashing your teeth and fisting his thick, soft hair. From previous experience you knew that receiving oral sex from him meant that he was going to put all your vibrators to shame.

And sure enough, the speed of his tongue on your clit blew your mind, as did the currents of pleasure coursing through you. How he was able to move his tongue so fast, you had no fucking clue. Pausing in his expert assault, he took the already quivering bundle in his mouth to suck, simultaneously thrusting two fingers deep in your slick channel.

“Hobi! Fuck! Umfh..” That was all you could manage till he found the soft spongy spot on your inner walls, pressing on it in tandem with his licks on your clit. Most of the sounds that came out of your mouth were incoherent shouts and half pleas.

Hoseok’s eyes met yours over the expanse of your tummy and you could tell he was internally laughing as you dissolved into a mindless being intent on reaching your climax. “Hobi please make me cum!”

The bastard pulled his sinful mouth away from your cunt instead. “What was that?”

“Aagh!”, you yelled in frustration. “Put that tongue back on my fucking clit!”

He pouted, his cheeks glistening from your juices. “Is that any way to speak to your boyfriend?”

“Hobi.”, you cried, about to burst into frustrated tears literally. “Please!”

Grinning, he dove back down. “Now was that so hard?”

This time he pulled his fingers out of your entrance to rub slick circles on your nub instead. His mouth tasted a path down your inner labia before tonguing your clenching, empty hole.

“Hoseok, don’t tease me.”, you begged.

Taking mercy on you, he thrust his tongue deep inside. The fingers playing your clit like a fiddle doubled their strokes.

“Fuck yes!”, you screamed.

His tongue inside your pussy mimicked his dick thrusting in and out, your pussy trying to grip the muscle everytime he pulled it back out. You could come just from him tongue fucking you.

“Hoseok don’t stop! Please don’t stop!”

He stopped. Pulling away once again.

“What?!”, you shrieaked, your orgasm slipping away from your grasp. Frustrated tears did, in fact, make their way down your cheeks this time.

“Your pussy tastes like fucking ambrosia, __.”, he groaned, licking his lips. “But I wanna have a taste of something else too.”

Frowning, you half sobbed, half moaned, “What?”

He smirked. “Let’s see if you can come from having your ass eaten.”

The shudder that went through you at his words was overshadowed by pleasure when he licked down your pussy, giving a fluttering peck to your neglected entrance before venturing further south. Your perineum received a wet, open mouthed kiss and a nuzzle.

“Hold your legs for me, baby.”, he commanded softly, his breath tingling both your holes.

Snaking your arms around the back of your thighs, you pulled your legs up and away. You were nervous but excited, none of the other boys had rimmed you before. “Hobi, please hurry.”

A nip on your buttcheek made you yelp. “Don’t rush me. I’m going to enjoy this.”

Kneading your buttocks in his palms, he pulled them apart, a butterfly kiss to your asshole followed. Then he laved the puckered hole, making you gasp at the unfamiliar sensation.

“Oh.”, you breathed. “That feels so good.”

You felt him smile. Another light kiss on your rim, then his tongue explored. Circling your asshole and probing at your forbidden entrance till you clenched at the foreign feeling with a groan.

He tsked, clearly disapproving. “Don’t tense up, baby. Open up to me. I love this cute little hole.”

At his urging you relaxed and he began eating your hole with the same enthusiasm as he had your pussy. When his hand slid up to tease your clit once again, your arms gave from beneath you and you thumped on the table, arching your back from the insurmountable pleasure he was giving you.

He was right. You could cum from having your asshole stimulated. The release that had slipped away earlier came hurtling back like a train wreck, with double the force.

Stiffening his tongue, he pushed it up your anus as far as it would go.

“Fuck!”, you cursed at the intrusion.

In your endorphin hazed brain, you registered a noise outside the door that sounded like Hoseok’s name. You ignored it at first, the dancer between your legs making you feel too good to care about anyone barging in.

But then the hesitant voice grew louder. “Hoseok-ssi. It’s Miso, are you in there?”

At first sheer fury coursed through you. And then you smirked.

“Hobi!” Your voice was so loud the man in question paused in his ministrations for a second. “Don’t stop! You eat my ass so good!”

With a shrug, he happily continued, circling your clit with his fingers just the way you liked it.

“Oh fuck yes!” Though your volume was exaggerated, you could feel yourself get closer and closer to the precipice.

This time you didn’t hear the squeak and the rush of footsteps disappearing outside, the blood rushing in your ears drowning out everything else.

“Baby I’m so close.”

“Cum then. Let me see your pretty pussy cum.”, he growled, increasing the torture on the bundle of nerves he was assaulting with his fingers.

When you came, everything went white for a second. The scream of his name was so loud, you were sure the whole building heard you climaxing. The seizure like shudders that racked you had you closing your legs and pulling away his hands because of oversensitivity.

Panting on the table, you flopped on your side to calm down. Hoseok bent over you to caress your hair.

“Are you alright, baby? Did I overdo it?”

Shaking your head, you got up to wrap your arms around his shoulders. “No. You are amazing. Your mouth is amazing.”

You tried to pull him down for a kiss but he turned his face away at the last second. “I just had my tongue up your ass, babe. Do you really wanna kiss me?”

“Shut up.” You gave him a deep, sloppy kiss.

~.~.~

The crew and staff were packing up when you got back to the room after cleaning yourself up in the bathroom. So you headed straight to get your things as well.

You found Jimin seated at the love seat, idly going through your textbook.

You smiled at the adorable furrow of concentration between his brows. “You into history now, Chim?”

Jimin hummed, flipping the book shut before looking up at you. “No, but I heard you’re into rimming.”

Cheeks going tomato red, you stuttered, “D-did you—”

“Yeah. You were very loud.”

Groaning you buried your face in your hands. What felt like a good idea at the time, made you shrivel up in mortification now.

Jimin got up to pull your hands away, giving you an eye smile of reassurance. “Don’t. I loved that you were so loud. I got to know that assplay is not a hard limit for you.”

You gulped. “Jimin.”

He gave you that predatory look, the one he used only in the bedroom, making you shiver. In fear or anticipation, you didn’t know. “Make sure you’re free next Monday.”

Before you could reply, he picked up your bag, placing your book and laptop inside. “Now. Let’s get you home.”

Glancing around, you found the room almost empty. “Where’s everybody?”

Jimin took your hand, interlacing your fingers. “They’re already in the car. Let’s go.”

The driver held open the door of the Escalade when you two arrived outside. You slid in first, immediately snuggling up against Jeongguk who was seated near the other window. Jimin got in behind you.

Yoongi was up front, with Namjoon, Jin and Taehyung making up the back.

“Where’s Hoseok?”, you asked as the car pulled away from the curb.

Jin answered you. “He was invited over for drinks remember.”

“Oh.” You remembered. But you’d forgotten to remind him of the anniversary, too preoccupied with his tempting mouth.

“What’s the matter, __?” Came Taehyung’s sly voice. You glanced at the rearview mirror to see him grinning. When his eyes met yours, the grin vanished in a flash.

You narrowed your eyes, Taehyung’s earlier werid behaviour coming to mind. “Nothing.”

The rest of the ride passed by in relative quiet. Only Jeongguk’s voice telling you about his recent trip back to Busan filled the car. You listened with your head on his shoulder, though your mind was adrift.

You did not fancy the idea of sleeping alone in a cold bed, one of the boys’ constant warmth against you throughout your nights had spoiled you. You were just about to take Taehyung up on his earlier offer to spend the night with him when the car stopped suddenly.

Confused, you sat up straight. It usually took twenty minutes to get to the boys’ dorm, thirty minutes to get to your apartment. It had barely been ten. “What is it? Why did we stop?”

Yoongi turned from his seat to look at you with a fond smile. “Your stop’s here, __.”

“What?” You frowned when Jimin got out of the car, holding out his hand for you to take.

“Just trust us.”, Jeongguk whispered next to you.

With a deep breath you took Jimin’s proffered hand, getting out of the car in the middle of the street.

“What if someone sees us?”, you asked, scared someone might click pictures of you two together. “Where are we?”

Jimin shook his head, turning you toward the footpath on the side of the road. “You know where we are.”

When your eyes left his to glance around, your breath caught. Because you did know where you were.

The lights inside the old bookstore you worked at illuminated your surroundings. Taking a step forward in amazement, you peered up at the two story building, the grey stucco walls of the exterior filling you with nostalgia. After you’d moved into your new apartment almost a year ago, the bookstore became too far out of your way for you commute to daily. You’d also gotten a better paying job working at a cafe. But you’d always missed the quiet of this store, the hundreds of books at your disposal that you had loved to explore. The cafe was too loud, boisterous and hectic in comparison.

A throat cleared behind you and you turned to find Hoseok gazing at you from above the mask he had donned. The car and the rest of the boys were gone.

“Did you really think I’d forget, baby?”

Elation surged through you and you barely restrained the sappy tears that threatened to overflow. He held out his arms and you launched yourself at him, making him laugh.

“So that text was a lie?”

“Hmm.”, he hummed against your hair, pecking your forehead. “They did invite me to hang out but I had to politely reject.”

Hoseok wrapped an arm around your waist. “We should go in. Someone might recognise me out here even with the mask.”

Frowning, you let him lead you towards the front entrance. “Umm, are you sure? Do you wanna pick up a book or something? The lady who owns this building won’t like us having a date in her bookstore.”

Hoseok opened the door, ushering you in. The store was unsurprisingly empty, but you frowned when you saw nobody manning the cash register.

“The lady who owns this store loves me. So I think we’re good.”

Your head snapped back to him. “Who?”

He pursed his lips, clearly suppressing his amusement. Fishing for something in his pocket, he held your hand out, palm side up.

“You.” Two keys on a Superman keyring dropped on your palm.

For a minute you stared at it dumbfounded, not comprehending him. But he spoke before you could bombard him with questions.

“I bought this whole building in your name. It’s yours.” He closed your fingers around the keys.

Blinking up at him, you swallowed at the resurgence of emotion within you. “I-umm”, you looked away. “Hoseok I don’t know what to say. It must have cost a fortune. I can’t accept this.”

“Of course you can.”, he replied breezily, pulling your chin to make you look at him again. “I know you don’t like working at the cafe. They pay you peanuts there anyway. Now you don’t have to. The earnings from this store will be more than enough for your rent, tuition, bills and everything else.”

“I-I don’t know.” The part of you that wanted to earn everything you received rebelled at taking such an expensive gift.

“I knew you would be stubborn.”, Hoseok sighed as if pained he was having to say this. “If you want, you can pay me back on your own time, okay.”

Cracking a smile, you gave him a knowing look. “You and I both know you’re not gonna accept a penny from me.”

He gave you a “duh” look. “ See, you’re smart. Now be a good girl and just tell me you love me.”

You laughed. “Fine. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Cupping your cheeks, he kissed you like he meant it. “Now shall we christen this place?”

“Hobi!”

“What?”, he whined. “The first time we met I wanted to bend you over that table and fuck all the sass out of you.”

Glancing behind you at the old desk and chair you used to spend most of your shift at, you smirked.

Sliding out of his arms, you made your way to the table, swinging your hips just right. When you reached it you placed your elbows on the surface, bending at the waist to wiggle your butt.

“Come get me, Superman.”

Hoseok groaned, stalking toward you like a tiger on the hunt.

A “whooo” escaped you when he gripped your jeans and panties to slide them down in one fell swoop, the garments tangled at your knees.

“I’ve been hard ever since I got the first taste of your pussy. I need it rough and fast this time baby.”, he growled, stroking your pussy before sliding two fingers inside. They slid in without any resistance. “Shit you’re so fucking wet.”

“You ate me out so good, I’m still dripping.”, you moaned as he wedged another finger inside your slick entrance. “Use me, Hobi.”

“Fuck.” You heard the clank of his belt and his zipper going down. He gripped his rock hard length to rub the engorged cock head up and down your slit, spreading his pre-cum and your juices everywhere.

“Put it in.”, you moaned, still oversensitive from earlier. Your battered clit pulsed like a mini heartbeat and from the way Hoseok’s grip tightened on your buttocks, his nails digging in, you knew you were going to be sore after he was done with you.

Positioning his cock at your hole, he buried himself to the hilt inside you with one hard thrust of his dancer hips. The force jerked you up the table, your hands flailing for purchase.

“Oh.” You felt full, so deliciously and utterly stuffed. “Fuck, you’re so big.”

Hoseok paused, letting you adjust and bringing his instincts under control. He did not want to hurt you. “You always take me so well. So fucking tight and warm.”

“Move, Hobi.”, you moaned after a second. “I’m ready.”

He set a punishing pace from the start. Clutching your hips in his hands he slammed you down on his dick as his hips surged upward in thrust after thrust. The slapping sound of skin against skin resounded throughout the store. You still had a hard time believing you were fucking in your old bookstore.

Oh, how far you’d come. From reading smut on this very table to fucking your boyfriend over it.

“I want to hear you, __. Don’t hold back.”, he hissed through his teeth, his hand snaking down to abuse your already sensitive clit some more.

“Shit shit! Oh my god.” Too much sensation assaulted you.

“Fuck, your pussy is squeezing my dick so good.” Hoseok adjusted his position, his length penetrating even deeper inside you. The speed of his pistoning hips doubled, if that was even possible. The table beneath you inched forward against the floor with his every harsh thrust.

Your eyes rolled back in your head. This was the definition of a quick, rough fuck. The semi public nature of it shooting a thrill down your spine. The sign at the front said open, anybody could walk in any moment. Moreover though the desk of the cashier was placed sideways, if one wanted to peer inside the windows, they would definitely get an eyeful.

The idea that someone could be watching you get your brains fucked out, made you even more wanton. Meeting Hoseok thrust for thrust, you reached back to pull his head down to your mouth, the difficult position and the hard slams of his dick inside you meant that you kissed not just his mouth but also his chin, nose and cheeks.

Hoseok laughed. “You’re so cute when you’re desperate, baby.”

“Don’t call me desperate.”, you whined, biting his chin. “Also please make me cum.”

“Whatever you say.”

He looked entirely too pleased with himself, so you clenched your pelvic muscles till your pussy gripped his cock so tight.

His thrusts faltered. “Shit baby.”, he groaned. “Of course you’re not desperate. I’m the one who’s desperate.”

“Better.”

At that Hoseok hauled you up by your arms, circling his hands around your torso to hold you up. The upright position against the table forced him even deeper. He angled his hips just right, the tip of his cock hitting your g-spot every time he drove inside you, coiling that impeding pressure in your belly more and more.

“Are you close?”, he panted against your ear, his finger returning to circle your clit.

“So close.” Gasping, you tilted your head when he bit the crook of your neck. “Just keep fucking me like that.”

The lewd noises of your love making echoed throughout the room, the rough slaps of skin, the incoherent moans, the table shaking beneath you. His thrusts didn’t relent one bit, battering your pussy till you felt that tingle in your spine building and building.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He cursed a storm, his nails digging crescents into your hips. Your walls clenched around his thick length desperately, the friction of him moving in and out too much for you.

“I’m cumming, Hobi! Shit, I’m cumming!”, you screamed, just as he circled your clit roughly one last time, pushing you over the edge.

“Oh my god!” Your second orgasm of the day was just as powerful as the first one, leaving you a barely conscious mess as tsunami waves of pleasure spread like currents through your every nerve ending.

With you reaching your end, Hoseok fucked you like you were a blowup doll, with the sole purpose of reaching his own climax. He used your poor pussy, thrusting inside with supersonic speed. You clenched around him to help him along.

“Shit __!” With a shout of your name he buried himself deep inside you, thick jets of his warm cum painting your inner walls white. After you’d milked him of everything he had to give, he dropped down over you like a sack of potatoes.

“That was amazing.”, you breathed beneath him.

“Yeah.”, he panted. Apparently that was all he was capable of enunciating. Both of you caught your breathing, your thundering hearts slowing to a gallop. Hoseok nuzzled your neck like he wanted to burrow himself within you. You chuckled at his neediness.

Once you’d both calmed down, he got up, taking you with him. After turning you around, he knelt before you. For a second he just watched his cum dribbling down the inside of your thigh, before placing a feather light kiss on your mound, as if apologising to your sore vagina. He pulled up your panties and jeans, fastening the fly.

Eyes softening, you stroked his hair back from his face, gazing down at him with a smitten look on your face. “I love you.”

He was whipped for you as well. Taking your hand he placed a kiss on the inside of your palm. “I love you too.”

Frowning, you looked out the window. “What if someone saw us having sex?”

Chuckling, he got up off the floor. “Then I hope they enjoyed the show.”

#bts fic #bts smut #bts scenarios #bts fluff #Hoseok smut #bts angst #wednesday #7 days a week series #part 2

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keeroo92 · 6 years ago

Text

Crimson Tide Ch7

Chapter Seven - Transit

Enjoy!

---Reader---

Your shoulders relaxed in V’s grasp as the ache in your head faded away. The pain kept getting more powerful and each episode left you feeling wrung out like a towel. At the very least, whatever was happening to you had yet to last longer than a few minutes. Terror still dominated your mind, but you took solace in the discomfort's brevity.

Maybe I have a tumor or something. Maybe I’m going crazy.

Maybe I’m already crazy.

The rapid pounding of your heart began to slow and you took a deep breath, exhaling heavily as the last twinge of pain dissipated. You opened your eyes and blinked, the light a shock after being closed for the past few minutes. You were still outside in your mother’s yard, so it couldn’t have been too long. V would’ve moved you otherwise.

“It’s gone again,” you whispered. V pulled away to gaze at you, his concern evident as it always was. You gave him a smile, hoping it would reassure him, but he didn’t budge. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear and you leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand on your cheek helping center you further.

“It’s getting worse,” he said. You nodded and reached for your water, taking a sip to gather your thoughts. He took your left hand and stared at it thoughtfully, weighing his words before he continued.

“I think it has to do with the portals.”

You sighed and set down your glass. “It does seem related. Maybe we should try checking Dante’s library?”

He smirked and his emerald eyes rose to meet yours. “You read my mind, little fox.”

The poet helped you rise, guiding you back to sit in one of the wicker chairs from where you’d fallen to the ground. At the sound of approaching footsteps, you turned your head to see your mother returning. She looked a little calmer, but she still toyed with her hair anxiously as she sat down with a sigh and dropped her hands.

“I’ll be staying with your grandmother for a while. She says hi.”

Relief flooded you; your mother would be out of danger. You weren’t close with your grandmother, but she lived over six hours away and it should be safe there.

“Okay. Say hi to her for me,” you replied. V dropped your hand and stood, stretching his shoulders with a soft grunt. He gestured toward the main road, indicating how it was now early afternoon. You’d been gone for hours, and you needed to return to the group soon.

“We should head back. Are you good, mom?”

She nodded and the two of you rose to hug. You inhaled her scent and allowed it to ease some of your worry away. There was something about the aroma that made the world seem less scary, a gentle reassurance that you weren’t alone. The feeling of home reminded you painfully of your childhood and you hugged her tighter, absorbing as much of the comfort as possible with so many worries swirling in your mind.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she whispered. You released her and stared earnestly into her eyes, heart aching as you saw the tears waiting to fall.

I’m so sorry, mom…

“I promise. Everything’s going to be fine.”

I hope.

---V---

The lull of the bus sent you straight into a doze, the bitter tang of cigarettes and sweat barely making you pause. V found it distasteful, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He sat stiffly, your head resting on his shoulder as you napped. Your mother’s parting words to him echoed in his mind as he watched your eyes twitch in a dream.

Protect her.

The poet sighed softly, trying not to move too much. What was he risking, by not asking you to stay behind? Would you die if you went to save Nero and Dante? Would he? What if your health got worse and something trapped you in Hell where there were no hospitals, no doctors or even a band aid?

He couldn’t let you die. He wouldn’t.

You can’t possibly be thinking of making her stay behind.

V mentally rolled his eyes at his companion.

You know, in most cultures it’s considered rude to eavesdrop.

What do I care? Listening to you think is the only entertainment I got! No cable in here!

I’ll get right on that.

A low purr and the echo of a rockslide sounded at his sarcastic response and he smirked. It was occasionally entertaining to have three separate beings share his mind, though it became crowded at times. He had the ability to block them out, but other than a few intimate settings it seemed excessive.

The point remains – she is ill. It’s too risky.

Yeah, good luck keeping her from trying to save Nero.

V cringed. It would be a difficult conversation. He’d need to plan carefully, pick the right moment. Be strategic and tactful, approach the issue with logic, so you might see reason. He huffed in frustration as no immediate solutions came to mind.

Doesn’t matter when or how you say it; she’s not gonna like it.

If you’re going to offer commentary, at least try to be helpful.

My advice? Keep your mouth shut. She’s going, and there’s nothing short of hiding her in the basement and throwing away the key that’ll stop her.

V sighed. This might be more troublesome than he thought. Griffon faded into the background as he continued his musings, the mouthy demon having said his piece. The blocks passed by in a blur as the bus rolled on and before he had time to make any progress, it had reached the stop closest to home. He tugged the cord overhead and whispered your name gently to wake you.

“We’re here, love. Wake up.”

You blinked your bleary eyes open with a grunt, crinkling your nose adorably. V’s heart warmed, renewing his determination to keep you safe. The bus creaked to a full halt and he led you off as you yawned. The bus stop wasn’t far from the manor, and within ten minutes the two of you were stepping through the front door. Inside, Lady sat at her computer typing furiously. From the stressed look on her face, V knew no portals had formed since she’d arrived.

“I’m going to go train for a bit, we can visit Dante’s tomorrow,” you murmured, giving V a quick peck on the cheek as you stepped away.

I suppose I’ll work on the new bedroom, then.

He rolled up his sleeves and turned around to head back to the exterior of the house, trying to focus on finishing the drywall by dinner instead of his worries.

---Reader---

You heard Trish training as you neared the familiar room, her low grunts mixing with short blasts of yellow light that flashed through the hallway. She gave you a tight nod as you drew your sword, beginning your warm-ups as she practiced. The motions soothed your troubled mind and you let out a deep breath as you focused on honing your skills.

You finished warming up quickly and joined Trish’s sparring session in the open center of the room. As you approached, you noticed her movements seemed off somehow, slower than usual as if something was distracting her.

“You okay, Trish?” you asked her kindly. She met your eyes and the look of agitation on her face solidified your worries.

“I’m all right. Let’s get to it.”

You didn’t believe her, but lowered yourself into the standard guard position anyway. Trish smiled ferally and attacked, her blade a blur as you struggled to counter her speed. She had no mercy, slicing and lunging with such rage on her features she resembled a demon. You cursed as her attacks forced you to step back, putting your spine against the wall.

She dashed forward, her blonde hair a tornado as she closed the gap with a grunt to slash at you with a dagger. Her path of attack was obvious, no tactical thinking apparent and you blocked it easily. Caught off guard, Trish paused and you countered with an upward slice of your own, expecting her to dodge as she always had.

But your blade sank into the meat of her forearm, drawing blood as she staggered. You dropped the sword to the floor and rushed over to her, already shouting apologies.

“Trish! Are you okay? I’m so sorry, let me take a look at it!”

Something’s definitely off with her, she’s never taken a blow like that before.

She held her bleeding limb out for your inspection, her jaw clenched as you took stock of the damage. It was shallow, to your relief. You wouldn’t even need to stitch it closed. Still, you dropped her arm and retreated to bring the first aid kit over. Trish sat in annoyed silence as you cleaned the injury, barely making eye contact as you wrapped it in gauze.

“Ok, you’re good. Again, I’m really sorry,” you said. She stood and continued practicing, her eyes challenging you to join. The two of you fell into the familiar pattern of attacking and defending in turns and you tried to ignore the concern niggling at your mind for your friend. You lost track of time as you sparred, too focused and worried to notice the hours ticking away until the clatter of approaching feet stole your attention.

“GUYS! Guys, we got another one! Let’s go!” Lady’s thrilled voice shouted from the hallway. You beamed at Trish and helped her grab the spare swords kept in the training area, dashing out to the main room to learn how far you’d be traveling.

You skidded to a stop when the hum returned, intense and focused like a scalpel performing brain surgery. With a startled gasp you dropped the tangle of blades, hands rising to rub at your throbbing temples.

“What the hell, Y/N?” Trish cried behind you. The pain crystalized, driving deeper into your skull and she stared in confusion as you crumpled to the ground, unable to respond. It felt like someone was taking an ice cream scoop to your brain and you retched, spilling foul-smelling bile onto the hallway floor. V came running as the others finished preparing the van, and together he and Trish carried you to the couch in the van.

“What’s wrong with her?” Trish asked. You wanted so badly to reassure her, but all you managed was a weak groan as V settled your head in his lap.

“She’s been hearing a humming sound, accompanied by pain. We think it has something to do with the portals,” V replied. He stroked your hair and gripped you tightly as Nico started the van. Trish’s voice sounded distant, almost as if she were underwater as she replied, and you withdrew inside yourself, hiding from the agony behind a wall of blank incoherence.

For the rest of your life, you wouldn’t be able to recall the journey to the portal. All you knew was the pain between your ears, and how much you fought it for control of your own thoughts. You failed at every turn.

The next time you processed your surroundings, you found yourself still in the van with V, the Tris and Lady on their way out the door as he continued stroking your hair and cradling you gently. Nico and Kyrie sat in the front, their eyes mirroring V’s concern as they watched you recover. You blinked as a flash of bright colors and unending light crossed your vision, but it dissipated so quickly you couldn’t discern any details. With its passing the pain vanished without a trace.

“Are you all right now?”

You raised your head and nodded, carefully standing a moment later to head outside. V’s hand on your wrist held you in place and you stared at him with a questioning expression. He swallowed and looked at the floor as he spoke, unable to look you in the eye.

“I… I think you should stay behind.”

He can’t be serious.

Nico and Kyrie frowned but didn’t speak, staying out of the obviously approaching argument. You glared at V, about to retort when he continued.

“You aren’t well and we don’t know why. We don’t even know for sure that Dante and Nero are still alive, let alone if we’ll find them. We might be gone for months. What if your condition worsens? What if it overcomes you during a battle? You could die.”

The undeniable urge to lash out, to fight surged through you. You blinked in disbelief – V wanted you to sit at home and wait like some kind of helpless idiot while everyone else went after your best friend? No way. He knew you’d never do that! Just thinking about it made you shake with rage. How could he suggest such a stupid idea?

How dare he?

“I’ll stay with you. The others should be able to handle anything they find well enough,” he concluded.

You almost slapped him, clenching your hands repeatedly to suppress the desire. He dropped your wrist as you seethed in anger but didn’t retract his words. It took a moment for you to calm yourself enough to face him, but you saw red again as he reached out to lay a hand on your shoulder. You blocked his touch with a dismissive gesture, knocking it off course with ease.

“Don’t. Don’t touch me right now. I can’t – we don’t have time for this!” you snarled. V visibly flinched at the venom in your voice but you were too angry to feel guilty.

And without another word, you opened the door and started running, straight at the portal with tears prickling at your eyes. It opened again behind you as V followed, but you had too much of a lead on him and he couldn’t stop you. He cried your name, but you didn’t turn. You only ran faster, determined to cross. Lady and Trish were eliminating a pair of Caina and as you streaked forward, the roar of the engine returned as Nico turned the key in the ignition.

Come on! Just a little farther!

You watched as Trish and Lady stepped into the yellow light. The portal flashed gold and they were gone. Nico’s van roared past you and you heard the mechanic’s shout of exhilaration as the front bumper made contact. Another flash and it disappeared, Nico and Kyrie on the other side. Your heart pounded painfully fast as you forced your feet to move even faster.

“Y/N, wait!”

No. I’m not turning my back on them.

A low roar echoed through the air, and out of the corner of your eye you saw Shadow turn to face V with a snarl, her opinion clear. Griffon appeared a moment later, his voice reaching you as you dashed away from his master.

“Run, little lady! You’re almost there!”

A hurtling object descended from on high and you swerved to dodge Nightmare’s comet as it struck the asphalt. It materialized rapidly and inclined its head as you passed in an approximation of a bow. You returned the gesture as you ran by, hoping it understood your gratitude.

“Damnit, STOP!” V shouted, but you didn’t pause for an instant.

You closed your eyes and sprinted through the portal, the yellow glow flashing so bright it burned through your lids. The ground beneath your feet vanished and you were weightless, suspended between two worlds in a thick plasma. You couldn’t breathe; there was no air. It was the most terrified you’d ever been and you couldn’t even scream.

And then it was over, a solid surface materializing under your feet as you completed the crossing. The second you opened your eyes, nausea overcame you. A kind hand held your hair back as you retched violently, your stomach expelling what seemed like everything you’d ever consumed.

---V---

He watched helplessly as you vanished, his arm still stretched out to stop you. Breathing was impossible as the portal flashed, taking you to the Underworld despite his best efforts. V turned on his three friends with a murderous glare, and even Nightmare shrank away at the pure rage in his emerald gaze.

“I warned you, Shakespeare. There was no stopping her,” Griffon commented, landing on the massive golem’s shoulder. V pinched the bridge of his nose and huffed, grappling his anger into submission.

“Yes, you were right. All I can do now is follow her and do what I can to keep her safe.”

Shadow purred her approval and he released his hold on the three summoned creatures, an enormous cloud of black shards flitting to settle on his skin and hair. He gripped the handle of his cane tightly, taking comfort in its familiar shape in his hand as he stepped closer to the portal.

Don’t think, just keep walking. This time will be different.

Yet his mind brought up the past anyway, reminding him of his time in Mundus’ prison and all the torture he’d endured. He felt the cold tendrils piercing through his flesh, heard the clatter of the Yamato as it fell from his grasp and broke. Smelled his own blood leaking from his wounds.

Done with the drivel yet?

V grimaced, shaking his head to rid himself of the vision. He wasn’t that person anymore, he never would be again. This time would be different. Mundus was dead, what could he possibly need to fear?

Other than losing you…

He forced his reluctant feet forward, his eyes fixated on the glowing portal as he snarled at it.

Let me save you from that weakness…

His jaw clenched as he heard the echo of Mundus’ taunts in his mind. His vision darkened as he remembered being encased in demonic energy, his pitifully trembling arm reaching desperately for the Yamato as he was erased.

You need neither ego, nor memories.

V growled and took another step, pushing through the recollections and embracing the pale light as it flashed around him. He closed his eyes, trying to keep his wits about him during the crossing but unable to do so. The oppressive energy, the silence and taint of demonic power were too reminiscent of Mundus for him to ignore. His arms flailed, reaching out for something, anything to hold onto.

But he was alone.

You’re never alone, Shakespeare. We got ya.

Shadow and Nightmare chimed in their agreement, and the aching loneliness and isolation gripping V’s heart eased. He focused on his bond with the three demons, taking it as a refuge from the pain of memory as he waited to complete the journey. He envisioned himself wrapping the thick tendrils of their power around himself like a cocoon, concealing himself from any foe until he prepared fully.

And then, his feet touched down. He was through. He gasped heavily, drawing in a massive lungful of breath as he fought back a wave of nausea. It was nothing, a trifle. Unworthy of his attention, he must focus on finding you.

Still, he found himself bent over and heaving bile onto a patch of bright orange grass.

Damnit.

“There you are V! Ah, here, let me…” Lady cried from somewhere nearby. Her hand lifted his hair out of the path of his expelled stomach contents and he tried to grunt his gratitude, but only another gob of filth escaped his mouth.

“Let it out, Trish was the only one who didn’t blow chunks,” Lady murmured kindly. She rubbed his back until the heaving stopped and he was able to rise to his full height again.

Where’s Y/N?

He scanned the area, giving the brunette a quick nod of thanks. There was Nico and Kyrie, next to the van. Trish was to the left, her eyes trained on the horizon.

Ugh, appalling…

The myriad of colors was blinding, the cacophony too disorienting to make sense of easily. What demon would shape their realm this way was beyond him, but he sincerely hoped they were long dead for their crimes against perception.

There you were, arms crossed as you came out from behind Nico’s van with an irritated frown. You walked right past him without a word, joining Trish on the hillside. V’s heart sank. He’d expected you to be angry, but it was much worse to encounter it face to face.

I must make amends somehow. Even though I was right.

Yeah, maybe leave that part out when you apologize…

Obviously.

Trish turned and walked to the group. V sympathized as he saw her cheek twitch; he knew what she was fighting. He felt it too, through his link with his three friends.

“There’s something down there, we need to go check it out,” the blonde announced.

Nico cracked her knuckles and climbed into the driver’s seat and V sighed as he stepped into the van, already bracing himself to endure her insane driving.

#fanfic #Crimson Tide #v x reader #reader insert #devil may cry #dmc #dmcv #dmc trish #dmc lady #my writing

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feyland · 7 years ago

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Initiative

I’m supposed to be working on my fic for the Bishop Myriel fundraiser buuuuut I also can’t get this concept out of my head. Blame @mardisoir for encouraging me. Read on AO3. Companion piece to Devil’s Backbone

“You pass through the seven gates from the palace, to the edge of the cliff that marks the border of Limbo. From below, you can hear what sounds like a massive windstorm. You can’t tell if the wailing is just the wind, or if there are voices underneath it.”

“Hang on, I want to see if I can tell that or not,” Joly said, interrupting Grantaire’s monologue.

“Alright, roll Perception.”

Joly shook the die in his cupped hands, blowing on it for luck, as he always did.

“16!”

“Alright, you can tell that the wailing is, shockingly, coming from the people who are in literal Hell. Anyway, before you can start down into the second circle, Virgil holds out a hand to make you pause. ‘I must warn you,’ he says, ‘I can guide you through the horrors of this place, but as I have no corporeal form, I cannot help you stave off any enemies. If you are attacked and killed, you will be trapped in that circle forever. Be wary. The living were never meant to see this place.’”

“So basically whenever we get into a fight, he’s going to be on the sidelines just yelling, like, ‘KICK HIS ASS!’ at us?” Bossuet asked.

“Oh, for sure,” said Grantaire, grinning. “And you know he’ll be all, ‘If I were alive I would have beaten that zombie in one move, too bad I can’t prove it.’”

Gavroche let out an impatient breath, rolling his eyes. “Can we PLEASE get to the part where we fight some things? We’ve been talking to those boring old dudes for like YEARS.”

“Okay, fine, geez, forgive me for all my creative world building.”

“You mean the world building you lifted from Dante?” Jehan said, a wicked smile on their face.

“Oh shut up Jehan. You almost peed yourself when you figured out what I was doing,” Grantaire shot back. “Anyway. You start down the steep, narrow path. As you descend, the howling gets louder, and you can feel the force of the wind picking up with every step. By the time you reach the bottom, it’s blowing so hard that your speed is reduced by half. Around you, you can see the tortured spirits being blown around roughly, alone with a significant amount of dust. Their cries combine with the howling wind, resulting in a horrible symphony of hopelessness that drowns out any other sound.”

“I want to roll Perception,” Montparnasse said. Beside him, Jehan beamed. It was the first campaign session they had managed to lure Montparnasse to. A new arc of the longstanding adventure Grantaire had started over a year before seemed the perfect place to integrate someone new. Montparnasse had danced around the suggestion of joining for several weeks, but Jehan had noticed the increasing interest in which Montparnasse had listened to their retellings of sessions.

“I wish I had had the opportunity to play when I was a kid,” they had sighed as they lay in bed with Montparnasse one night. “I played a lot of pretend, but it was mostly by myself. Sometimes I still get amazed that I have friends who like to do dorky shit with me. I’m not the weirdo talking to themself, making things up alone anymore. I’m a weirdo in a group, which is much more fun.”

Montparnasse had kissed their forehead, letting his thoughts take shape as Jehan fell asleep curled into his side. The next morning, he had dropped down next to them on the couch and asked for help filling out his character sheet.

Soon after, Montparnasse’s tiefling warlock joined Jehan’s drow ranger, Bossuet’s dwarf fighter, Joly’s elf cleric, and Gavroche’s dragonborn barbarian in an adventure of Grantaire’s making. A fitting one, Montparnasse had said, since he was already destined to end up in Hell.

“That’s a 17 plus 2,” he said to Grantaire, smirking.

“Alright, fine, you hear under very loud screaming wind the sound of something scraping alone the stone, like massive nails. Do you let anyone know?”

“Obviously. Ranavalona is true neutral, not true idiot.”

“Alright, so you say, ‘Hey I hear some weird claw-like noises,’ just as a stench of decay hits you. Out of the dust, a figure is looming. It’s a twisted version of a humanoid, huge and skeletal, gaunt skin stretched over sharp bone. It has wings like a giant insect, talons as long as short swords on its hands and feet, and a long, skeletal, scorpion tail tipped with red. This is a bone devil, and it’s your welcoming committee to Hell. Roll initiative.”

“Oh shiiiiiiit,” Bossuet said as they all reached for their dice.

Jehan snuck a glance at Montparnasse as he scrolled through the spell list on his phone. The intensity on his face made them smile. As flippant as he could be, Jehan recognized the ambition and competitiveness breaching the facade.

“Joly, you’re up,” Grantaire said once an order had been established.

“Okay, I cast Magic Circle around us. It creates a 10 foot wide, 20 foot high cylinder around us. The fiend type creature can’t enter the circle through non-magical means, and has disadvantage on attacks against any of us while we’re inside it.”

“Sweet. Nice set up,” Grantaire said. “Gav, you go.”

“I go into a rage and charge it!”

“If you do that, you’ll be out of Joly’s protective circle.”

“Whatever, man! Archibald Cunningham Pickles ain’t afraid of no bone devil!”

“Alright, roll to hit.”

The delight in Gavroche’s face as he landed blows on the devil was infectious, with even Montparnasse cracking a smile his way. Gavroche had been giddy with mirth when Montparnasse had joined the group, all too ready to mock the learning curve of a new player. Even so, there was pride in his expression when Montparnasse asked him for advice, drawing on Gavroche’s frankly astounding memory for details from the Player’s Handbook.

“The bone devil is going to go next-”

“What’s its name?” Bossuet interrupted.

“Uh, Virgil pops up beside you and says, ‘Oh shit sons, this is Cromslor the Foul’, and then he peaces out again because he's totally useless to you right now other than apparently having a great memory of the name of every single monster in the underworld. Anyway, Cromslor is going to go, and he has three attacks. First one’s aimed at you, Gav. He’s gonna try and swipe you with his claws. 14 against AC?”

“Ha! Miss! Eat shit, Cromslor!” Gavroche crowed.

“Well then he’s aiming his second hit your way too…and that’s a 22. I assume that get you?”

“Shit!”

“Watch your fucking mouth, kid. Cromslor rakes his huge, dirty, unmanicured claws across your chest, catching you for 8 slashing damage.”

“I have resistance to slashing! So that’s only 4! Suck it, Cromslor!”

“Yeah, Cromslor, get wrecked,” echoed Bossuet.

“Just for that, his last attack is coming your way, Bo,” Grantaire said with a wicked grin. “And he saved his best for last. He’s going to try and get you with his horrifying bone tail. That’s an 18.”

“That hits,” sighed Bossuet.

“But he has disadvantage because of Joly’s spell so…oh, dang, that’s a nat 20; he gets you either way. He whips his butt around, and just fuckin nails you, man. That’s, shit, 13 piercing damage, and I need you to make a constitution save to see if you’re poisoned or not.”

“Dwarves have advantage against poison…ha! 16! Does that save?”

“Shockingly, for once in your goddamn life, you actually saved against something,” Grantaire said. “He still knocked you on your ass, though. Don’t get an ego over it. Montparnasse, your turn.”

“I cast…Hunger of Hadar. A dark gateway opens in a 20-foot sphere around the devil. It’s blinded and deafened as it’s encased in a warp of time and space. It takes 2d6 cold damage, and it has to succeed a dexterity save or else take acid damage from the ‘milky, otherworldly tentacles’ that rub against it.”

A beat of silence, followed by Grantaire’s quiet, “holy shit.”

“That’s some Lovecraftian material right there,” said Jehan.

“I picked the wrong class,” said Bossuet in awe.

“Parnasse is into tent porn!” Gavroche exclaimed, delighted.

“Gav! You shouldn’t know what that is!” Joly moaned.

The game descended into madness. Hysterical laughter and the shrieks of being too deeply invested in the fantasy filled the apartment. Jehan’s lightning arrows managed to hit their target, but also caught Bossuet’s character at the same time. Wails of betrayal were voiced as Bossuet swore revenge, a promise that was challenged on account of his poor hit record, immediately exemplified as he rolled a critical fail on his attack against the bone devil. By the time Gavroche landed the final blow, cleaving the creature’s rotting head from its neck, the group was nearly in tears with laughter, working to catch their breaths as though they had fought the battle themselves.

Montparnasse’s defences, Jehan noticed, were nowhere to be seen.

#dungeons and dragons #Les Miserables #Jehanparnasse #Jehan #Montparnasse #Grantaire #Joly #Bossuet #Gavroche #d&d #les mis

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junker-town · 4 years ago

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The Pac-12 saved its reputation in the men’s NCAA tournament

Who has the best shot at the Final Four?

It was only two short years ago that the Pac-12 was considered perhaps the worst power conference in the history of men’s college basketball. Pac-12 teams were getting pounded by every quality opponent it faced outside of the league and ended the regular season with exactly zero teams ranked in the polls. The Pac-12 was projected to be a one-bid conference for much of the year, but rallied to get three teams into the tournament, none of them seeded better than a No. 9 seed. It finished as the seventh strongest league in the country the, behind the American and Big East, in KenPom’s adjusted efficiency rankings.

Given that the Pac-12’s reputation isn’t any better on the football field, the ‘Conference of Champions’ was becoming much more widely known as a punchline than it was for the number of trophies it was hoisting. That recent history is only part of the reason why the conference’s success in the 2021 men’s NCAA tournament feels so shocking to see.

The Pac-12 is the unquestioned biggest winner of the tournament’s opening weekend. The conference went 9-1 overall through the first two rounds, and each of its five teams in the field earned at least one win. Pac-12 teams weren’t just winning games, they also went 9-1 against the spread. Now the conference will make up a quarter of the Sweet 16 when the round begins on Saturday, with Oregon, USC, UCLA, and Oregon each busting through the bracket.

Here’s how each of the four Pac-12 teams reached the second weekend of the big dance — and where they could go from here.

Oregon Ducks (No. 7 seed)

Photo by Sarah Stier/Getty Images

How they got here:

Uncontested win over No. 10 seed VCU

Win over No. 2 seed Iowa, 95-80

Faces No. 6 seed USC in Sweet 16

It’s been a hard season for Oregon from the very start. The Ducks lost starting center and former five-star recruit N’Faly Dante to a torn ACL in Dec., had to play half the season without standout guard Will Richardson as he recovered from thumb surgery, and had multiple Covid-related pauses after the season started.

Oregon started to hit its stride once Richardson returned to the lineup in February, and they played their best game of the season at the most opportune time in the round of 32 vs. Iowa. Oregon dropped a season-high 95 points on the Hawkeyes that included 11 three-pointers and 10 dunks. You’d never know who was supposed to be the No. 2 seed with the presumptive national player of the year candidate watching that game.

Oregon’s success starts with Chris Duarte and Richardson in the backcourt. Duarte is a 6’6 wing and native of the Dominican Republic who arrived at Oregon after being named JUCO player of the year at Northwest Florida State College in 2019. Now the 23-year-old is being considered a potential first round pick for his 43 percent three-point shooting (on 138 attempts) and defensive impact. Duarte is also making 63 percent of his two-pointers and shoots 80 percent from the foul line — he’s one of the country’s most efficient shooters any way you look at it. Richardson is also shooting 41 percent from three this year, and handles most of the playmaking burden. This is one of the best backcourts in America.

Without Dante, the Ducks’ entire lineup is listed at either 6’5 or 6’6, with 6’8 wing Chandler Lawson representing the tallest player in their rotation. The lack of size didn’t matter against Iowa’s Luka Garza, the best offensive center in the country. St. John’s transfer LJ Figueroa and Duquesne transfer Eric Williams have done an admirable job on the glass and defending the paint, but the key for Oregon is spreading teams out and beating them on the other end. It’s a strategy that produced some beautiful basketball against Iowa, and could keep them rolling into the Elite Eight.

Oregon State Beavers (No. 12 seed)

Photo by Gregory Shamus/Getty Images

How they got here:

Win over Tennessee, 70-56

Win over Oklahoma State, 80-70

Faces No. 8 seed Loyola-Chicago next

By now, Oregon State’s origin story is starting to become widely known. Picked to finish dead last in the Pac-12 in the preseason, the Beavers were a sub-.500 team in the conference for most of the year before catching fire at the end of the season and winning the Pac-12 tournament. If not for Oral Roberts’ run as a No. 15 seed, Oregon State’s success would be the most baffling surprise of the tournament. At the same time, the more you watch the Beavers play, the less this looks like a fluke.

Despite being one of the last 16 teams left standing in college basketball, the Beavers place just No. 50 overall in KenPom’s efficiency rankings with the No. 41 offense and No. 69 defense in America. They share the ball — assisting on 59 percent of their field goals, a top-30 mark in the country — and play slow, which has helped them as an underdog. The Beavers got the benefit of an ultra hot shooting night in their tournament opening upset of Tennessee, but they were still able to beat future No. 1 overall NBA draft pick Cade Cunningham and Oklahoma State on a poor shooting night. The defense has been the key, holding both opponents at or below .90 points per possession in March Madness so far.

Ethan Thompson, son of Beavers assistant coach Stephen Thompson, has been the star of the tournament run so far, dropping 26 points on 15-of-16 shooting from the foul line in the win over OK State. Sophomore 6’3 guard Jarod Lucas is Oregon State’s biggest three-point threat (39 percent from deep), while Nicholls St. transfer Warith Alatishe is a lockdown defensive wing at 6’7. They also have a 7’1 center in Roman Silva who scored 15 points in the win over Tennessee and gives Beavers a matchup nightmare in the middle for whoever they play.

A date with Loyola-Chicago is going to be tough in the Sweet 16, but the way Oregon State is playing right now, there’s no reason to think they can’t compete.

USC Trojans (No. 6 seed)

Photo by Andy Lyons/Getty Images

How they got here:

Beat Drake, 72-56

Beat Kansas, 85-51

Faces No. 7 seed Oregon in Sweet 16

USC just did the unthinkable and made Kansas — Kansas! — look like a mid-major by routing the Jayhawks before halftime in the round of 32. No, this wasn’t Bill Self’s best team ever, but the dominance that the Trojans displayed in that game should put the rest of the West region on notice. USC has a top-15 offense, a top-five defense, and the single most talented player left standing in the tournament.

Evan Mobley is special, there’s no other way to put it. The 7-foot freshman center is an outrageous defensive talent who can protect the rim or block jump shots with his combination of length (7’5 wingspan) and quickness. He’s also a versatile offensive player who excels as a passer in the pick-and-roll and has enough touch to finish inside or hit a jump shot out to three-point range with some consistency. Mobley is projected the No. 2 overall pick in the 2021 NBA Draft, and he’s a problem without an answer for every team left standing.

Mobley’s older brother, Isaiah, has also been playing well for the Trojans, hitting 4-of-5 threes in the win against the Jayhawks. Tahj Eaddy has proven to be a tough senior point guard, while Drew Peterson provides some much needed shooting on the wing.

Yes, USC has a freshman superstar, but they’re also playing like more than a one-man show right now. The Trojans beat Oregon in their only meeting this year, but you know the Ducks will be ready for the rematch.

UCLA Bruins (No. 11 seed)

Photo by Stacy Revere/Getty Images

How they got here:

Beat Michigan state, 86-80 in OT, in the First Four

Beat BYU, 73-62

Beat Abilene Christian, 67-47

Faces No. 2 seed Alabama in Sweet 16

The reasons for optimism ahead of head coach Mick Cronin’s second season in charge at UCLA this year started to fade before the season even began. Top recruit Daishen Nix decided he’d rather play for the G League Ignite. Six games into the year, Chris Smith, arguably the team’s best player, was lost for the year with a torn ACL. Starting center Jalen Hill has also been out since Feb. for personal reasons.

The Bruins just snuck into the tournament, and had to earn their way through the bracket with a First Four game against Michigan State. The Spartans had the Bruins on the ropes, but somehow UCLA came back to win in overtime. Ever since, UCLA has been rolling.

Sophomore wings Johnny Juzang and Jaime Jaquez Jr. have been powering the Bruins on this run. Juzang, a Kentucky transfer, has been the team’s primary scorer in March, averaging 22 points per game and combining for nine three-pointers during the team’s tournament winning streak. Jaquez was sensational in the First Four win over MSU (27 points), and has been providing supplemental scoring punch ever since. Add in Jules Bernard, Tyger Campbell, and Cody Riley, and suddenly the Bruins have a solid five-man lineup that looks like it can compete against anyone in the East region right now.

Facing No. 2 seed Alabama will be an incredible test in the Sweet 16, but the Bruins will have a puncher’s chance.

Which Pac-12 team has the best chance to make the Final Four?

This is a really hard question to answer heading into the Sweet 16, especially because the winner of Oregon vs. USC would have to face a powerhouse Gonzaga team in the Elite Eight. We’ll stack up the Pac-12 teams like this entering the Sweet 16:

4. Oregon Ducks

3. USC Trojans

2. UCLA Bruins

1. Oregon State Beavers

Even if the Pac-12 can’t advance a team to the Final Four, it’s been an amazing run through the tournament for the conference so far. It will be fascinating if any of them are still standing a week from now.

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cheynasims · 6 years ago

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The Salvatore House Part 2

Continuation from: https://cheynasims.tumblr.com/post/181951121539/the-salvatore-house

Dante Wickerson, son of Grant Wickerson and Cassandra Salvatore. Born in mid-winter, a day after his aunt’s birthday. The beautiful result of a love between a vampire and a human.

The new addition to the family was another step to a big change, mostly in Cassandra. She was unsure if her newborn would grow up as a human or a vampire. The latter scared her - a tormented immortal life of limited choices that she and her younger sister were given upon to the point they had to embrace it. The same went for other vampires in a similar state as theirs, so she decided to be a helpful hand to those unguided, taking a job as a counselor. The recent residents of Wolfbane Manor were one example, after their unfortunate run-ins with vampires that forced them to leave the citylife. She had also begun searching for a cure to vampirism - not just for the vampires who want freedom from their chains, herself to die with her husband, but also for their beloved son.

Dante thankfully grew up with no sign of any vampiric powers, much to the parents’ joy. He was just like any normal kid (other than getting picked on for his eye colors). The household cats, Sabrina (the little kitten from Brindleton Bay) and her little son, Salem, watched him grow up as well while batting the laser pointer.

It all seemed well. A peaceful and lovely family. But it had to end.

No one knows what happened that one night. The funeral came so fast the next week, shocking the residents of Forgotten Hollow. Some believed that there was a feud between Cassandra and another vampire group but no one dared to point a finger and harm their inner connections. There was some speculation that Straud had a hand in it since he was never invited to the funeral. But then again, so were a few other faces. The founder denied any sort of foul play involved as he was in his home, all the way at the top - a nice place to see everything happening in the dead of night.

The only ones who knows what happened that night were Constanza and Dante. The only clues were their dead elder cat, Sabrina and Constanza declaring enemies out loud to a minor vampire named Kat Cave, who was also on the streets that night. Since the death of her beloved sister and brother-in-law, Constanza has closed the motel down and cut her ties from the other vampires. She even asked the mortician to have their graves be buried at their house and a sculptor to create a memorial for her sister. The forgotten statue of the lady is a well-known figure in Forgotten Hollow over the years - only a few know the story now.

A few years have gone by. Young Dante had grown up to a handsome adult, returning from college to see his aunt. The Salvatore House was still as desolated as ever. The paint was peeling, the wood was rotting and the cracks had gotten bigger. But Constanza was still the same, fabulous and elegantly spunky as ever.

“How are you, Aunt Cons?”

“As fine as ever,” she said.

“Last week, Mr and Mrs Stradford from the Garliclauter Place kicked the bucket. About time. And the Grim Reaper dropped by to keep me company.”

“Trixie missed you.” Salem’s little one-green-eyed-and-one-orange-eyed daughter and Dante’s close companion - grown up over the months during Dante’s college - sniffed curiously at his luggage.

“I miss her too.”

The welcoming started off nice. Constanza expected him to stay for a day or two but suddenly, he told her his decision - he was going to take over the motel and reopen it. Stay in Forgotten Hollow.

She was against it. No, nada, nope! That wasn’t what she wanted to hear and most certainly his parents would agree with her if they were alive. The argument grew: Dante pointing out how much of a bad state she was in even after years. But Constanza denied that - she was still fine! Even if the place was falling apart. And what about the job application, the interview, his degree in business?

What does it matter for a half-vampire like him? There was no way he could survive outside of Forgotten Hollow!

Constanza couldn’t believe her ears. The shocking discovery Dante made on his way to his interview on a bright day - the scorching sun peeling at his skin and smoke trailing from his burns. There was no denying the truth - he had to endure the same problems as his aunt and mother had for centuries.

She was sad, feeling somehow and somewhat responsible for Dante’s fate her sister feared. The Salvatore Sisters from Monte Vista were cursed from the start and it followed down to her nephew. Dante had already finished his denial before he came to the Hollow. He counseled his aunt over the news and told her to accept it. His life had always been in Forgotten Hollow and it will continue onwards to the end of time.

Constanza breathed. She quickly brushed back to her charismatic facade and handed down her ownership to Dante. She didn’t approve this decision but she was going to acknowledge it. “I’ll still supervise the motel. And Dante, whatever you do, stay away from the other vampires. We have nothing to do with them.”

“Even the Vatore family?” he joked.

“Hmph. Your mother will never forgive me if we turn our backs on those in need.”

“Sure, Aunt. Sure.”

“Good... And Dante, welcome home.”

That conversation went a bit better than Dante expected. At least his aunt gave the OK. The discovery of his vampiric powers was the one push he needed to come back - he wanted to stay. He needed to stay. His aunt needed a pillar of support. And most importantly, he needed to bring down the hatchet. Follow the trail behind that one night and searching the vampire behind his parents’ deaths. Continue what his mother tried to finish - a cure to vampirism. It was going to take a lot of work while he stayed as the owner of the motel. It was going to take years.

But he has all the time in the world now.

One generation was over. Now the next of the Salvatore Vampires has begun.

Salvatore Legacy, Gen 1 - to be included.

Building thoughts: https://cheynasims.tumblr.com/post/181954503384/the-salvatore-house-creators-notes

#sims 4 #sims #vampires #sims stories #prologue part 2 #the salvatore house #sims lot #cheyscreations #vampire legacy #salvatore legacy #ts4

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flauntpage · 7 years ago

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The Outlet Pass: The NBA is Back and Zach LaVine is Unstoppable

Last year I ventured to analyze every side of the NBA through this column, but instead of exploring all 30 teams as randomly as one possibly can, I’m going to break things down within a rotating group of categories to make it all more digestible. (They’re all pretty self-explanatory, but just to give a quick example, “Film Session” is a category where I’ll break down a possession or two—or three or four—and then explain why they’re relevant. I promise none of this will be complicated!)

It’s a work in progress, and figuring out how to organize it the best way I possibly can will be fluid. If you have any questions, ideas, or comments, feel free to shoot me an e-mail or ask away on Twitter. Now, without further ado, welcome to The Outlet Pass’s second season. And, as ever, thank you for reading!

Film session

The 0-3 Oklahoma City Thunder might be in trouble. Heading into tonight’s game against the Boston Celtics, they have the least efficient half-court offense in the league and rank 29th in transition. They don’t pass and they can’t shoot. Not great!

The Thunder rank dead last in three-point accuracy from above the break and the corners, and are 29th from the mid-range. Everyone is shooting below 30 percent from deep except Paul George (who barely clears it at 31.3 percent); Terrance Ferguson, Jerami Grant, and Russell Westbrook are a combined “I’m not even mad, that’s amazing” 3-for-27. Nerlens Noel, Hamidou Diallo, and Steven Adams scare no one from the outside.

A three-game shooting slump is nothing to panic over. Alex Abrines will eventually heat up, George and Dennis Schröder will eventually settle down, and (somewhat superficial) stretch fours like Grant and Patrick Patterson should find some type of rhythm as the season goes on. What Oklahoma City can’t control is how defenses choose to play them—but they can control how they respond. When the floor is cramped, as it usually is, they often choose to swim upstream instead of taking what’s given.

It’s that lack of an extra pass that does those low shooting numbers no favors. They rank 28th in passes per game, 29th in assist points created, and 26th in secondary assists. (The Thunder are somehow fifth in potential assists, but, yeah, that’s neither here nor there.)

Here are a few examples:

Being that it’s Adams taking this shot from one of his sweet spots, what happens isn’t the most terrible result. But with Draymond Green sinking that far in off Patterson, a little action on the weakside might be beneficial. Either immediately kick the ball out to an open shooter or maybe have Patterson back pick Steph Curry to free up Ferguson.

Here, Schröder forces weak-side help on a drive into the paint, but instead of flipping a pass to Grant in the corner, he tries to float in a difficult layup over a collapsing Warriors defense. And on the play seen below, Grant is obsessed with attacking Klay Thompson in the post even though Abrines is wide open in his line of sight:

Two of Oklahoma City’s losses have been without their best player, a guy who averaged a triple-double two years in a row. That’s true. It also doesn’t change the moral of the story: in 2018, nothing humbles an offensive star quite like a cramped floor. Westbrook will find the rim because he’s a bull and that’s his matador, but, on the whole, high pick-and-rolls run by him and (especially) George will turn into mud more often than not. Until they add another outside threat (Andre Roberson isn’t it), get used to seeing this:

Nemanja Bjelica couldn't care less about guarding Grant in the corner. The Thunder’s spacing is terrible, but besides crashing the glass as often as they can and making open shots when they appear (surprise: no team has been worse on wide-open threes), perhaps feeding whoever the defense chooses to ignore until the floor loosens up a little bit isn’t the dumbest idea.

The Trade Machine

The Phoenix Suns do not have a point guard and, assuming they don’t want to pay Trevor Ariza $15 million on their way to another postseason-less campaign, they should probably think about acquiring one—as futile a move as it might be. But before we look at two semi-realistic options, I want to take a deeper look at why getting a real point guard is so important.

New Suns head coach Igor Kokoskov is implementing the same hand-off-saturated system we’ve seen in Utah since Quin Snyder took that job. The Suns are averaging the second-most passes per game (about 13 more than the Philadelphia 76ers led the NBA with last season), and despite their youth and athleticism, a whopping 84.9 percent of their offensive possessions have come in a half-court setting, which is second to zero teams. (In four of the last five years, Phoenix has placed top-five in the percentage of their possessions that began in transition.)

Life is different in a system that demands structure and orderliness. In Phoenix’s home opener, Kokoskov just about lost his mind when Isaiah Canaan veered off script by faking a handoff, keeping the ball, and mucking up the action’s intent. Nothing against Canaan, but confident, stable point guards don’t do that. They organize and let teammates sink into their natural roles while assuming more play-to-play pressure than anyone else. Devin Booker at the point in crunch time is fun and not the worst thing for his individual development, but it’s also not a consistent winning formula. Jamal Crawford is not the answer, either.

The list of semi-realistic options is long: there are expensive stars who may be declining (like Mike Conley and John Wall), intriguing restricted free agents to be who’ve yet to prove they can handle their own team but, depending on who you ask, have the talent to do so (Terry Rozier, Malcolm Brogdon, D’Angelo Russell), and established-but-still-improving vets who aren’t that expensive (Ricky Rubio, Marcus Smart).

There are more names to fill in, but my favorite fit is Rubio. He already knows the system, doesn’t need shots, and is the best passer named. Just about anything is possible in today’s NBA, but there is an extremely slim chance Utah disrupts its momentum by jettisoning an important starter. They’re too good. But what if the Jazz receive an offer that’s too good to pass up, then talk themselves into Dante Exum’s progression as a logical long-term partner beside Donovan Mitchell?

If the Suns really want Rubio, they can go after him as a free agent this summer. But that’s what a smart franchise would do. So long as Robert Sarver is the owner, Phoenix is not that, which brings me to the player I most want to see in a Suns jersey...

If there’s any candidate for the Blake Griffin treatment before this year’s trade deadline, it should be Wall, a supremely gifted maestro who’s currently stuck in Ernie Grunfeld’s purgatory and owed a cap-crippling extension that runs until 2023. He turned 28 in September. The Wizards are 1-3, and Wall is 2-for-17 beyond the arc. If they can get off that contract and pick up a valuable asset or two, they should do it in a heartbeat.

Phoenix’s position is harder to justify, given they’re clearly rebuilding around Booker and Deandre Ayton, neither of whom is older than 21 years old. But if headlines and relevance are a priority over patience, growth, and sensical decisions, then what the hell, right? (Wall, Booker, Ariza, Ryan Anderson, and Ayton is not a bad starting five!)

Phoenix has assets to dangle. Would T.J. Warren, Josh Jackson, and Milwaukee’s awkwardly-protected first in 2019 (that’s top-seven protected in 2020 and unprotected in 2021, which doubles as the final year of Giannis Antetokounmpo’s contract) be enough for the Wizards to bite? In reality, probably not. But they should. And the Western Conference would be that much more interesting going forward.

Character Spotlight

If I was the GM of a team that’s dangerously thin at center, Damian Jones, Golden State’s most recent (and intriguing) fifth wheel, would be an unhealthy obsession. Jones is 23 years old, seven feet tall, athletic, mobile, long, and instinctive. So far, he looks like a more responsible version of what the Warriors had with JaVale McGee.

He’s started every game and has made a league-leading 85.7 percent of his field goals, but the best part is he may ostensibly be available before the trade deadline! Golden State already has Kevon Looney, Jordan Bell, and a recuperating DeMarcus Cousins at the five spot. Meanwhile, Draymond Green will play center when it matters most, Kevin Durant is also seven feet tall, and Jonas Jerebko can moonlight at the position if need be. But more on that later.

Jones is good. As an anchor, he can defend pick-and-rolls in myriad ways, protect the rim, and stand up opposing centers who want to battle in the post. As of Wednesday, he had the sixth-most box outs in the entire league despite logging at least 20 fewer minutes than everyone who ranked higher, while opposing shooters are really struggling at the rim when he’s protecting it.

Jones battles, runs the floor, and is already a menacing vertical spacer. He’s also established enough capital with Steve Kerr to stay in games despite early foul trouble, as has already been the case twice this season. The next two possessions came right after he picked up his second foul, yet there’s no drop in his activity.

One minute later, he deflected a Derrick Favors lob that led to a Durant dunk on the other end. Sure, there was that whole ordeal where his would-be-game-tying layup was blocked by Juan Hernangomez, but for the time being, Jones has quietly morphed into a significant steal.

With a $2.3 million team option next season, before he’s eligible to become a restricted free agent in 2021, Jones is someone the Warriors may not be able to afford long-term. At the same time, Looney and Cousins are both unrestricted free agents this summer, while Bell can be restricted. It’s not that crazy to plot a scenario where Jones is not only the last big standing, but a consequential building block for whatever this roster evolves into over the next few years. Small ball is nice, but Joel Embiid, Anthony Davis, and Karl-Anthony Towns are coming.

A Bold Take

Zach LaVine will be this season's scoring champion. In the first four games of a four-year, $78 million contract that the Chicago Bulls were heavily criticized for feeding into their cap sheet, he dropped 129 points with a 69.5 True Shooting percentage and 33.3 usage rate. He's scored at least 30 points in every game, and Monday night LaVine mutilated the Dallas Mavericks, doing as he pleased against every pick-and-roll coverage Rick Carlisle threw at him.

So, how do we go from witnessing a four-game inferno to making a prediction that feels even hotter? To begin, let’s first identify a few parameters that don’t make the idea look that insane. For starters: the three-point line. It’s become a fluke-inducing game changer—the sort of variable that makes inconceivable events feel possible. And LaVine doesn’t need anybody's help taking advantage.

He has the conscience (or lack thereof), legs, and willingness to pull up from 25 feet seven, eight, nine times per game. He can create his own shot from anywhere on the floor, whenever he wants, and looks faster and stronger than he did before he tore his ACL, with more sway over his own NASA-regulated athleticism. Dribbles aren’t wasted; he’s becoming a carnivore who’s learned not to play with his prey.

Here he takes a stagger screen from Jabari Parker and Robin Lopez, sees a crack in Dwight Powell’s coverage, and jackhammers his way into the paint with a right-to-left crossover. One play later, Chicago ran the exact same action, but this time LaVine rejects the screen (at the very beginning, watch how he tries to confuse Dorian Finney-Smith by pointing at where he wants the pick) and finishes with a dunk. There’s no hesitation.

LaVine has more than enough tools to attack from all three levels, with an ability to separate behind the three-point line, dance in the mid-range, and finish strong at the rim (as he did with his left hand against Joel Embiid in Chicago’s opener). It’s impressive, and, on this roster, will unleash itself beneath a dark cloud of necessary selfishness. If LaVine moves the ball, there’s a slim chance he’ll get it back (especially when Parker is on the floor—the Bulls do not pass!). He’ll also operate in lineups that feature big men who can space the floor. Look how far out Bobby Portis stands in the clip below, trying to drag Ben Simmons away from his help responsibilities. Now picture Lauri Markkanen in the same spot:

There are more outside factors that support LaVine’s chase for a scoring crown: 1) Chicago will rarely, if ever, taste a fourth-quarter blowout in their favor, trotting out defensive units that quickly surrender gobs of points without any resistance, 2) We exist in an era that’s defined by selfless All-Stars who’re happy to sacrifice their own numbers for the chance to team up with other All-Stars, 3) And, again, the three-point line’s incessant takeover of NBA aesthetics. Combine all this with LaVine’s own improvement and it’s easy to see how he’s set up to contend for, if not win, the 2019 scoring title. So many of his buckets will be empty calories, but if he manages to sustain even 80 percent of what’s already on display, LaVine’s contract will become a steal. (His defense hasn’t been awful, either!) Even if it’s due to a flurry of circumstance, he’ll also be the NBA’s top scorer.

Small Sample Size Theatre

Kemba Walker was a breakout topic of conversation during the season’s first week. In five games, he’s averaging an efficient 31 points. And even though an eventual return to Earth is more probable than not, there’s also some reason to believe that we’re witnessing a “late” career leap. Walker probably won’t do what Steph Curry did in 2015, but why can’t his upcoming season mirror the explosion detonated by Isaiah Thomas two years ago?

Right now he’s the league’s fifth-leading scorer, and not to subtweet Dwight Howard, but look at how good Walker was last season when Howard wasn’t on the floor. Those numbers are a dagger, and speak to how much better he can be in small (shout out to Michael Kidd-Gilchrist at the five), spread lineups that also feature big men who can pass on the move. Consider the mind of a defense as it tries to stop him in the pick-and-roll. If the screener’s man drops, well, Walker made 38.1 percent of his pull-up threes last season and through five games is 15-for-38 (that’s both accurate and a ridiculously high volume). If you trap or bring the screener’s man level with the pick, execution is key. Whenever he splits a screen, it’ll make you think about paintings in the MOMA.

And even if you squeeze the ball out of his hands, there’s a good chance your weak-side defense will somehow get punished by an open three. This skip pass was awesome:

In the same vein as Thomas, Walker’s three-point shot forces the defense to remain in code red whenever he has or doesn’t have the ball, but in order for him to sustain his efficiency there must be an aggressive willingness to drive, finish, and draw fouls in the paint. So far he’s averaging about half as many free-throws per game as Thomas did in 2017, with the lowest free-throw rate of his career. If Walker wants to reach that next tier and legitimately find himself in the MVP conversation, obviously Charlotte needs to exceed expectations and bump itself as high as a five or six seed, but also he needs to score efficiently at a high volume against teams that will view slowing him down as steps 1, 2, and 3 to victory.

This Stat Feels Important

The Milwaukee Bucks have scored a lower percentage of their points from the mid-range than every other team in the league, including the Houston Rockets. Right now, they’re at 1.7 percent. Last season, they finished at 13.7 percent, which was ninth-highest in the league.

Given what we know about their new head coach, their old head coach, and the ceiling this roster’s all-around talent has yet to discover about itself, that first stat feels like the moment in any classic horror movie where the babysitter tries to call 911 right when the power goes out. If you aren’t a Bucks fan, you are that babysitter.

Digging a bit deeper into Milwaukee’s offense, we already knew Brook Lopez and Ersan Ilyasova would allow Giannis Antetokounmpo to demolish everything in his path, but it’s jarring how quickly this team has adopted and taken advantage of Budenholzer’s five-out system. Antetokounmpo is having a field day, sure, but it’s easy to overlook just how beneficial an equal-opportunity/mid-decade-Hawks outlook would be for the supplementary pieces, too. There’s more freedom to shoot threes, yes. More importantly, with an open paint, there’s more space to cut, move, dive, and slip for easy layups.

At times, Milwaukee’s half-court offense looks like the Warriors, with split cuts that force defenses to pay attention and communicate all over the floor. The system is a beast unto itself, and taming it while Antetokounmpo breathes fire in your face can’t be fun.

Related: the evolution of Khris Middleton’s shot chart deserves its own thousand-word essay, but for the time being here are the basics. According to Basketball-Reference, the 27-year-old’s career three-point rate heading into this season was .322. Right now it’s .508! In Milwaukee’s first five games last season, Middleton only made three three pointers. This year, he’s already drilled seven against the New York Knicks, five against the Indiana Pacers, and three a piece in the Bucks’ opener in Charlotte, and last night’s win over the Philadelphia 76ers.

With an easy stroke, long arms, and a high release, Middleton should’ve already cemented himself as one of the most feared high-volume deep threats in the NBA. Instead, Budenholzer’s offense was the key to accentuating a more valuable part of his game.

Even though Lopez gets called for a foul, it matters that Milwaukee is actively looking to free Middleton up from downtown by incorporating subtle wrinkles like the off-ball drag screen seen above.

Strictly talking personnel, the range and length that Milwaukee has accumulated over the past few years comes with a futuristic identity. It’s nice to see them finally embrace such a fashionably effective style of play to go along with it.

What The Hell Was That?

Last season, when they were the fastest team in basketball, the New Orleans Pelicans liked to race up the floor and begin a possession with a small-small side pick-and-roll, then have the screener (be it Jrue Holiday, E’Twaun Moore, Ian Clark, or whoever) slip towards the basket. It almost always resulted in a layup.

In New Orleans’s home opener against the Sacramento Kings, the Pelicans got extra tricky. As they appear to get ready for a time-out—watch Anthony Davis slowly walk towards the sideline—Holiday stands on the right wing ready to execute their signature action, then darts backdoor to catch Elfrid Payton’s bounce pass.

Bravo, Pelicans. That’s some next-level duplicity right there.

This Has Nothing To Do With Basketball But…

Erik Spoelstra definitely wore a maroon blazer during a game last week and for that he should be inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame tomorrow. That is all.

Character Spotlight (Bonus)

There’s almost something vaudevillian about Vince Carter beginning his 21st season as the starting power forward in Atlanta, the garage-rock band version of an NBA franchise that’s currently in the first stage of an appropriately depressing rebuild. Carter is 41 years old and last Wednesday night he suited up as the second-oldest opening day starter in league history (shout out to The Chief).

To be clear, the Hawks didn’t sign Carter to help them win games. At the start of Atlanta’s win over the Cleveland Cavaliers, it took three minutes for Lloyd Pierce to replace Carter, who was valiantly trying to stay with Kevin Love. But the impact he should have on younger teammates is kind of cool!

“It definitely is [surreal], and he’s gotten a chance a couple times to tell us some stories,” rookie Kevin Huerter told VICE Sports. “I think a couple weeks ago was the anniversary of when he had the dunk in the Olympics over the seven-foot guy, and we watched that as a team during film and he walked us through what he was thinking, so I mean that was a cool moment.”

Huerter had just celebrated his second birthday when Carter committed that memorable murder, but even now it’s awesome to watch him hustle around the court, lopsided score be damned, to do legendary stuff like this:

Carter is more than a motivational speaker, though. He played fourth-quarter minutes in Atlanta’s comeback win against the Dallas Mavericks last night. God bless this man.

The Outlet Pass: The NBA is Back and Zach LaVine is Unstoppable published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

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natsukashiistory · 5 years ago

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Four Strangers

An unfinished story by natsukashiistory

Rating: Young adult & up

Written starting in August 2016

…

Set in the golden age of sea travel, join a very intriguing and mysterious bunch as they sail on an ocean liner across the Pacific while danger lurks around every corner and no one is who they seem to be, and no one can figure out (not even themselves!) if they’re being utterly ridiculous or extremely serious. Perhaps both!

…

Introduction

This story is set at one of my favorite points in history, and in the style of my most favorite Hollywood era– the 1930s. But not the glamorous, romantic, fanciful side of Hollywood; this is the side that realizes the tension of a post- and pre-war world, and makes it a completely parody-ish game of spies, intrigue, dark shadows, and packed full of ridiculous circumstances and characterizations.

Wise guys, murderers, liars, drunks, femme fatales, sometimes rolled all into one, abound aboard a fabulous ocean liner headed for the mystical far-east. But unlike a who-dunnit, nobody care who did-it so long as they’re looking out for #1– themselves!

I’ll only give you one hint– that bartender in First Class is the only one on board that I trust. But, who knows, everyone has something up their sleeve…

Good luck, stay away from ship rails in the fog around midnight, keep your eyes peeled, and a quippy comeback always at hand. I welcome you aboard to join in with the

Four Strangers.

Well, it’s been nice knowing ya. Send me a postcard when you arrive in Yokohama– if you can get that far!

…

Prelude

One destination – and four strangers. Tonight at midnight sail a young girl by the name of Daisy, a raven-haired boy they call Flip, a tall dark European going by the name Collins, and a renowned yet humble British Novelist, Dante Harcourt Graves or, better known as, D.H. Graves.

The ship casts off, the porters run to and fro on deck and below, the passengers wave their farewells to the piers of San Francisco as teardrops sparkle in their eyes, and our stage is set – for mystery and enchantment!

…

Scene 1 - Missing Persons …

Midnight-and-a-half found one of our strangers, Dante, sitting and yawning at the desk in his stateroom, his travel-sized typewriter at his fingertips and a perplexed look on his face.

“This story’s going no-place,” he sighed aloud. “What does my publisher know? ‘Go on a trip – see some new scenery.’ How is this supposed to help a decent plot appear? I don’t see how weeks at sea and a month in the orient could do anything for what I’m supposed to be writing.”

He went on like that for awhile longer, complaining to himself and working himself into a cloud of gloom, when he heard a loud splash outside. Lifting his head out of his imagined foul weather, curiosity called him to step out onto his private veranda and look around. The fog out there was thick as the egg drop soup he’d eaten earlier in Chinatown for lunch; the kind they only serve to tourists – so full of starch that the spoon will stand upright in it. The chop suey wasn’t much better, but Dante was a sucker for M.S.G. and ate it anyway. But the strangely pleasant effects of the oriental seasoning had worn off just as he got aboard and left him alone with that blank sheet of paper staring him in the face yet again.

It was a cool, calm summer night. He’d sworn the splash came from nearby, but looking around, all he saw was a shadow of a man leaning over the deck rail above him. Dante took out a tobacco pouch and began to roll himself a cigarette. Something about that shadow struck him funny and he laughed to himself.

Looking up and finding that dark figure still looming overhead, he called up and said, “Nice night for throwing a body overboard, isn’t it?” Yes, but, he thought to himself, his story took place hundreds of miles from the sea, so he couldn’t possibly use the idea practically.

Just then, the man started, surprised, and then quickly marched off. Odd time of night for marching, but to each his own.

Dante sighed again.

“Nobody appreciates a morbid joke these days…”

It was getting to be past one-‘o-clock in the morning when he decided to return indoors and fall into bed. He was about to close the veranda door behind him when something beat him to the task. The door slammed and, as if by instinct, he jumped for the light on the desk to switch it on.

Suddenly illuminated before him stood a tall and menacing-looking man with something in his hand that looked remarkably like his own .32 automatic – in fact, he was sure of it! There was the stain over the top of it where he’d spilled ink on it the day before and hadn’t had time to clean it yet. That India ink is something else entirely to get off stuff.

Dante coolly reached into his pocket and the gunman got a fresh aim on him. The aim relaxed a bit when it was just the tobacco pouch again.

“Do you mind?” Dante asked sarcastically, and went on with his business.

The stranger kept a silent, careful watch. He was almost too tall for the ceiling to keep up with, and looked very distinctly European – Eastern-European at that, with an unspoken expression written all over his face that life is cheap. Perhaps he’s some military hotshot who used to send troops to the front lines for breakfast, or perhaps Dante was over-romanticizing the situation. Maybe he’s a habitual widower and Dante once knew one of his ex-wives and he only just found out, or maybe he just gets a kick out of breaking into other people’s rooms in the middle of the night if they’re not asleep by a healthy time – the Sandman’s henchman?

At any rate, he couldn’t think of any realistic reason for being on the wrong end of a loaded gun – or the right end, for that matter.

At last the man said, “What do you know about throwing a body overboard?”

He spoke! Now they were getting somewhere! Was he the one standing above when he heard the splash outside? He must be!

“I’ll be frank,” Dante began, “I’m disappointed you don’t have as thick an accent as I’d imagined you having. But one can’t expect much of reality, can one?”

“What do you mean by that?” he questioned again and took a small, intimidating step forward.

“Oh, nothing,” the writer gave up, used to being misunderstood and completely oblivious that he ought to be intimidated by now.

“Nothing is nothing. Speak.”

Dante looked at him with a look that said, “So you’re a philosopher as well. Are you really sure you want to know?” and tried not to grin, but he was afraid it might’ve affected at least one half of his face.

“Well, it all started three months ago when I decided that the body must be thrown overboard. I thought of fifty ways to do it, but there’s just no practical way to throw a body overboard in Tibet – there’s no boats, much less any water to speak of. And it simply has to be Tibet. I can’t change the setting now; it’s much too late for that.”

There was a thick silence in the room for a minute – almost as thick as the fog outside, but not as bad. Dante gazed at the intruder with the gun contritely, his wide eyes looking so sad, cigarette hanging off his lip, hoping for pity, but this was reality after all. If he were to be executed for being a failed novelist, now was as good a time as any.

“Are you mad?” the man spoke after minutes of deadly silence.

Dante laughed.

“Oh, no, not mad. Not that I know of anyhow. I’m just a writer.”

“What kind of writer?” he demanded, unamused, fixing his aim directly over Dante’s heart.

“Well, fiction, I suppose. Somewhere between mystery and horror. I can never make up my mind. Mysteries are so difficult to plan sometimes, so they take a turn for the worse and become somebody’s living nightmare. Much easier that way.”

Dante had never had a conversation at gunpoint before, and he was really starting to enjoy himself. His words were flowing well and new ideas started sparking a light in his imagination. He’d written scenes like this before, sure, many a time. But to be in the scene himself was new and fantastic. So much so that he didn’t care how it ended up.

“So,” the tall man paused. “Mystery-horror. Myrror? Or Horstery?“

Dante couldn’t contain anymore a wonderful, nervous roaring laughter and let it out, doubling over for the utter silliness that just came out of his very serious opponent’s mouth.

“You do have a sense of humor after all!” He cracked up.

Shoulders tensing, the man crept back, obviously too embarrassed by his one mistake. Dante peeked up at him in the dim light, and he was sure his face had taken on a pleasant, almost human-like pinkish tint.

“I think you are mad,” he said.

“Are you accusing me or diagnosing me?” Dante smiled wholeheartedly this time. “At any rate, I accept the compliment.”

Then, for no reason that Dante could figure, the might-be assassin tossed the gun over to him and he started walking toward the door. Dante caught it, astonished at the turn of events.

“You don’t think I’d be fool enough to fire a noisy gun like this on a crowded ship without a silencer, do you?”

He was fool enough to say something outrageously funny while holding a gun, Dante thought to himself. And wondered if he shouldn’t suggest the old pillow-silencer trick when he had a better idea.

“Wait!” he called out.

Dante picked up a brand-new paperback book out of a messy pile of things on the floor by the desk that he’d meant to sort into the dresser earlier.

“Catch!” He threw it.

The intruder caught the book with a cat-like reflex and Dante was very impressed. Nobody’d ever took hold of one of his books before with such importance and meaning.

“What is it?” the man scowled as he melted back into the shadows.

“I wrote it. Fair trade for giving my gun back, huh? It might not be as dangerous, but it’s every bit as thrilling. A paraphrase of the review on the back.”

He held it, looking at it, studying the cover that had a picture of a scantily-clothed pinup girl cowering under the shadow of some unseen fiend.

“Terror at First Sight,” he read slowly, “by D.H. Graves.”

Was it him, or was his accent starting to come out?

“The cover was the publisher’s idea. Said it’d sell more copies if it looked like that, and I guess he was right. You’ve probably seen it in bookshop windows before? Or perhaps not. I always feel like I have to explain the cover for some reason. Don’t mind me.”

Our second stranger took one more good look at the real so-called D.H. Graves, then left, book in hand, as silent as he’d obviously come in.

“Ha! I’ll sleep well knowing there’s someone like that roaming the decks at night. And he thinks I’m mad? He’s what happens when a person takes life too seriously– a lesson to take note of.”

But his jolly musing was cut short when he heard another splash outside his window. He ran outside to have a look, and leaning over the rail he caught a glimpse of a familiar book cover, with a familiar terrified girl on it, swaying in the wake of the waves until it disappeared out of sight. Looking up, he saw no one this time. He didn’t need to see anyone this time. It was the shadowy fiend, of course.

Rolling his eyes and tugging his collar looser than it even had been before, the poor rejected author let out another sigh.

“Forget bed – I need a drink. Wonder if we’re far enough out to sea yet…”

And so Dante, our first stranger, melodramatically surviving the visit from the second stranger, wandered out of his cabin in search of something to cure his ever-changing mood. He was, however, completely unaware and not in the least bit worried that his book being tossed overboard had been a threat to his life!

…

Scene 2 - Coffee, Gin, and Absinthe

Our distraught writer burst through the door of the lounge and fell into a stool at the counter. The place was pretty deserted except for a girl at the piano and the bartender of course – a big, strong Caribbean-looking man with a kindly face and a thinning hairline.

“What’ll you have?” asked the man behind the counter with a friendly voice.

“Absinthe!” declared Dante dramatically, as if it were a matter of life and death. It might as well be, to him.

Unfazed, the bartender turned to get a bottle from the shelf behind and served the pale green drink in a stemmed crystal cup.

The girl who’d been poking at the piano keys with one finger stopped, and came over to the bar. The writer was staring at his glass pensively.

“You trying to pick it up with mind control or something?” she asked curiously.

“I–.” His gaze didn’t move. “I told myself all I needed was some black coffee,” he offered, always ready to lend an explanation to any question. “Coffee would fix me up. But then it had to be gin. Just one shot of gin and I’d be on my way. But I got lost trying to find the bar and tripped over a deck chair, which made me slip on a mop; then I fell backwards down some stairs and I landed on top of the steward who sent for a doctor and then I had to lose the doctor before he put me to bed (which was what I was escaping from); then the boat rocked and made me feel ill, and, you see, I barely even made it here alive! So it had to be absinthe. Nothing else will do now.”

The girl wasn’t nearly as astonished as he’d hoped for but casually said, “Mhmm,” at each misfortune.

“You poor, clumsy thing!” she said, with a slight suspicion in her tone. “Did all that really happen to you on the way here?”

Dante looked over and saw a pretty young face framed in gleaming hair with the most pitiful look on it. He laughed and she turned that sad face into a confused smile.

“Not a word of that was true. But I would’ve rather been through all that than what I did go through.”

“Was it really that bad?” She waved over the big man. “Could I get a glass of milk please, Felix?”

“Milk?” said Dante, then he looked around at the floor.

“What are you looking for? You’re awfully odd, you know.”

“Thank you – I mean – is there a cat?” Dante looked uneasy and took a sip of his green potion without lifting it off the countertop.

“Cat? Oh you mean the milk? Why, I’m only sixteen, and I don’t like coffee, so what do you expect me to order?”

“Oh, I see.” Was what came out of Dante’s mouth instead of the condescending thing thing he wanted to say having to do with her not giving a nice cup of tea a single thought. But she was too cute to insult at their very first meeting. Poor girl probably didn’t know any better.

Even while pondering tea, he was still not completely convinced about the cat and every little creaking of the ship and clinking of bottles made him turn around and look.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what was so bad that you had to order that stuff to recover from it?”

“Oh that…” he replied, lost in thought. “But why are you in the bar if you’re only sixteen?”

“I was playing piano.”

Her answer puzzled him further since it’d sounded like she couldn’t play the piano even if her life depended on it. But she was decidedly not an open book – very few women rarely are, and the ones that are aren’t nearly as intriguing as the ones that aren’t, and those are hardly worth knowing to begin with. On the other hand, Dante was an open book, especially with someone who would actually sit and listen to him.

“It all happened with a splash in the water outside my stateroom balcony–”

“Ooh very interesting,” she interrupted while a milk mustache sat upon her lip. As distracting as it was, he managed to go on.

“… And ended with a copy of my latest best-selling novel being thrown into the sea without even being read beyond the cover title.”

“Well, that’s just terrible,” she said, speaking into her tall white-stained glass as she lifted it up again.

Dante reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another copy of his book he just happened to have with him.

“Here, you can have one if you like.”

She didn’t take it but just looked at the cover. “It wasn’t a clergyman you gave one to earlier, was it?”

“Goodness, I doubt it! The cover really wasn’t my idea anyway. And I just can’t imagine anything as harmless as a book would offend him– whoever he was.”

She pushed the book back, touching his hand. “Thanks anyways,” she smiled.

“Oh… you don’t want it either.” He took a big gulp of his drink, picking it up this time, and nearly turning the same color as it, for a moment.

She took a sip of her milk and licked the mustache away.

“I’ve already read it.”

Felix went on polishing glasses and straightening up the place, which was already very neat and tidy, as the two sat and talked.

“You what!” Dante turned to her, evidently surprised.

“I love a good thriller. Have you written anything new?”

“I – well – of course! Of course I don’t have anything else with me, but –”

“Can’t you tell me one off the top of your head? I love hearing stories, too. ‘Specially with that accent of yours. I never really pictured you being from England– you are, aren’t you? And you’re a lot younger than I thought you’d be. And a lot more fit. Or are you just malnourished? You look like you could use a decent meal once in awhile. I don’t know why, but I always think of the kind of authors that write that kind of book as being old, fat, slobs who sit in their easy chair for so long at a time clicking away at their typewriter that they become quite stuck in it and require help to stand up again.”

Dante, who became deaf at the exact point when her compliments came to a halt, was a bit red in the face and was about to work out a way to retell the night’s earlier exciting events when there was a commotion outside on deck. The bartender went out to see what was going on, and came back a moment later.

“Well? What is it?” asked Dante, completely engrossed by this new occurrence, forgetting everything else, and turning quite pale.

“Seems one of the chambermaids has gone missing. She’ll turn up soon, though. Where is there to go? I don’t see what the fuss is all about– she’s probably gone off and slipped away secret someplace. You know.” He went back to his tidying behind the bar.

“Where is there to go…” murmured Dante, not at all sure Felix’s suspicions were true.

“By the way,” the girl interrupted, “my name’s Daisy. I know you from the books – D.H. Graves – but what exactly does the ’D’ stand for? My friends and I always argue over it, trying to guess. But that was before I knew what you looked like.”

“Oh, you’ll never guess,” he said while he pondered being argued over by a handful of teenage girls. “It’s Dante.”

“Dante! So Margaret was right that one time…”

Realizing they’d both introduced themselves, they both said at once, “How do you do,” then Daisy laughed and Dante joined in, too.

“You’re pretty nice, considering all the stuff you write.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Dante smirked, feeling a little lightheaded, probably because he hadn’t noticed, but his drink had just been refilled.

The two new acquaintances chatted about nothing much for a while longer, but all the time, in the back of his mind, no matter how he tried to concentrate on anything else, Dante could not stop thinking about the missing maid, that loud splash, and the encounter in his stateroom. They could all be a coincidence, couldn’t they? If only he believed in coincidences!

These distressing things, however, began to not be so clear and he began to lose track of his train of thoughts as the girl he was chatting with kept getting more and more lovely, and smart, and intelligent as his crystal cup kept getting more and more empty, then full, then empty again. It was a baffling thing.

“I wonder if she’s lying about her age,” he thought. “I wonder if she’s really a very clever spy. Femme fatale. Maybe she’s in league with the mysterious man who came to my room to threaten me. I can just picture them together, a myriad of deadly weapons surrounding them, wondering who would be fun to kill next, and how.

“But what a dreadful thought! Why must I always think the worst about things? Maybe she’s really and angel, sent from above to watch over the ship and make sure no one else gets thrown off the rails.”

Spending too much time inside Dante’s thoughts would be beside the point, and not very fair to him, so we must move along.

He and Daisy were laughing when the door to the shipboard lounge opened and Dante couldn’t help noticing as one of the crew, he supposed, marched in and came straight up to him. He supposed, because although this person was dressed as a sailor, he was the youngest and most petite sailor he’d ever seen.

“Hullo, can I help you?” Dante asked him, still in the middle of a laugh and trying not to slur the words too much, as he unwittingly swerved toward the newcomer.

The little sailor got a comfortably firm grip on Dante’s collar. Comfortable for the sailor, not for the woozy writer.

“What’s the big idea? Chattin’ up my girl?!” These words he growled at his suddenly surprised opponent.

“I’m sure I don’t know–” Dante smiled, confused, and getting a neck-ache.

The sailor shoved him back in his stool, then spun Daisy around to face him, taking hold of her bare arm.

“Another one with an accent, huh?” he accused her. “Why do I always find you with some wimp like that? Why can’t it ever be someone I could have a decent fist-to-fist-fight with? I could K.O. ‘im with my pinkie toe!”

Dante was about to get up with the idea to make him eat those words, only kind Felix put his hand out to stop him and somehow he seemed to melt off the stool and onto the marble floor into an absinthe-induced puddle.

“See? I don’t even have to look at him!”

“Let go, flip! You’re hurting me!” Daisy pulled back from him with all her might, and though she was very strong, he didn’t let her go.

Dante had gotten himself back up, leaning on the counter, and was about to say something about this disagreeable situation being quite disagreeable, but Daisy looked at him with a face – one of those expressions he admired that only the truly strong of womankind can master – as if to say, “It’s no use– don’t bother trying to save me – there’s nothing you can do,” and she really meant it, too.

But instead of listening to her, he let go of the bar and towered over the sailor and said heroically, “Unhand the lady when she tells you so!”

The next moment, however, Dante found himself on the floor again, not of his own doing this time, but clenching his teeth and holding his breath with his arms around his stomach.

“Come on,” said the sailor, annoyed.

Dante sensed struggling footsteps near him.

“I’m taking you down to the bar in third class. There’s a good crowd there who’d like to hear you sing. Don’t forget you’re here to make us some money, Daisy.”

“I don’t have to sing for low-lifes! Let me stay up here and earn some real dough, Flip!”

He scoffed and they went out the door. Dante heard a loud slap, then that was all.

“Poor girl,” sighed the bartender, helping pick up the fallen author. “You’d best keep away from Flip, I dare say, if you don’t mind me giving you my opinion. He’s somethin’ else.”

“He hasn’t the right to even speak her name!” Dante crashed into a chair at the nearest table, the bar now being too far away after that sock in the gut. “Why, what do you mean? You say that like there’s nothing to do about it.”

The gentle man floated away, as it seemed, to retrieve his current drink and bring it over to him.

“They signed on (one voyage ago, I believe) together back at ‘Frisco saying they was both eighteen – entertainer and deckhand. Both been nothing but trouble since the very beginning.” The big bartender folded his massive arms and his patron sunk further into his seat.

“Yes, sir, nothing but trouble. Even the captain can’t do anything with them an’ he’s taken to drink pretty bad on account of it.”

“Poor captain,” Dante rubbed his head. He suddenly found that he had a splitting headache.

The door opened again but he didn’t look up this time, determined that all his good luck had run out and pessimistically began thinking the whole journey across the pacific was ruined because of this first night. He didn’t even consider his nagging novel at the moment, either.

“Speak of the devil – it’s Cap'n Calvados himself!” The man got his mind off the shipboard gossip and returned to his station.

Hearing who’d come in this time, however, Dante sat up straight (or as best as he could), trying to look collected. Perhaps all was not lost of the evening yet!

The Captain was a slight man with an angular face – not young, but not very old yet either. He looked like he would’ve been fine without coming to the bar – you could see it in his eyes that there was already a bottle or two in his very recent past. In this respect, Dante felt bad for him in a superior sort of sense, not that he was any better off, that was for sure.

“Say, Felix,” said the Captain to the bartender, “where’s the singer? The girl with the pink hair–”

“Blonde hair, Captain?” helped Felix.

“Yeah, her. What was her name – Strawberry Daiquiri?”

“Daisy, sir.”

“Close, close… Gin daisy?” Captain Calvados exclaimed.

“Nah, just plain Daisy, Cap'n.”

“Well, where is she? Her singing always clears my head. It’s a muddly puddly jumble. Where are we sailing to anyways, Felix? Why don’t you be the captain for a change? There’s two of you behind the counter. Surely one of you could go steer the ship awhile for me.”

The bartender kept on talking to the Captain, though the situation was pretty pitiful. And before long, Dante had the strangest feeling as if he were being watched. As he lifted his head, he saw more people in the room – sitting at the bar, and some at the tables around him.

The piano was playing by itself – a familiar melody – it must’ve been one of those automatic pianos. Everyone was sitting and standing with their backs toward him. He didn’t think that was too odd at first, until he noticed that, in the mirror behind the bar, he couldn’t make out anyone’s faces, as if they had none. Anyone except – the face that belonged to the tall, dangerous man from before. Their eyes had met in the mirror and a feeling of dread washed over him like a freezing ocean wave.

Dante tried to get up, but he was so tired, so very tired. He didn’t want to cause a scene around all those people, but he fell to the ground as if pulled him there like a magnet.

Faces were above him and all over– faces he couldn’t see. Then there was an evil grin in front of his eyes.

“I’m sorry, but it’s time for you to die,” said a dozen voices, all different but all the same.

Dante gasped and sat up and opened his eyes. The vision he’d seen a moment ago faded into foggy memories as the seconds went by.

It was morning. A very bright morning; too bright, to be exact. Dante had awoken in his stateroom in his own bed, though he had no clue how he’d gotten back there last night. He ran his fingers through his hair and stood up stiffly. Feeling for the cord in the window and closing the curtains tightly, he sat down at that familiar, dreary typewriter and mused at the mess of belongings on the floor that he’d made yesterday right after coming aboard. He’d been looking for something in his trunk, but what was it?

“Next time, when I say I’m going to get some coffee, I’m going to get some coffee. Confound it all!” He jumped up quickly to get dressed, but plunged back into his chair immediately on account of a terrible throbbing in his head and face.

“Tea would be awfully nice,” he whined with his hands over his face. “Can’t I go back home and write this impossible book in the comfort of my own study…”

“Because it won’t get written there!” Dante answered himself, his words muffled childishly by his hands.

“And why would I ever want to go back?” he said cynically. “I’ll never go back!”

He grabbed his hair in his fists just as there was a tapping at the door. Clearing his throat and wrapping up in his housecoat, he called to whomever it was to come in.

“Breakfast, sir,” called a female voice from the doorway. “Awfully dark in here, may I draw the curtains, sir?”

Before he could answer and place where he’d heard that exact “awfully” before, the curtains were open again and his head was a whole new degree of miserable, but he was in no condition to argue with anyone but himself. Then, upon looking at who was bringing in the tray of pleasant-smelling breakfast foods that for some unholy reason made his stomach turn, he recognized the face that was staring at him.

“Daisy!”

“You do remember me!” she laughed.

“Remember you– why–”

“Ssh! I’m supposed to be working. A new job opened up, so I took it. I’m a housekeeper now, too!” she grinned like a child.

“You mean, the one who went missing…?”

“She never turned up. Oh well, more for me.”

“More money? You mean for that boyfriend of yours?”

“Never mind what I mean, and don’t spoil the beautiful morning by even mentioning him.” She took the napkin off the tray and uncovered a small feast. “Hey, you rich guys eat well, don’t you? Now, I expect you to eat every little bit of it, too.”

But before Dante could think of what to say– apologize or argue or reprimand her further, she went on.

“Sorry about Flip. I tried to warn you, but he’s unstoppable once he gets going about something. Next time you meet, I’m sure it’ll be under more agreeable circumstances. You might even come to like him.”

“Guess I’d better if I don’t want a black eye next.” He looked narrowly at the girl.

“Mustn’t chat! I’m off!” And she ran from the room in her plain dress and apron. Come to think of it, he didn’t even notice what she was wearing the night before, but dressed like that she really did look like a kid.

He sighed sleepily and began to pour himself some tea. Even on a morning like this, at least one wish had come true. There was tea.

But then, as if this moment of peace were too good to be true, his door opened again, and in ran Daisy. He twisted his eyebrows all in a knot and began to speak but she quickly grabbed a bread roll and stuffed it in his mouth in one swift movement.

“Ssh!” she warned him. “There’s a very suspicious man aboard – goes by the name Collins, but his real name is Rupert Schloss! He’s the one who carried you home last night, and helped you into your PJ’s, and he stayed in your cabin for a long time after – I was watching through your porthole – He wandered all over the place like he was looking for something, then he left suddenly. Did he find it? No, never mind, don’t tell me now.”

She winked knowingly at him and she left just as she’d done before.

Dante confusedly took the bread from his mouth and returned to his tea. He thought back on the ticketing office in San Francisco. There’d been another ship departing the next day after this one. He could’ve been strolling the waterfront right now and gotten an Irish Coffee at noon instead of being on board this madhouse. Did no one here ever hear of personal space? Is there no point of locking one’s door of one’s private room? He was disoriented and ill at the thought of everything he’d been through and been told. He tugged at the sleeve cuff of his striped pajamas and stared blankly at that typewriter, seeing nothing.

And here was the final straw: as his vision came into focus, there, upon his typewriter, sitting on top of his blank page, was a typewritten note with no name on it, just these words:

Meet me at the stern. Tonight at 10:00

“That does it!” He slammed his fist on the table. “I’m locking myself in my room and moving the dresser in front of the door and closing the curtains until we reach Yokohama! Obviously this is a note from any one of five hundred people on board who waltzed into my room on a whim because it’s obviously open to anyone who wants in! I’ve no time to go galavanting around playing spies. I’m a writer for goodness’ sake and I intend to write! I shall now eat a hearty breakfast and sit down and really get some work done!”

As good as his resolution sounded, Dante was soon dressed and taking a casual stroll down the deck in the fresh air, completely disregarding any and all advice he had given himself earlier, and feeling none the worse for it. Some sunshine and a brisk sea breeze was all he really needed to forget all about the first night of the voyage.

…

Scene 3 - There Really is Nowhere To Run When You’re in the Middle of the Pacific Ocean

If only it weren’t too good to be true! By some stroke of unluckiness, while strolling on deck, Dante had accidentally waved a “good day” directly at none other than Captain Calvados, who immediately whisked him over to meet three bubbly old ladies who then invited him and him only to play a game of gin rummy.

The Captain smiled and waved to the shocked and betrayed author and left him to the fate which he had only narrowly escaped.

“Imagine that!” hummed the Captain, “I don’t remember why I know him, or what his name is, but he sure came in handy to escape those Chartreuse sisters. I couldn’t handle another card game listening to their gossip– not all the gin and rum on board could make me! And I wouldn’t dare at their table– they’re complete teetotalers! Things are looking up today.”

As Captain Calvados walked cheerily along his way, greeting the various fashionably-and unfashionably-rich first-class guests who were also about on the sunny mid-morning, a few decks down, the story was not so joyous.

Down to second-class, past third-class, there was a cabin still enveloped in the dark mists of the night before. It was a little, crowded cabin with a remarkably low ceiling and one tiny porthole at one foot above sea-level (at the best of times), with a curtain drawn over it to keep out the day. The ship’s engines rumbled lowly in the near distance, and every so often there were stomping feet and crowds of footsteps and someone knocking on the door next door looking for Margie, who never answered, out in the corridor outside.

It really wasn’t an ideal way to travel, but the passenger inside was used to much worse. And even if the size of the room gave him a perpetual neck-ache from having to stoop, it suited him fine. We may now recognize him, sitting cross-legged on the tiny single bunk, in dim lamplight, as Dante Grave’s after-midnight intruder. He was carefully looking through a singular, small suitcase that sat beside him full of odd bottles and boxes and coiled wire and that sort of thing. Two miniature medicine bottles had taken his attention as he looked from one to the other.

“How could I have been mistaken?” He was mumbling low, as if to hide his voice in the sound that came from the engine room, or so used to it, he mimicked it inadvertently.

“They look the same, but how could I have gotten it wrong? The strychnine tablets– and the sleeping tablets– I should mark them more clearly for next time.”

From the pocket of a coat that hung on the wall nearby, he reached over and took out a very expensive-feeling tortoiseshell and gold inlay fountain pen and began to write in large, slightly sloppy letters on the bottles’ labels.

“Well, whatever his faults, he has good taste in writing materials. Now, then, strychnine is out. What might I try now? I’m only sad I forgot to pack the arsenic. And cyanide is so ho-hum. Everyone uses it these days, thanks to all those two-cent paperback mysteries you find everywhere.”

The mysterious man set the bottles back in the case and closed it up and locked it with a small key. The initials F.R.S. were imprinted in gold paint upon the top.

He quickly popped open the panelling on the side of the bunk and stashed the little suitcase away, hidden where no-one could find it, flopped back on the bed, unwrapped a candy he’d found in his pocket and popped it in his mouth.

“Lemon…”

The man out in the hall was yelling for Margie again and the man in the dark thought some very strong thoughts against him. But as soon as he gave up again, his ideas were back on the task at hand–

“If I use his own gun, I can make it look like suicide. But so boring! But believable. If I use his own gun, then throw it into the sea, then everyone on the ship will have to be searched, along with their luggage, and their rooms. The whole place will be turned upside-down– that’s more like it.”

He chuckled and accidentally swallowed his candy whole in a fit of coughing. A very melancholy frown possessed his face as he turned his pockets inside-out only to find empty, wrinkled cellophane squares where candy had once been.

“Now a more important mission has arisen– I must find that fat child and steal his candy away from him again. Surely his fat mother and fat father have bought him another bag of it by now.”

Finally, with something to do with his time, until nightfall came again, he got on his coat and headed out the door, slamming into the poor man who kept returning in search of Margie, sending him crashing to the floor.

“Hey, what’s your deal, Dracula?” He was an average Joe with green check trousers and yellow suspenders, carrying his matching jacket over his shoulder with no hat over his sunburned, thinning brow. Not that his appearance has anything to do with anything, of course, but it was very striking in an utterly distasteful way.

“Ten to one,” the tall man dressed all in black looked back and smirked, “she swam back to San Francisco the moment she saw you coming.”

“If by she you mean my wife, then I’ll very gladly take your apology now, sir!” The greenly-clothed man was working his way up to his feet again but stopped dead having never seen such a cruelly comical face staring back at him.

“I was mistaken– that, ” he savored every word, “is what she should have done the moment she saw you and I’m sure she would have been a much happier woman. Perhaps sailing in first-class with a more tactful husband where there are many less cases of mal du mer.”

“Say, you talk funny. Are you a foreigner or something? Get out of my way!”

The man was about to slam his hand on the door again when it flung open by a middle-aged woman of similar stature wrapped in a plush robe and rollers in her hair. She had an evil look in her eye.

“When are you going to stop giving me a headache every time you check in on me every five minutes? And why don’t you stand up for me, Harold? Are you gonna let this wise guy push you around? Maybe I shoulda married Charles instead– HE had a yacht. Do you know everything I gave up just because I thought we were in love? Love, huh! See how long THAT lasted! Now you finally take me on that vacation you promised me ten years ago and here I am stuck here with mal du– whatever he said, I bet it’s what I got!”

Grinning from ear to ear, the dark man snuck off down the hallway leaving the couple to their lovers’ quarrel. Oh, how he did love it when he does things like that! But on to more important matters now: to cure his sugar craving in a very unlawful manner.

Before he could begin to search his next intended victim, however, another wonderful sight caught his eye.

Just as he was exiting the hallway and coming out on deck, when the crowds of his fellow passengers enjoying the pleasant weather, crowding along the rail and lounging in half-shaded sunbathing chairs, came into view, stood another curious item. Posing like a Greek carving in sailing dress was the girl he’d seen talking to that writer the night before, and then again, running away when he’d finished searching his room. What was her angle in all this? He intended to find out!

The man who drifted here-and-there like a column of shadow in the bright autumnal sun came up to her silently, without her noticing, or so he thought. And, not even lifting her blissful, sun-touched eyelids, she said to him,

“Got a light?”

This startled the shadow and he clumsily patted his pockets wondering if he still had that matchbox and stick of dynamite on him from two days ago. Why he did this he didn’t know. It was as if he couldn’t resist her.

“Never-mind,” she sighed, bringing her face back down to earth and tilting it playfully in his direction. “You see, someone gave me a sparkler, but I suppose it would look more enchanting at night– in the dark– with nobody else around…” These last words she said in a low, inviting voice, then, in her usual bright and girlish tone added, “Don’t you think?”

The strange way she looked at him, and the strange question made his mind go blank for a moment and the salty wind played with a couple of her stray locks of hair, all while only blowing salt in his eyes.

“Not,” he began, “nearly as amazing as a Roman candle shot off into the new moon’s sky.”

But his idea that a conversation of a poetic nature was what she had in mind was suddenly shot down when her eyes got wide and she pushed him with both her hands like a rowdy child and started laughing.

“Get out of here! You didn’t smuggle fireworks on board, too, did you? I ought to report you– but I won’t. Because I want in on it! I heard, from a very reliable source (she winked), that they’re going to shoot off a whole packing crate of them one hour after we get into Singapore, and then blame it on some locals who “snuck” on board. What a riot!“

The shadow backed away from the girl, but not before she could grab his hand in an admirable grasp and start shaking it.

“My name’s Daisy, by the way. I’m a Sunny State native– that means California, of course. And someday I’m going to visit one hundred countries and be an adventuress. This cruise is just a start!”

He was trying to escape, now, but she wouldn’t let go and kept talking.

“You’re Paddy Collins, right? Well, I saw through that in an instant. I can call you by your real name, can’t I? Rupert… Rupert Schloss! Am I right? If it’s secret, you don’t have to say, but I bet I’m right. I’m always right.”

“Unhand me!” The tall shadow finally rescued his hand from the much-too-sunny girl. “And just so you don’t think I’m impolite– yes, you are right. But don’t go telling everyone on board. Well, how do you do?”

Rupert was angrily pulling the collar of his jacket neat and tidy all the while wondering if he could get away with throwing her overboard as well. But as many passengers as he disliked, by the time he was done with all of them, there might be no one on board. Such is life, he sighed. He could never explain his way out of that. She’d make too big a splash anyway. And would probably find her way back on board. The first girl he’d ever pushed out of a rowboat was just like her. Frighteningly so.

“Oh, just fine. How do you do too?” she answered, but the question had already been lost in the passing waves of Rupert’s thoughts.

She smiled; he frowned. She stood still at her perch above the sea; he strode away with one eye fixed on her.

“Give my regards to Dante when you see him next time!” she suddenly called out. “Tell him I’m singing in the second class supper hall tonight and he should smuggle himself down there and come!” She waved happily, in complete enjoyment of his misery.

What obscenities he wanted to shout back at her in his native tongue– that horrible interfering child– but he could tell that she was playing a certain game of secrets, as well. She knew things that perhaps she shouldn’t, and she wasn’t going to turn him in for a petty fake passport. Perhaps not even for worse. She just wanted to tantalize him and torture him as much as she could, he was certain. Yes, he knew her type well. Or he thought he did, at least.

But what evidence was there that their missions were even connected? She probably has nothing to do with his work, or perhaps any work at all. So he would leave her to entrap the next poor fool who walks up to her.

And, indeed! As Rupert turned around and looked, his prediction had come true. A young American fellow had come up to her after he, and was already waiting hand and foot on her. There he runs to fetch her a lemonade or some such nonsense. How he hated such a woman– and yet, there was a little bit of him that admired her deeply. If she had been on his side, he might imagine the two of them as the perfect team. She, being lovely and enchanting, he, sneaking up behind and dropping a tarantula down his collar. Then they, at day’s end would share a toast to all the wonderful misery they caused that day…

Ah! But that was a foolish daydream. And her attentions were almost assuredly directed only toward that irritating Dante person. However, if he were out of the way…

Rupert bowed his head and kicked a wadded-up paper ball that had ended up by his feet sometime in the last half of his daydream. It didn’t strike him as particularly suspicious at first, until a small boy attempted to kick it away from him. Instinctively, he grabbed the little boy by the shoulder to push him out of the way, which made him cry, which sent his father flying at him with a rolled-up-newspaper-bat and his mother with her pointed shoes, and amidst the scuffle, the ball of paper ended up catching a draft of wind and flung itself into the sea, surely appalled at what its short existence had conspired.

Rupert ran to the rail with the angry parents still beating on him, but it was too late. Oh, well.

Hands in his pockets, head bowed, and muttering quotes from literature to keep him calm, and barely succeeding at that, he continued on his walk, which he had now forgotten the point of. In this self-contained gloom, another ball of paper flew towards him and this time hit him between the eyes softly. He froze, shocked as if he had been unexpectedly hit by a bullet, then, recovered, looked all around like a spooked cat for the culprit. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, he picked up the paper and unfolded it.

The typewritten note read (in his native language, of course):

You stupid fool.

If you cannot keep to the plan, I will personally throw your clumsy, foolish, foolish self overboard.

You are not here on holiday, and we would appreciate it if you stop acting like you are.

No more practical jokes!

I’m am watching you. Don’t think I am not!

Meet me at 22:00 tonight. You know the place.

There was no name on the note, but he understood it perfectly. He also disregarded it very angrily and crumpled it up into the smallest ball possible and threw it out into the sky so far that it disappeared even before touching the white-capped waves below.

As much as the poor Rupert’s day seemed invariably ruined, he was sure someone somewhere liked him, for as he lifted his heavily burdened head, there, waddling up ahead of him, was the pudgy child, in a shady corridor, with no apparent parents around, with a great, big, white paper bag plump full of sweets tucked around his arm.

Just as he was about to approach his prey and run off with the sugary loot, without first taunting the child and making him cry, as would be most satisfactory, Rupert felt the dark presence of someone step directly behind him from some unseen door. It was not one of the fat parents, either, and this person waited until the child had safely gotten away before saying one word.

Rupert breathed in sharply and stood up straight as he could without hitting his head on some pipe or lamp or some such nonsense that seemed to hang around the ceilings of ships, and turned around with a polite smile that twitched momentarily and then was forever gone.

“I told you, you are not here on vacation. Stop having so much fun and get back on schedule or you will never step foot on another boat, train, car, or airplane again. Not even a bicycle or ice-skates. Not even a paddle-boat. How would you like a nice room to stay in with, say, five foot high ceilings, until the day that you die?”

This man, who was even more of a shadow than the shadow he spoke to, we may never know his name or what he looked like, though his voice was very distinct and very sharp. As horrible of a person you might think this Rupert Schloss is, he was like a shoeless schoolboy with dirt on his face and a broken slingshot in his hand compared to this fiend.

“Until the day of my very prompt execution for having ‘so much fun,’ as you say, a little too often, I trust?” he tried.

“The sentence will be old age, I promise you. No more funny business– this is your last warning!” And the darkest shadow disappeared from whichever invisible crevice it had first come.

The interview had been short, though decidedly not sweet, and left Rupert in a more pitiful mood than before. So he retuned to his dark hole beneath the deck and got out his hidden suitcase again, and began to organize it and think of all the simply devious things he could do with the objects inside, and added to it a thin, silk curtain cord he had picked up somewhere that had been in his pocket awhile. But on second thought…

He grinned and put it back in its pocket. Sorting through this little case always seemed to cheer him up. Then he decided to take a nap. Tonight was going to be another one of those long, long, lovely nights.

We now return to our famous author, who is standing, leaning against a corner wall, gasping for breath as if he’d just run a marathon. A beautiful couple walking by in pristinely ironed yachting clothes snickered to themselves as they passed him. Dante had only just been able to escape the three elderly ladies on a ruse that he was going to return to them momentarily after ordering a pitcher of iced tea. But he had only gone one step from their card-table when a porter approached him and asked if there was anything he could bring them. In a moment of madness, he dashed away and zig-zagged through and across the ship until he was sure he couldn’t have been followed.

His heart raced and the sting of fear shot up his spine– almost like before–

But, no! He shook his head free of the memories that threatened to be dredged up from the depths of his soul, and cursed the beautiful weather that had enticed him outdoors. It was all a trick, all a trick…

“Are you alright?” questioned a soft, pretty voice beside him.

“Oh, who me?” Dante feigned a smile and looked to his left and saw a little girl in a little sky blue dress with a little straw hat perched above her ebony braids. She was obviously of far-eastern descent, but she spoke in perfect english. He wiped his face with his sleeve and bent down to meet her eyes. “I think I’ll survive,” he told her calmly.

“That’s good. Will you come and have some lemonade with me?” she asked, and took his hand in her little hand and lead him toward a group of tables that had been set out with an umbrella above each one. Although the tables were separate, all the fashionable people sitting around them were turned all to each other, as if it were one big garden party.

Before he really even knew what was going on, Dante had become close friends with everyone there. It was a young, lively group of ladies and gentlemen of any age, but all extremely good-natured. Before long, he completely forgot any trouble he had been through before and blended in quite nicely with the lot. The initial excitement taken care of, that a published author was now in their midst, the little girl showed him to an empty chair at her table, where, presumably, her parents also sat.

She was a stately woman with light ash hair and pale complexion which she hid beneath the latest style of ladies’ sun hats, and he was equally lofty but warm, a– Japanese man, if Dante was not mistaken– and dressed in the highest European fashion. The writer felt a little shabby in his sand-colored suit that had become a little more than wrinkled in the marathon he’d just run, and who knew what else about him had gotten disheveled, but he always gave himself the excuse that a writer’s appearance is always a bit off, and let it bother him no further.

“Mother, father, I found him all alone and quite sad, mayn’t we keep him a little while? At least for tea?” The little girl pleaded so politely, as if she’d just found a lost puppy.

“I assure you, madam–” Dante started, hoping to be interrupted, for he was certain he had no idea what to say to that.

“Nonsense, dear guest,” began the lady. “Please stay and be our guest. May we order you something besides lemonade, perhaps, Mr. Graves?”

“Oh, please, call me Dante.” He added quickly, “And lemonade will do just fine. Lovely garden party you’re having here.”

“Isn’t it just!” replied the little girl, whose name he had learned was Midori Sato. “Just like the one we had before leaving England. We’re on our way to Japan!”

“So you’re traveling from England? Not from London, too, are you?” Dante sipped from his punch-bowl cup.

“I’m the Japanese ambassador in London,” said Mr. Sato. “We’re finally getting a chance to visit my family for a short while in Kyoto. If you find yourself passing through, please look us up and we’d be glad if you stayed for a visit.”

The Mrs. Sato spoke up. “I’d be glad to have someone to drink tea with. My husband here could never quite get used to our way of tea. I think it’s the only thing we disagree on, and it’s very exasperating.”

“Yours is hardly a ‘way of tea,’ my dear,” the husband contradicted her playfully. “This time, you will come to understand our way of tea if I have to take you to a tea ceremony every single day we’re there.”

“Tea ceremony?” Dante raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, yes!” interrupted Midori, “Everyone dresses up in beautiful clothes and we sit around on the floor of a tiny little house that has a tiny door just my size, and drink green tea from bowls and eat beautiful sweets–”

“Really, it’s rather uncomfortable the way one has to sit on the floor.” Her mother added in.

“And there’s a beautiful garden! But you have to be very, very, quiet and behaved.” She nodded her head decidedly.

The father laughed. “What pictures you must be imagining in your head, Dante! You’re face is looking a little confused.”

“Well, I must admit,” admitted the writer, “While I’ve gone on many a journey, whether fictional or not, this is my first time coming this far from home and I haven’t read nearly enough of the travel brochures to even know where it is I’m going. In fact, I’m supposed to be writing this novel set in–”

The book! He’d completely forgotten about it! No, but can’t it wait? What a dreadful time to bring it up…

“Well then,” spoke Mrs. Sato, “maybe you will find clarity and inspiration in this new adventure. But don’t write too much yet, not until you see Honolulu. That place baffled me the first time I set foot there. If I was a writer, which happily I am not, I could have written volumes after being there if only I could find the words. I don’t even know how to describe it. But you’ll see.”

Dante was nodding along, looking more and more perplexed, and a little frightened, recalling articles he’d read while researching a possible book idea about diamond smugglers running into head-hunters (which never got farther than the research, sadly), when the little girl had something to say again, sure enough.

“Hawaii? I’ve been there too! Haven’t I, mummy? It’s very hot and there’s coconut trees everywhere and fields of great big green leaves that you could use for an umbrella, and the dancers wear seashells and skirts made of grass–”

Their baffled guest swallowed his drink the wrong way right about then, and tried not to choke. Tried, anyway.

“Midori-chan!” Her father scolded her.

“But they do! I’ve seen them,” she insisted. “And the way they dance– they didn’t teach that in school. Just waltzes and things. Mother, why don’t they teach us to dance like that?”

Her mom cleared her throat and began to change the subject. “So, Dante, do you have any children?”

“Oh, no…” he waved the question off, then came to his senses. “Oh– yes, actually.”

“Yes?” The family leaned in closer.

“Yes, he’s in the countryside at boarding school now. He’s my step-son, really.“

Funny, since leaving England, he’d not even thought about Rickey, off at school, away from everything happening. Poor lad, maybe he ought to send him a letter. He passed the radio operator’s room while out on his run– maybe he’ll do that later.

“And your wife? Will we have the pleasure to meet her during our voyage?”

“Yes…” Dante mused, but not at the subject at hand. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” he corrected himself. “No, I’m afraid not. We lost her only last month.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to pry like that.” Mrs. Sato reached over and put her hand on his comfortingly.

“No, it’s alright. Rickey even decided to stay in school for the time being. We’re coping as best as we can. It’s all for the better. She’s at peace now.”

Dante’s heart was racing but he frowned dignifiedly and played his part as the sorrowful widower as he’d practiced in the mirror. He’d written parts like this many a time in stories, but when his turn came, in real life, he wasn’t at all sure how he should react in front of people, and he still wasn’t getting used to it.

“Is… is Rickey about my age, Dante?” the little girl asked sweetly.

“Well, let me look at you. Well, maybe a few years older, but pretty close, I think.”

“Where’s his father? I mean, his other father? Is it confusing having more than one of the same parent?”

“Midori! Hush!” her mother scolded.

“Really, really, it’s alright,” Dante assured them. “You’re very curious, aren’t you, Midori? Well, you see, Rickey’s father was a star pilot in the Great War, and lived to earn many medals. But one Sunday, flying his airplane over the hills and beaches by the seaside, something went wrong and his plane went down and nobody ever found a trace of him or the airplane. He must’ve crashed into the sea, but who knows?”

“That’s very sad,” replied the girl. “But I’m glad he still has you.”

“And plenty of friends at school, too. I hear he’s very popular and growing up to be a very brave boy.” At least he figured so. He hadn’t written in home in so long, at least not to Dante. But from what he knew, he was just like his father and never had the time of day for a different father, especially one so unlike his heroic predecessor, and that was fine by Dante. It wouldn’t be far-fetched to say that Rickey had always scared him, in some strange way.

“I have lots of friends at school and I miss them so! I’m going to send lots of postcards to them when we get to Japan!”

“Midori-chan, don’t brag,” her father told her.

“Wakarimasu, Otou-sama.” She bowed her head momentarily to her parent and then turned to the writer. “That means ‘I understand, father.’ I have to practice speaking Japanese for when I meet my grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and the old man at the tofu shop and everybody.”

“You sound very Japanese,” Dante teased her, while pondering what sort of shop a ‘tofu shop’ is. Something for toes? Perhaps a shoe store? Or is it something to do with poodles? But, poodles– where did that come from?

“Silly! That’s because I am Japanese!”

Midori served them all some more lemonade from the pitcher and they chatted awhile longer, and then another table caught Mrs. Sato’s attention and she joined them. It was getting to be late in the afternoon with a chill in the ocean wind, so Dante excused himself and waved good-bye and little Midori ran up to him and gave him a hug.

“If you ever need a translator when you’re in Japan, that’s me! Bye-bye!”

“Bye-bye,” Dante said faintly. As he walked away, he took out his handkerchief and patted his brow.

What time was it? Surely late enough for a drink. No, he ought to refresh himself first. Who knew if this was the only time he could get back to his cabin tonight. Tonight, with its mysterious appointment at ten ‘o clock. Should he go? Would anything make him go? Or make him stay away? And where was this “stern” of a ship anyhow? If he asked anyone, it might sound suspicious. Unless he could find the drunk Captain. He wouldn’t be suspicious– but then again he might tell someone what he asked and they might become suspicious.

The whole conundrum gave Dante a headache, or maybe it was all that sugar in the lemonade. He’d never tasted anything so sweet. The little girl must have snuck more sugar into in when no-one was looking.

As he turned the corner, something struck him. Quite literally struck him– a door opened and crashed into his face.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” bowed a deckhand, and hurried on his way.

But after he stopped rubbing his nose and could make sense of things again, it turned out to be just the door he needed! The radio operator– he could send a cable to Rickey and complete his one good deed of the day. That is, if he could remember what that school he went to was called…

In strode the writer, albeit a little red in the nose and a little windblown, and came up to the counter where he found a notepad and a pen awaiting him.

“I say, you couldn’t help me think of a place– it had the name of a plant in it, I know, a leafy garden plant–” began Dante, and then stopped when he saw who it was sitting at the radio set.

“You!” he exclaimed.

It was the small but terrifying sailor from the mists of last night, come alive again.

“Yeah, it’s me alright. Do you wanna send a message, or what? The longer you stand there gaping, the more it’s gonna cost ya. I don’t have all day, you know.”

“N, n-ever mind,” Dante began to make his escape when the sailor came over and blocked the door.

“What? You’ve got a message to send, so send it.”

Flip was his name, wasn’t it? He looked the writer up and down while Dante returned to the paper and started to scratch something down.

“Hah! Don’t mind me, I’m just messin’ with ya,” laughed Flip as he watched Dante write.

“Yes, I’ve been a victim of your ‘messin” before, if you remember.“

“No, you’re not still sore over that? Gee, I’m sorry. I was in a rotten mood last night. Just felt like punchin’ something, you know. Ever get that feeling? When you just gotta– punch something.”

“Now that you mention it,” replied Dante, with his left hand covering the paper for hope of a little privacy.

“It’s just the way I am, I don’t mean anything by it. Why, you count every fella I’ve ever slugged and you’ll find that every nine out of ten o’ them became like brothers to me. No kiddin’! It’s just, I get a little jealous when I see my girl with another man.”

“'With’? We weren’t even with,” began the writer, working up a little courage. “She was sitting there, and I was sitting here and it was she who started talking to me. If that scene were to be repeated the very same, and without Daisy in it, I probably would’ve been chatting the exact same way with the bartender– whatever his name was. Clearly you misunderstood the entire situation. There certainly was not any ‘with’ going on.”

Flip started cracking up at the writer’s explanation. “Okay, okay, you keep telling yourself that. I’m surprised you even remembered anything from last night. But I’ll let you in on a little something–” Flip continued in a whisper, “She’s coming down to third class tonight again, at the bar, to sing. Maybe I don’t like you, but you gotta hear her sing. The voice of an angel.”

Dante moved backward and handed him the finished note. “Many thanks for the invitation,” he replied feeling something very fishy about it. “You’re going to send that word-for-word, aren’t you?”

“Don’t spill your cup of tea– what do I look like? Of course I will. That’ll be five bucks.”

“What?”

“You can pay me five pounds if you want, either way.”

“Oh, that means dollars, doesn’t it? Isn’t that a little expensive?”

Flip shrugged. “Inflation.”

Dante felt Flip’s grin grinning at him when he finally got to leave. Some days he wondered why he even bothered to go outside. But it was a hop, skip, and a jump to his cabin now, and as soon as he locked himself in, he flopped face-first on the bed.

That is, until he realized that he couldn’t breathe face-down on blankets, and rolled over gasping for air. He could just make out the strange note that had been left on his typewriter that he found that morning. But no, something was different about it. And it wasn’t just because he was looking upside-down at it.

Getting up, he couldn’t believe his eyes as he espied another mysteriously typed note on the paper he’d started writing a new chapter of his book– well, all it said was “Chapter Three,” but a start, no less.

It was typed differently than the first one, the type was darker and printed with more force, in a strange manner, and signed R.S. What had Daisy said this morning– someone named Rupert Schloss? It read:

Interested parties inform me, and wish

inform

you, that the girl from the “Sunny State” is singing

tonight in the dining room of second class.

–

Personally,

I wouldn’t go. But if you

don’t mind me saying, it sounds exactly

like what

you would do.

Odd, thought Dante. If you read the first word of each line, it says, “Interested to inform you tonight – personally, I don’t like you.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?” wondered the writer. “Curious how it’s typed that way.”

What should have bothered him more was that someone had come into his room uninvited again, but it had happened so much now that it was silly. Was there really no other typewriter on board for anyone to use? He wished he had a camera on a trip wire to catch these intruders, especially when he noticed that about half his writing paper had disappeared during the afternoon.

“They’ll have to start bringing their own paper pretty soon!” He sighed peacefully and flopped back down on the bed and fell instantly asleep as the last rays of sunlight faded to purple, blue, and dusty gold along the horizon.

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