#but then that this creates a New Host Of Problems that she wasn’t anticipating??? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years

Text

Michael Riedel vs Bernadette Peters – the Broadway Battle of 2003 and beyond

My previous piece gives a fairly comprehensive look at Bernadette and Gypsy through the ages; though there is at least one aspect of the 2003 revival that warrants further discussion:

Namely, Michael Riedel.

Today’s essay question then: “Riedel – gossip columnist extraordinaire, the “Butcher of Broadway”, spited male vindictive over not getting a lunch date with Bernadette Peters, or puppet-like mouthpiece of theatre’s shadowed elite? Discuss.”

It’s matter retrievable in print, or even kept alive in apocryphal memory throughout the theatre community to this day that Riedel was responsible for a campaign of unrelenting and caustic defamation against Bernadette as Rose in Gypsy around the 2003 season.

While “tabloids may [have been] sniping and the Internet chat rooms chirping”, when looking back at the minutiae, none were more vocal, prolific or influential in colouring early judgment than the “chief vulture [of] Mr. Riedel, who had written a string of vitriolic columns in which he said from the start that Ms. Peters was miscast”.

He continued to find other complaints and regularly attack her in print over an extended period of time.

Why? We’ll get there. There are a few theories to suggest. Firstly, how and what.

Primary to establish is that it perhaps would be foolish to expect anything else of Riedel.

Also an author and radio and TV show host, Riedel is best known as the “vituperative and compulsively readable” theatre columnist at The New York Post.

He’s a man who thrives on controversy, decrying: “Gossip is life!”

The man who says, “I’m a wimp when it comes to physical violence, but give me a keyboard and I’ll kill ya.”

“Inflicting pain, for him, is a jokey thing. ‘Michael has this cruel streak and a lack of empathy,’ says Susan Haskins, his close friend and co-host.”

And inflicting pain is what he did with Bernadette, in a saga that has become one of the most talked about and enduring moments of his career.

From the beginning, then.

Riedel started work at The Post in 1998.

His first words on Bernadette? “Oddly miscast in the Ethel Merman role,” in August of that year on Annie Get Your Gun. It was a sentiment he would carry across to his second mention six months later (“a seemingly odd choice to play the robust Annie Oakley”), and also across to the heart of his vitriolic coverage on her next Merman role in Gypsy.

Negative coverage on Bernadette in Gypsy started in August 2002 when Riedel discussed the search for trying to find a new American producer for the show. It had initially been reported in late 2000 that a Gypsy revival with Bernadette was planned for London, before it was to transfer to Broadway. To begin with, Arthur Laurents was “eager to do Gypsy in London because it hadn't been seen in the West End since 1973”, and he “wanted to repeat [the] dreamlike triumph” he said Angela Lansbury’s production had been. But economic matters prevented this original plan, leaving the team looking for new producers in the US. Riedel suggested that Fran and Barry Wiessler step up as, “after all, they managed to sell the hell out of "Annie Get Your Gun," in which Peters…was also woefully miscast.”

He also quipped: “Industry joke: "Bernadette Peters in 'Gypsy'? Isn't she a little old to be playing Baby June?”, calling her “cutesy Peters” and again a “kewpie doll”.

Bernadette here seen side by side with the actual Baby June of the 2003 production – Kate Reinders.

Other publications to this point had discussed her “unusual” casting. Which was fairly self-evident. In contrast to being a surprising revelation that Bernadette Peters was not, in fact, Ethel Merman, this had been the intention from the start. Librettist Arthur “Laurents – whose idea it was to hire her – [said] going against type is exactly the point,” and Sam Mendes, as director, qualified “the tradition of battle axes in that role has been explored”.

It was Riedel who was the first to shift the focus from the obvious point that she was ‘differently cast’, to instead attach the negative prefix and intone that she was actually ‘MIS’ cast. According to him then, she was unsuitable, and would be unable to “carry the show, dramatically or vocally”. All before she had so much as sung a note or donned a stitch of her costume.

So no, it wasn’t then “the perception, widely held within the theater industry,” as he presented it, “that Peters is woefully miscast as Mama Rose”.

It was Riedel’s perception. And he took it, and ran with it, along with whatever else he could throw into the mix to drag both her and the show down for the next two years.

As to another indication of how one single columnist can influence opinion and warp wider perception, just look to Riedel’s assessment of the show’s first preview. It is typically known as Riedel’s forte to “[break] with Broadway convention, [where] he attends the first night of previews, and reports on the problems…before the critics have their say”. This gives him “clout” by way of mining “terrain that goes relatively uncovered elsewhere”, and it means subsequent journals are frequently looking to him from whom to take their lead – and quotes.

At Gypsy’s opening preview then, he reported visions of “Arthur Laurents [charging] up the aisle…on fire”, loudly and vocally expressing his dissatisfaction with the show as he then “read Fox [a producer] the riot act”. Despite the fact that this was “not true, according to Laurents,” the damage was already done, with the sentiment of trouble and tension being subsequently reprinted and distributed out to the public across many a regional paper.

News travels fast, bad news travels faster.

And news can be created at an ample rate, when in possession of one’s own regular periodical column. This recurring domain allowed plentiful opportunity for attack on Bernadette and Gypsy, and Riedel “began devoting nearly every column to the subject,” which amounted to weekly or even more frequent references.

As the show progressed beyond its first preview, Riedel brought in the next aspects of his smear-campaign – assailing Bernadette for missing performances through illness and accusing Ben Brantley, who reviewed the show positively in The New York Times, of unfair favouritism and “hyperbolic spin”.

The issue is not that Bernadette was not in fact ill or missing performances. She was. She had a diagnosis at first of “a cold and vocal strain”, that then progressed more seriously to a “respiratory infection” the following week, and was “told by her doctors that she needs to rest”. So rest she did.

The issue is the way in which Riedel depicted the situation and her absences via hyperbole and “insinuating she was shirking” responsibility. He went further than continual, repeated mentions and cruel article titles like “wilted Rose”, or “sick Rose losing bloom”, or “beloved but - ahem-cough-cough-ahem - vocally challenged and miscast star”. He went as far as the sensationalist and degrading action of putting “Peters' face on the side of a milk carton, the kind of advertisement typically used to recover lost children,” and asking readers to look out for “bee-stung lips, [a] high-pitched voice, [and a] kewpie doll figure”, who “may be clutching a box of tissues and a love letter from Ben Brantley”.

It was quantified in May of 2003 after the show had officially opened, that “out of the 39 performances "Gypsy" has played so far, [Bernadette] has missed six – an absence rate of 15 percent.”

As an interesting comparison, it was reported in The Times in February 2002 that “‘The Producers' stars Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick have performed together only eight times in last 43 performances due to scheduling problems and health concerns,” – an absence rate of 81%.

Did Riedel have anything nearly as ardent to say about the main male stars of the previous season’s hit missing such a rate of performances? Of course not.

Riedel arguably has a disproportionate rate for criticising female divas.

One need only heed his recommendations that certain women check into his illuminatingly named “Rosie's Rest Home for Broadway Divas.” Divos need not apply.

Not that he was unaware of this.

In 2004, Riedel would jovially lay out that “Liz Smith and I have developed a nice tag-team act: I bash fragile Broadway leading ladies who miss performances, and she rides to their rescue.”

Donna Murphy was the recipient of what he that year dubbed his “BERNADETTE PETERS ATTENDANCE AWARD”, when she began missing performances in “Wonderful Town”, due to “severe back and neck injuries and a series of colds and sinus infections”.

This speaks to his remarkably cavalier and joyful attitude with which he tears down shows and performers. “The more Mr. Riedel's work upsets people, the more he enjoys it.”

He knows he yields influence – it was recognised he had “eclipsed Ben Brantley as the single most discussed element in marketing meetings for Broadway shows” – and he delights in his capacity to lead shows to premature demises through his poison-tipped quill yielding.

When it was reported Gypsy would be closing earlier than had been planned, he made mention of “hop[ping] around on [its] grave” and debonairly applauding himself, “I suppose I can take some credit for bringing it down”.

His premonition from the previous year’s Tony’s ceremony was both ominous and prescient, when he predicted the show’s failure to win any awards “could spell trouble at the box office”. He was right. It did. The 8.5 million dollar revival closed months before anticipated and failed to return a profit.

Multiple factors can be attributed to Gypsy’s poor success at the Tony’s, but it’s clear to say Riedel’s continual bashing leading up to the fated night throughout the voting period certainly didn’t help matters.

His suggestions to do with Bernadette’s performances were not helpful either.

After alleging Laurents as the director of the 1991 revival “practically beat a performance out of” Tyne Daly when she was struggling with the role, he proffers that to improve Bernadette’s success, “it may be time for [Laurents] to take up the switch and thrash one out of Peters”.

Great.

It was irresponsible and unrelenting commentary that did not go unnoticed.

His “ruthless heckling of beloved Broadway star Ms. Peters” was deemed in print “his most egregious stunt so far”.

Vividly, in person, Riedel was accosted at a party one night by Floria Lasky, the venerable showbiz lawyer, who “grab[bed] Riedel’s tie and jerk[ed] it, nooselike, scolding, ‘It was unfair, what you did to Bernadette’”.

Moreover, the wide-reaching influential hold Riedel occupied over the environment surrounding Gypsy was tangible in the fact his words spread beyond just average readers, and even unusually “started seeping into the reviews of New York's top critics”. Riedel himself, as the “chief vulture”, was indeed what Ben Brantley was referring to in his own New York Times review by stating how the production was “shadowed by vultures predicting disaster”.

Even more substantially, the “whole Peters-Riedel-Brantley episode” became its own enduring cultural reference – being converted into its very own “satiric cabaret piece, ‘Bernadette and the Butcher of Broadway’”. All three parties were featured, with Riedel characterised as the butcher, and it played Off-Broadway later in 2003 “to positive notices”.

But penitent for his sins and begging for absolution Riedel was not. “Riedel saw nothing but a great story and a great time,” and for many years after, he would continue to hark back to the matter in self-referential (almost reverential) and flippant ways.

In 2008 as Patti LuPone won her Tony for her turn as Rose in the subsequent revival, Riedel couldn’t help but jibe, “Not to rip open an old wound, but I'd love to know if Bernadette Peters was watching”. (He neglects also to mention that “Mendes’s Gypsy was seen by 100,000 more people than saw Laurents’s and grossed $6 million more”.)

More jibes are to be found in 2012 as he reported on the auction after Arthur Laurents’ funeral, or even as recently in 2019, as he asked, “Remember the outcry that greeted Sam Mendes’ Brechtian “Gypsy,” with Bernadette Peters, in 2003?”

As with in 2004 where he points to the “pack of jackals who have been snarling” about Bernadette’s failures, this brings up the canny knack Riedel has of offloading his views to bigger and detached third party sources – thus absolving himself of personal centrality, and thus culpability.

If there was an outcry, HE was its loudest contributor. If there were snarling jackals, HE was their leader.

Maybe Riedel’s third person detached approach to referencing matters was intended to be a humorous stylistic quirk for those in the know. Or maybe it was his way of expressing some inner turmoil over the event.

In some rare display of morality and emotional authenticity, Riedel would at one point admit “I find it kind of sad and pathetic that the high point of my life supposedly has been about beating up on Bernadette Peters”.

Fortunately for him then, a degree of absolution was eventually achieved in 2018, where Riedel visited Bernadette at her opening night in Hello Dolly in 2018, with the intention of ending their “15-year feud”. He “got down on one knee at Sardi’s and extended his hand,” with Bernadette reportedly yelling “Take a picture!” while he held his deferential and obsequious position on the floor.

So if eventually this “feud” has some kind of circular resolution and Riedel was glad it was over, why on earth did it begin in the first place?

One notion is that it was simply another day on the job. Riedel is a man who sees Broadway as “a game for rich people”. Positioned as an “an industry that brought in $720.9 million in the 2002-2003 season”, it is “not a fragile business”, he remarked. As such, he “[could not] fathom the point of donning kid gloves” in covering it, and reasoned the business as a whole was robust enough to weather a few hard knocks. “Thus, Riedel can coolly view Bernadette Peters as fair game, as opposed to, say, a national treasure”.

More to the point, he was a man in search of words. During the season in question, Riedel was “one of just three New York newspaper columnists covering the stage” – a “throwback to a bygone era when…Broadway gossipmeisters…such as Walter Winchell and Dorothy Kilgallen ruled”. Now at the time, as the “last of a great tabloid tradition”, Riedel presided over not just one but two columns a week at The Post. As a result, he was in need of content. “One of the reasons I've become more opinionated is I just have more space to fill,” he admitted. Robert Simonson hypothesises in his book ‘On Broadway Men, Still Wear Hats’ that Riedel may have consequently picked “the thrashing of Bernadette” as his main target simply because “it was a slow news cycle”. Options for ‘titillating’ and durable content were scarce elsewhere that season.

And after all, if Riedel would later cite Bernadette in an article concerning the Top 10 Powerhouses of Broadway in 2004, saying even despite a few knocks or bad shows, “she’ll bounce back” – surely there was no real damage done.

If her career wouldn’t be toppled by his continual public defamation and haranguing, what was the harm?

Feelings? Who cares about feelings or Bernadette’s extremely complex and personal history with the show stretching back to when she was a teenager.

It was just part of the territory, there was nothing personal in it.

Or was there?

Maybe there was something personal in Riedel’s campaign after all.

He makes a curious comment while discussing ‘A Raisin in the Sun’ in 2004. The then incoming star of the show, rapper P. Diddy, had invited Riedel to dinner, and he makes judgement that this was “a smart p.r. move”. Then he ponders, “you do have to wonder: If Bernadette Peters had broken bread with me this time last year, would her chorus boys have to be out there now working the TKTS line to keep "Gypsy" afloat?”

Might he be going as far to suggest that if Bernadette had indulged him in a meal, her show might not have suffered so, by way of him being more inclined to cover it with greater lenience?

It may seem that way, at least in considering how Riedel reviewed P. Diddy’s performance thus after their dinner: “Riedel pronounced himself impressed. ‘He could have forgotten his lines or had to be carried offstage. He didn’t do anything terrible, he didn’t do anything astonishing.’”

Seemingly all the rapper had to do was remember some words and remain physically onstage, and he sails through scot-free. That’s a rather different outcome, one could say, to being absolutely eviscerated for what became a Tony nominated effort at one of the appreciably hardest and most demanding musical theatre roles in existence.

Though perhaps it’s hard to tell if that was really his insinuation from just one isolated comment pertaining to lunch.

This argument might be fine, if it WAS the only isolated comment pertaining to wanting Bernadette to have lunch with him. But it isn’t. Riedel continues to make a further two references over protracted periods of time to the fact Bernadette hasn’t dined with him.

One begins to get the sense of him feeling desiring of or somewhat entitled to such a private lunch with the lady he’s verbally decimated for years, and a sense of bitter rejection that he hasn’t been granted one.

“If Tonya Pinkins doesn't win the Tony Award this year, I'll buy Bernadette Peters lunch,” he simpered, and later, “I invite Bernadette to be my guest for lunch at a restaurant of her choosing. She can reach me at The Post anytime she's hungry”.

The embittered columnist in this light takes on now the marred tinge of a small boy in the playground who doesn’t get to hold the hand of the girl he wants in front of his friends, so spends the next three years pushing her over in the sandpit in revenge.

Moreover, the last statement makes undeniable comment on Bernadette’s troubled relationship with food, body image and public eating.

So now not only so far has he insulted and mocked her physical appearance and played into all the usual trite shots calling her a “kewpie doll”; suggested Arthur Laurents violently hit her in order to elicit a better performance; continually publicly harassed her regarding a show that strikes close to the nerve with deep personal and psychological resonances due to her mother and childhood; but now he’s going for the low-blows of ridiculing her over her eating habits.

Flawless behaviour.

Maybe it’s far-fetched to suggest a man would have such a fragile ego to run a multi-year public defamation campaign after so little as not getting his hypothesised fantasy of a personal lunch date. But then again, this was the man who “left Johns Hopkins University after his first year because of a broken heart.” (“I was in love with her; she wasn't in love with me,” he said.)

And also the man described as “an insomniac who pops the occasional Ambien,” living in a “small one-bedroom” that is “single-guy sloppy”, who has “been living alone since a four-year romance ended in 1996”.

The man whose own best friend called “cruel” and with a “lack of empathy”.

The man whose own sister answered that “well, yes,” he’s always been mean; and after being picked on as a kid for “being the small guy and the intellectual”, he grew dependent on using “his verbal ability to beat someone” and put himself in positions of defensive impenetrability.

See, writing Riedel-esque, vindictive and provocative conjecture is no especially challenging or cerebral task.

Riedel may well see his approach to ‘journalism’ or reporting as “all fun and games”.

But I for one am not laughing.

One final aspect to address when considering Riedel’s reasoning for the depth of his coverage on Bernadette demands attention of how he gets his information. His own personal opinions and motivations aside, crucially he depends on insider providers for insider details. Perhaps somewhat alarmingly then, “leading Broadway producers themselves are among his sources”.

“Half of Broadway hates him. The other half leaks to him”, John Heilpern titled his 2012 Vanity Fair profile on Riedel.

As such, in frequently taking his lead from “theater folk, usually with an ax to grind”, Riedel acts as the mouthpiece to bring secretive backstage reports out front. High-up, influential characters are thus able to funnel their agendas into public view, while keeping their identities hidden.

Notably, it was raised in the above article that Riedel’s “merciless running story” regarding Bernadette in Gypsy “was fed by none other than its renowned librettist, Arthur Laurents—or, more precisely, by Laurents's lover”.

Contrary to the smiley picture below between members of the show’s creative team and it’s beloved star, it was no secret that Laurents did not like Mendes’ 2003 revival. Laurents told Riedel that “Sam did a terrible disservice to Bernadette and the play, and I wanted a Gypsy seen in New York that was good… You have to have musical theater in your bones, and Sam doesn't”. In fact, Laurents admitted the only reason his 2009 book ‘Mainly on Directing’ came into existence was because of how much he had to criticise about the show – it grew out of the extensive set of notes he gave Mendes.

Additionally, it was no secret that Laurents’ lover, Tom Hatcher, demonstrated both a desire and capacity to influence Arthur’s productions. As well as being the driving force for the 2009 Spanish-speaking reworking of West Side Story, Hatcher had intense investment in Gypsy specifically. Patti LuPone writes in her memoir, “From his deathbed, Tom had told Arthur, ‘You have to do Gypsy, and you have to do it with Patti’. It was one of his dying wishes”. Laurents himself, in corroboration of this, explained Tom’s reasoning – “he didn't want the Sam Mendes production to be New York's last memory of Gypsy”.

The allegation in Heilpern’s profile might be hard to prove from an outsider perspective. But given that neither were happy with Mendes’ production and both actively took steps to ensuring it would be superseded in memory, it is not completely implausible.

Overarchingly, as much as Riedel’s writing may benefit FROM insider sources, it is said he does not write in benefit OF them. For instance, although friends with Scott Rudin in 2004, an animated (nay threatening) warning from Mr Rudin asking Riedel to “back off” from “slamming” his show, Caroline or Change, seemingly “had no impact”.

That’s not to cite total impartiality or exemption from personal connections and higher up influences colouring his reports of shows. Theatre publicist John Barlow would describe that sometimes “if you ask Michael to kill [one of his pieces], he will, if it’s someone with whom he does business”.

But it would be remiss not to mention that his influences and sources stretch beyond just the big wigs. Amongst his other informants too are the more lowly, overlooked folk like “the stagehands, the ushers, chorus kids, house managers, and press agents… the guys who build sets in the Bronx”. Basically, for anyone who’ll talk, Riedel will listen.

“Michael Riedel doesn't work for the producers or the publicists; he works for the reader,” one publicist said. “Sometimes we're glad of that, sometimes we're not-but at the end of the day, that's the reality.”

Sometimes he’s nice, sometimes he’s not – but the world goes round.

Through all that’s been explored, it should be stated how painful and injurious it must be for individual performers or shows to fall upon the unmitigated, maiming force of being on the wrong side of Riedel’s favour. The way he approached coverage on Bernadette is deplorable from an emotional and personal standpoint. Some would argue that it was too far and crossed a line and was most definitely unfair. Others would say it was justified. It’s hard not to sound petulant as the former, or heartless as the latter.

While his actions may indeed be abrasively wounding in isolated (often plentiful) cases, it’s unreasonable to say Riedel’s intentions would be to cripple the Broadway industry as a whole. There are those who purport that Riedel in fact “keeps Broadway alive with his controversies”. His words may not always be ‘nice’ but it’s difficult to argue they're not engaging.

Many are quick to criticize or react impassionedly to him and his columns; but few are quick to stop reading them. And Riedel “knows that the most important thing is being well read”.

Hence it is understandable why Riedel is appraised as “the columnist Broadway loves to hate”. Through his enthralling and stimulating bag of linguistic and dramatic tricks, Riedel knows how to keep the readers coming back. “He’s lively, and he makes the theater seem like an interesting place,” one producer did reason.

“There are times when no one's going to care about Broadway if you don't have a gossip angle that focuses on the backstage drama,” opined George Rush, the Daily News gossip columnist who was once Riedel's boss.

Perhaps it is logically and principally then, if somewhat cynically, a matter of believing “it's just business” and knowing how to “play the game”.

As Riedel himself would rationalise, “It’s all an act. You gotta have a gimmick, as they say in Gypsy.”

It may not be pleasant, but in a world increasingly dependent on sensationalistic and clickbait-driven engagement, it’s probably not going to change any time soon.

Well then, if he can live with the toll of the position of moral tumult his column puts him in, so be it.

That he described his mind as being “constantly on the next deadline”, saying “I always think about the column”, and likening writing it to “standing under a windmill”, where “you dodge one blade, but there's always another one coming right behind it”, may be some indication that he can't. At least not wholly easily.

I’ll leave that to him to figure out. Off the record.

39 notes · View notes

blossom-hwa · 3 years

Text

Danger: Onyx |1| - JUYEON

Pairing: Juyeon x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, fantasy, royalty!au

Triggers: death, semi-graphic depictions of blood

Word Count: 5.1k

Lesson 6: when all seems lost, do not falter. Just because it seems hopeless does not mean it is.

Previous: Ruby >> Onyx: Part 1 | Part 2 >> Next: Crown

TBZ Masterlist | Danger | Kingdom

[ Send a dm or an ask to be added to the taglist! ]

The meeting room is abnormally quiet when Somin enters. It could be due to the newly empty seat on the right side of the long table, but not even a whisper hangs on the lips of the remaining mages.

Somin’s mouth doesn’t even curl at their submission. As much as she would like not to show it, the failures of the man who used to sit on that empty seat affected her. Not because she felt particularly fond of him – though she will admit she was sad to see High Mage Jung’s disgrace and demotion, or simply Mage Jung now – but because it left her with a one less competent head at her table.

At the head of the room, she turns, eyes roving over the heads bowed in respect (or is it fear? Pawns and kings, does it even matter?). Her lips curl, but not in joy. In disgust.

One gave her a plan that fell to pieces. Another let a powerful Onyx mage escape from his clutches. Three more on three separate occasions were unable to track and capture the thieves running around and stealing her jewels, with one of them lacking the wits to save her compatriot from the knife of that dratted prince. And when Somin finds out who let it slip that the ruby was to be held at the gray mage’s shrine…

The loss of one semi-intelligent mind means much in this room full of bumbling idiots.

Somin takes a deep breath. High Mage Jung was not infallible either. He failed to anticipate the revolt of the prisoners entrusted under his care, failed to prevent the theft of one of the last three jewels. All because he was sleeping.

She allows a slight smirk to cross her lips. His mistakes will not go unpunished, at least. One of his daughters already awaits retribution for her father under this very palace.

“Sit,” Somin says, purposely embedding the single word with ice.

Everyone sits. Somin does, too, smoothing her full skirts under the table as she tries to hide hands that shake with anger. “It has come to my attention,” she snarls, voice dripping acid, “that this is a room full of failures.”

Several mages flinch. The others remain still, even Lee Minho, who stares at the wooden surface in front of him as though it will give him the answers to the world.

At least Somin can count on his silence, now. Much better than his inability to shut up from before.

“You are lucky that I have a brain as well,” she hisses. “I do wonder what they teach you as mages, if not a single one of you could put together a plan that would not fail on every single level. Even without your specialized training, between dividing my troops and evading Onyx attack, I was able to come up with a plan to lure that insufferable band of jewel thieves into the open.”

Silence.

Somin tuts. “None of you will ask your queen what she intends to do?”

Bom clears her throat quietly. Her stomach wound has long healed, but she still hunches over the table like it never went away. “What is your plan, Your Majesty?”

Such a good puppet. Somin almost wants to pat her head, despite the fact that the mage is at least ten years her senior. This is why Bom sits at her table. It is a table meant for those more powerful than she, but Somin needs someone blindly loyal to her cause to remain close by, no matter how dull-witted.

“We are winning the war,” she starts, allowing a slight smile to curve her lips. “This gives me leave to bring some of our generals back to the capital for, ah, a respite of sorts. I’m sure many are eager to pledge themselves to the new queen and her king, just as all of you were.”

Mouths tighten. Faces whiten. Somin represses a smirk. A gentle reminder of what she holds over their heads never hurts. “I will host a competition of dual blades,” she announces. “It is an art widely practiced among the noble and royal classes, even in some of the common pawn circles. Anyone will be free to join, and the winner will receive the onyx stone as a gift. Spoils of war.” Her smile widens. “Who could resist?”

Minho’s eyes shift from the table to her. “You believe the Onyx prince will fall for this obvious trap?”

Somin returns his gaze. “You believe he won’t?” She laughs. “The prince needs this stone. Even if he has the other four, he has no way of completing the crown unless he somehow takes this one too. He may realize it is a trap, but what other choice does he have?”

Mage Choi Jinhee, at the end of the table, raises her head. “Will you use the real stone?”

A sigh leaves Somin’s lips. Does she really need to spell everything out for them? “No,” she snaps. Her gaze turns to a certain cat-eyed mage, whose mouth thins into a line. “The real stone will be left with the crown in a place no one can access but I.” She sneers. “Need I remind you of what happened last time I listened to such foolish advice?”

Jinhee falls silent, but Minho opens his mouth. Somin curses internally. “The prince is of the Onyx bloodline,” he says, bravely (or foolishly – she’s more inclined to believe that) meeting her stare. “He will sense whether or not the jewel is real. And if it is true that a mage travels with them –”

“Which is why it will only be revealed on the last day of competition, when the winner has fought their way to the finish,” she cuts him off. “No one will see it before then, so no one will know it is fake. The prince will fight until that day, at which point he will be arrested in front of all spectators so they can see just who has managed to trespass into our kingdom during a time of war.”

“How are you so sure the prince will make it to the last day?” Minho challenges.

Somin actually laughs at that. “Have you ever watched the Onyx prince at swordplay?”

A shake of the head. Somin’s smile turns into a smirk. “I have.” She leans forward, staring Minho in the eye. “When I tell you he is skilled, I do not lie. He was taught by Wang throughout his adolescence, and he specialized in it when he underwent his knight training.” Her smirk deepens. “I will not make the mistake of underestimating him.”

Minho’s lips twitch. Somin can’t tell if it’s a result of annoyance or a smirk, and that frustrates her. “It is sometimes just as crucial not to overestimate an opponent, Your Majesty.”

Somin scoffs. “I do not overestimate him,” she snaps. “If he loses early on, we will only arrest him earlier. Perhaps it will not draw the crowds I would have liked, but as long as he is executed the next day and leaves the Onyx Kingdom without an heir to the king’s crown, it does not matter.”

No one argues with that. Silence falls over the room once more.

A smirk creeps up Somin’s lips, and this time, she allows it to show. “Now, then.” She leans forward. “Who will be tasked with creating the fake?”

. . . . .

Juyeon isn’t stupid. A contest in swordplay offering the last crown jewel as the winner’s prize can’t be anything but an obvious trap.

Personally, he feels slightly offended. Does Somin really think he’s that dumb? He might not be Jisoo with her mind for battle tactics and foreign affairs, but Juyeon has a brain that he often utilizes well, despite what Kevin sometimes likes to say.

(No matter what the amethyst heir says, Juyeon will maintain that cutting himself on a rose bush is far less stupid than setting an entire hill on fire. At least his wounds were healed. As far as he knows, half of that hill is still blackened.)

But the longer he looks at the poster Jacob brought back from the town square, the more it becomes obvious just how well-wrought this trap is. It may be obvious, yes, but more likely than not, Somin’s accounted for this. She has rarely been one to underestimate her enemies, after all. Which means that she expects him to come, knowing it’s a ploy to catch him.

Juyeon swears, throwing the poster to the ground. Of course he’ll come. Of course he will. He may have four of the crown jewels, but he needs the last one. The other four mean nothing if he can’t complete the crown.

So he has to join this contest.

He looks at Jacob and Kevin, both of whom stare at the piece of paper on the dusty ground with similarly grim expressions. Looking at them, a familiar sensation of unease grows in his mind, a tingling suspicion that someone is missing.

Which is impossible. Yes, Sunwoo left a hole in the group that can’t be filled, not even by Jacob, but this feeling is something different from the grief that still grips his heart every time he remembers the death. And then he inevitably remembers knives ripping through flesh, blood pooling on the ground, watching the life drain out of Mage Han’s eyes next to Sunwoo’s already blank expression –

Enough. Juyeon pulls himself out of his thoughts before he can spiral. This feeling isn’t the same as that of Sunwoo’s absence. It’s more like someone or multiple people are supposed to be here, helping him, which makes no sense. Hwanwoong and the others never could have stayed, and Juyeon certainly wasn’t going to drag High Mage Jung along. Jacob might really have committed murder then.

So no one can be missing. No one.

But ever since Juyeon woke up, thorn wounds completely healed after a dream of ruby roses and pain, he knows someone is. And he’s pretty sure he knows who – the shade who healed him, whose face he almost saw but didn’t because his body decided to wake up right then and there.

Which doesn’t make any castles-damned sense.

“Someone has to go.” Kevin’s voice breaks Juyeon out of his thoughts, brings him back to the present problems that have nothing to do with unnamed shades and roses. “And Juyeon’s the best at swordplay. Especially dual blades.”

Juyeon winces. It’s true, he can handle a sword and a dagger extremely well. He just much prefers the stability of a single one.

Besides, dual blades are an Ivory citizen’s weapon of choice. Normally this wouldn’t pose problems – royalty of both kingdoms, especially those who take the knight’s oath, often learn to wield multiple types of weapons – but even wearing white makes Juyeon want to crawl out of his skin, now. Using an Ivory weapon instead of his own?

A grimace crosses his face that he can’t shove away.

“It could be a fake,” Jacob interjects. “In fact, it probably is – why would Somin use the real stone, especially when we already have the other four?”

“Even if it’s a fake, we could get something from it,” Kevin argues. “Traces of magic, maybe. A mage would have had to create it, so couldn’t we track the traces again?”

Jacob frowns. “That took so long last time, though.” He sighs. “I’m not saying we have other choices. But if we could figure out something else…?”

Juyeon shakes his head. “I don’t think there’s another option.” His mouth thins as he presses his lips together. “She wants me to come, that much is obvious. Somin watched me practice when she used to visit the kingdom. She’ll expect me to get to the end of the contest, even against other highly-trained soldiers and generals.”

“You could just be being pig-headed and arrogant,” Kevin says, lips raised in a teasing half-smile. “What if she doesn’t actually think you’ll make it, huh? You have that much faith in your abilities?”

“You –” Juyeon punches Kevin in the arm, unable to force back the smile growing on his face. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t Wang call you one of the most pathetic students he’d ever had?”

Kevin sniffs. “I throw knives better than you ever will.”

“Are you two done puffing your chests around?” Jacob interrupts, cutting Juyeon off from arguing further (which he really couldn’t, anyway – Kevin has the best aim of anyone he’s ever met). He’s smiling too, though, and a wave of gratitude washes over Juyeon at Kevin’s ability to lighten up the mood. But the smile slowly disappears as he opens his mouth again. “Juyeon, if you’re going to do this, you can’t show up with your face on display. Attending the contest is bad enough, but parading around in the open is even worse.”

“Dust masks.” Juyeon turns to Kevin. “Can you make something that’ll hide my face well enough?”

He nods. “Just give me a day, I’ll have it ready. In the meantime, you need to somehow find a pair of dual blades to practice with.”

Well, that’s an issue. Juyeon’s just about to frown when Jacob points to a few lines on the poster he hadn’t read yet. “Blades will be provided so no contestant has an unfair advantage.”

Relief, then anxiety fill Juyeon’s chest. “Which means I’ll have to make another appearance to sign up for this and pick out my size.”

Kevin’s lips thin. “Show up first while wearing the mask. It’s all you can do.”

“And if someone asks?”

“Then say the roads are too dusty.” Jacob coughs. “Which they are.”

It’s a bad plan, not well thought out and far from foolproof, but if worst comes to worst, Juyeon has long legs and knows the capital well enough to get around and maybe hide.

“Well.” Juyeon sighs. “Anything’s better than setting a hill on fire.”

“Queens,” Jacob mutters. “We really need to stop using that as a baseline to judge our bad plans.”

. . . . .

Kevin follows Juyeon to competition registration. It isn’t too hard to stay inconspicuous among the masks most people are wearing, but Kevin keeps his head lowered and gaze alert all the same. It wouldn’t do for anyone to catch them before Juyeon even enters his first swordfight.

But it’s hard when dust keeps flying into his face with every step he takes. Even when he deliberately tries to place his foot down with as little force as possible, it floats into the air with a deceptive grace that itches his nose and makes tears spring in his eyes.

Queens, it was never this bad all the other times Kevin visited, and he’s traveled here a lot over the past few years. Under the previous queen, the roads, though still dusty – it’s inevitable, especially in the dryer months – were much cleaner.

It’s not just that. Even here, in the square, the usual bustle of chatter and cheer sounds so much more subdued than he remembers. When he was younger, he and Changmin and Juyeon would come here on their visits to wreak as much havoc as their tiny bodies could handle. They’d get caught, eventually, but people were always up for a joke or a prank.

Now, though there’s still noise, the level is nowhere near where it used to be. Everyone’s face looks drawn, taut, a little wary, even, as they exchange coins and goods.

An unpleasant tingle runs down Kevin’s back. The current queen is probably too focused on the war at hand to care for her citizens. A scowl crosses his face as he thinks of Somin sitting high and mighty in her palace or wherever she is, directing people to do the dirty work for her.

One of his angry feet kicks a cloud of dust into the air. Kevin starts coughing again. Pawns and kings, it couldn’t get much worse than this, could it?

Just ahead, Juyeon approaches a large white building. Kevin stops where he is, standing idly by a small store as Juyeon flashes him a look that he returns. He disappears into the doors.

Now all there is to do is wait.

Heart in his throat, Kevin does his best to look casual as he lingers in the town square, vaguely gazing at several of the stalls as he tries not to catch anyone’s attention. No meeting eyes, no staring, no looking interested –

“Excuse me?”

Castling queens.

Kevin braces himself, expecting some random Ivory citizen to maybe ask him why he’s loitering around without buying anything. An excuse pops readily onto his tongue as he turns, a slight, wary smile on his face to mimic those of the others prattling around the square –

In the name of the Board and all that is holy –

It takes all of Kevin’s effort not to widen his eyes, not to curse, not to show anything in the face of Lee Jaehyun, a boy he once used to know, a boy he used to play around with on his visits to the Ivory Kingdom. As they grew older and took on different duties, they saw each other less – in fact, the last time they talked was probably a couple years ago – but there’s no mistaking it. This is Lee Jaehyun, the youngest general of the ivory army, knighted when he was just sixteen.

Juyeon himself wasn’t knighted until seventeen, and he’s one of the best fighters Kevin knows. If Jaehyun is here…

Smile. Breathe. Change your voice. Kevin prays the disinterested expression on his face from before hasn’t left as he looks at Jaehyun with veiled curiosity, heart pounding. Thank all the higher orders that he’s wearing a mask. “Yes?”

“You just seemed a little lost.” Jaehyun smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Is it just Kevin’s paranoia, or does he look suspicious? “I wondered if you needed directions somewhere.”

A brief laugh forces itself out of Kevin’s throat, stilted and deep and nothing like his normal snorts and giggles. Good – even less chance of Jaehyun recognizing him. “I don’t, but thank you.” He jerks his head toward the registration building. “Just waiting for a friend.”

Jaehyun nods. “Not signing up yourself, then?”

“Oh, no.” This time, Kevin doesn’t need to lie. “I don’t have the skill to compete against generals of the kingdom.” He cocks his head, feigning interest. “Are you?”

The smile on Jaehyun’s unmasked face tightens, but he nods. “Yes, I am.” He laughs, short and forced. “Who wouldn’t want the glory?”

“Glory,” Kevin repeats, trying to decipher the unreadable look Jaehyun wears. “Is that what matters, then?”

His tone must have been more accusatory than he meant, because Jaehyun’s eyes narrow slightly. Kevin curses internally, about to backtrack, but Jaehyun has already opened his mouth to speak again. “To some,” he says, pose deceivingly relaxed. “Why? What do you think matters more?”

Kevin’s heart is ready to pound out of his chest with anxiety. Sweat beads on his forehead and under his ivory dust mask as his mind races for a neutral answer. Jaehyun just waits, face impassive.

“Care,” he finally replies. “If I had someone under my care, I would put them before anything else, even glory.”

It’s true. He doesn’t need to lie about how he feels about Jacob. About Juyeon.

About Sunwoo.

Pain stabs his chest, pain that he does his best not to show as Jaehyun nods appraisingly. “I agree,” he says, surprisingly. “We are lucky to have a king who cares for us in the way you describe.”

Kevin tries not to raise his eyebrows too high at Jaehyun’s choice of words. King. Not queen.

Does this mean Jaehyun doesn’t care for the queen, either?

It could be. Jaehyun never exactly wanted to play with Somin when they were kids, even though he regularly got into shenanigans with the former queen. Even though she’s ascended the throne, it’s possible that the feelings remained.

With that, it crosses Kevin’s mind to reveal himself and enlist Jaehyun as an ally. But there’s too much to risk with that. They’re so close to completing the crown, so close – they can’t afford a single mistake. Besides, Kevin only has guesses to go by. He doesn’t know anything concrete about Jaehyun that’s recent enough to mean anything.

And also, Juyeon’s just exited the building, two new blades in hand. There’s no time.

“There seems to be a line forming,” Kevin remarks idly. “You should probably take your place before you’re here all morning.”

Jaehyun glances back, almost uninterested, before nodding. “Probably.” He sighs. “Well, it was nice meeting you…”

Queens. Kevin needs to think of a name. “Jihoon,” he spits out, wincing internally at how similar it is to Juyeon’s fake name (seriously, Jiyoon and Jihoon? Come on, Kevin), but it’s too late to retract it because Jaehyun’s already nodding.

“Jihoon.” Jaehyun smiles. “I’m Jaehyun.”

I know.

Kevin doesn’t say that, though, just returns the nod. “Good luck, Jaehyun.”

He means it. Because though Jaehyun might be good, Juyeon has skill, too. And he has something else that Jaehyun doesn’t.

Desperation.

And as horrible a feeling it is to have, Kevin knows with a grim certainty that Juyeon’s going to need to channel as much of it as he can.

. . . . .

When Juyeon learns the Lee Jaehyun is going to be competing in this tournament, he almost wants to give up right then and there. He may be good, but Jaehyun is a prodigy. There’s a reason why he was knighted so early and rose through the army ranks so quickly. His participation basically cuts Juyeon’s chances of winning in half.

Never mind that his chances already weren’t very high.

And then there’s the fact that Jaehyun spoke with Kevin, singled him out of an entire town square as someone to talk to. Though Kevin says he’s pretty sure Jaehyun didn’t recognize him or he probably would’ve said something, Juyeon can’t shake it off that easily. Jaehyun’s smart. He isn’t a general for nothing. If he talked to Kevin, he suspected something. Why else would he give up his position in line for a chat?

A cursory scan of the day’s duels brings Juyeon slight relief. He isn’t fighting against Jaehyun – in fact, he’s in a completely different bracket – which means that he might just make it to the last day if no one catches him. Might.

And then he’ll have to fight Jaehyun, or whoever managed to beat Jaehyun. Though to be honest, if there’s someone else at the top, Juyeon might back out right then and there. Jaehyun is that good.

But if it’s Jaehyun he ends up fighting, there’s a much higher chance of recognition. Which is also not good.

Taking a shaky breath, Juyeon readjusts the dust mask covering his face, trying to drown out the noises of the growing crowd as he steps into the arena. Kevin’s talented fingers have come into play again for the simple piece of cloth, sewing it tight enough around his mouth and nose that it won’t come loose while giving him enough air to breathe. If no one looks too closely, they won’t root him out.

Hopefully.

Juyeon breathes in. Breathes out. Dust swirls around his feet as he walks forward to meet his opponent. Already he’s forgotten the name – it wasn’t anybody he recognized, he remembers that much – and from the stuttering gaze on the boy’s face, he gathers that it won’t be too difficult to beat him this round.

He’s right. The boy – whatever his name is – has some skill but not enough, not the type that Juyeon’s honed over years of training in multiple forms of swordplay. Within minutes, he disarms his opponent, two blades thudding to the dusty ground, and his sword rises to rest against his throat.

Cheers rise as Juyeon lowers his arm, accepting the boy’s hand in a firm shake. Vaguely, he hears his fake name being announced as the winner, but already he’s slipping into one of the tents, exiting as fast as he can, then disappearing into the crowd, unnoticed.

He doesn’t find Kevin or Jacob. They said they’d be here but didn’t tell Juyeon where for fear of accidentally giving them away with a stray glance. Instead, he finds a relatively empty space at the junction between two streets, sits down, and closes his eyes to rest.

The afternoon passes in the same manner, then the next day. Juyeon almost loses his fourth set – he doesn’t recognize the move his opponent uses and it throws him off-kilter when he loses his dagger – but in the end, he manages to flip both blades out of the other’s hand with a wild sweep of his sword that sends the audience into a frenzy. Stonily, he ignores his opponent’s glare and the way she tries to crush his hand with her grip, though his heart pounds for hours after.

Two days gone. One day left.

The third afternoon, Kevin sends him off with a face whiter than usual, fingers trembling at his sides. Jacob doesn’t look much better, huddled into his red cloak as he wishes Juyeon luck. Both put on a brave face, trying to smile as Juyeon slides the blades into his belt, but their worry is obvious.

He can’t blame them. His heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest. Because today, Juyeon’s going to be in the most danger he’s been throughout his two short weeks in the capital.

The crowds will be bigger than ever. There’s a far smaller chance of Kevin and Jacob being able to whisk him out of a tight situation. Somin herself will preside over the final duel as he fights beneath her throne. Well, not her throne because that’s a huge piece of white marble and ivory that can’t easily be carried out of the palace, but she’ll be there.

And to top things off…

A familiar figure stands in the center of the arena, blades already drawn. Even from this distance, confidence radiates from his body, from the slight smile on his face and the easy way he holds his weapons.

Juyeon swallows.

He’s fighting Lee Jaehyun.

. . . . .

Anxiety can’t even begin to cover how Jacob feels as he watches Juyeon enter the arena. Shouts, alternate cheers and boos, follow his footsteps forward into the center of the large, dusty plain.

Jacob doesn’t join in. Neither does Kevin. They only watch silently from a far edge of the crowds, fists clenched so tightly that his nails start biting crescents into his palms.

Pawns and kings. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. If he feels this anxious, how must Juyeon feel, standing under watch of his biggest enemy, facing one of the best (or possibly the best) swordsmen in the two kingdoms, knowing there’s a very sizable chance that someone will either root him out or he’ll simply lose?

Juyeon doesn’t seem to show any worry or anxiety as he tosses his sheaths away, but maybe that’s just because Jacob is so far away. He wishes he was closer, but in the event of things gone awry, he and Kevin need to be able to escape as fast as possible.

If he was alone, standing closer might be an option. He doesn’t need a door just to shift on his own. But with Kevin here, he does.

And he can’t exactly create a door in the middle of a crowd.

A horn sounds. Jacob’s head jerks up.

Kevin’s hand finds his as the first crash of metal rings through the air.

They fight fast. All Jacob can see are flashes of silver, the afternoon sun glinting off the blades and nearly blinding him several times. Two blurred figures weave in and out of each other, barely distinguishable from this far away, and try as Jacob might to pay attention, sometimes he loses sight of Juyeon’s dark hair in the clouds of dust that whirl up from their feet.

Blades clash. Cheers sound. Jacob can barely hear anything over the roar of blood in his ears, can barely feel a thing besides Kevin’s hand clenching his in a death grip. Vaguely, as Jaehyun nearly lands a hit on Juyeon, who just manages to spin away, Jacob wonders if his blood will still be circulating in his fingers by the time this match is over.

One strike blocked, a feint parried, another slash dodged. The duel drags on and on – Kevin mutters something about sundown coming before it’s over and Jacob almost laughs, hysterical and wild with all the adrenaline coursing through his veins – and then –

Juyeon knocks the sword out of Jaehyun’s hand, sending it flying high into the air.

A scream builds in Jacob’s throat as Kevin lets out a pained wheeze. Maybe, just maybe, Jacob thinks, Juyeon has a chance to win this. Castling queens, he needs to –

But Jaehyun catches the blade.

He catches it.

Jacob nearly falls over entirely as the general resumes the fight, barely looking like he’s broken a sweat. Juyeon stumbles and Jacob almost releases his previous scream. He manages to regain his balance, though Jacob can tell even from here that Juyeon’s shaken.

Who wouldn’t be, after all? No one could blame Juyeon after that sort of stunt.

But he can’t afford to be shaken. He needs to move, to fight, to win this for the stupid onyx stone that’s probably a fake anyway because they need all the information they can get, even if it means putting the Onyx prince himself in a direct line of danger –

The dagger falls out of Juyeon’s hand. Jaehyun kicks it, sending the blade skittering across the arena.

Kevin’s nails begin cutting into Jacob’s skin.

Juyeon continues the fight. He’s already fought and won against another girl who managed to disarm his dagger hand, Jacob knows, so there’s a chance, a tiny chance that he could still make this. As sweat stings his open eyes, he prays, he prays to every higher order of the two kingdoms, pawns and kings, please let Juyeon win this –

But Jaehyun isn’t the girl from before. And with the first trip, the first tiny stumble over a stone or a rut in the ground, the general flips the sword out of Juyeon’s hand. It falls to the ground in a cloud of dust.

The tip of a blade inserts itself under Juyeon’s chin.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for juyeon he needs it)

39 notes · View notes

anjuschiffer · 4 years

Text

Joke’s On You

Another update to the To [Not] Be A Bat series! Enjoy!

------

P.Tag: @theatreandcomicfreak @damianette-is-life

Tag: @toodaloo-kangaroo @maribat-is-lifeblood @tis-i-beanbandit

------

FIRST | PREV

------

AO3

------

It didn’t take long to track down the Red Wings- the trio’s name that the media had labeled them as.

As soon as Bruce had gotten into the car, Alfred had told him to turn on the radio, a station already doing a cover about his trio of kids.

Nightwing, Red Hood and Ladybird were just spotted by Gotham Cathedral, people theorizing where this new vigilante came from and why she was teaming up with solo vigilantes.

Ladybird - a new female vigilante that the people were starting to adore due to her powerful aura and overall persona. A teenager that fought with a heart of gold but merciless against evil. A bringer of justice

Bruce struggled to keep his eyes on the road while he was listening to Commissioner Gordon give him the latest sightings of the Red Wings, asking him if he knew what was going on.

Bruce remained slight as Gordon sighed, “Your circus, your monkeys. I don’t know what exactly is going on, but clearly you need to get them under control.”

Bruce let out a grumble, bringing the Batmobile to a screeching halt when Harley came crash landing onto the hood of his car.

Harley groaned, blinking rapidly, a smile emerging to her face when she saw Batman.

“Batsy! About time you came!” She cheered, a scowl forming as she jumped off the car, Bruce watching as Dick landed with a thud, his escrima sticks sparking with anticipation.

“So you’ve made it.” Dick said, narrowing his eyes a bit.

“Where is she?” Bruce growled, keeping it low so as to not gather Harley’s attention.

“Why should I tell you?” Dick growled, quickly jumping away when Harley bashed her mallet onto the hood of the car, a smile madly widening.

“What’s the matter pumpkin? Thought you wanted a fair fight.” Harley rested her mallet on her shoulders, her hands dangling over the handle.

“This is far from fair.” Nightwing replied, charging at her. His attack missed her side, Harley stepping to the side before swinging her mallet towards Nightwing. He simply used it as a step stone, launching himself to the air to create some distance between him and Harley.

Bruce watched at the two exchanged blows, wincing when Harley’s heel connected with Dick’s face, sending him to the ground.

Smirking, Harley made her way towards Batman, her mallet being dragged behind her.

“Now Batsy, care to explain why-” Harley’s yelp cut her off, her face meeting the floor. Bruce watches as Marinette pulls Harley towards her, her eyes devoid of reason.

“He has nothing to do with this.” Marinette growled, picking Harley up by her jacket, her knee jabbed into Harley’s stomach, a wheeze escaping her.

Throwing Harley, Marinette quickly hit her at the back of her head with her yo-yo, quickly bringing it back when she saw Batman come near.

“Stop this nonsense.” He commanded, taken aback when Marinette huffed.

“Nonsense?” A scoff. “Wonder how many times you told that to Dick and Jason.”

“They didn’t know what they were getting into and neither are you.” Batman said, towering over Marinette. “Stop this at once.”

“I will.” Marinette said, a grin escaping her. “Once I defeat Joker that is.” Bruce watched as Marinette took out her yo-yo and attempted to tie him up, only for him to catch it.

He watched as she snarled, taking her weapon back and charged towards him, attempting to dropkick him only for her to be thrown over his head.

Not wasting the momentum, Marinette placed her arms on his shoulders and managed to land right behind Batman, kicking him square on his back, causing him to stumble forward.

Turning, Bruce wasn’t expecting to be met with a fist, his vision attempting to refocus until he was punched again, only this time much harder and precise.

“While I do have various grudges against you, this was for Bug.”

“Jason.” Bruce slurred out, struggling to regain his composure, only for Jason to slam his fists against his shoulders, causing him to fall to his knees.

“Ladybird,” Jason spoke, Bruce hearing a few beeps as he attempted to stand up. “Just sent you the coordinates to his location.”

“On it.” With more beeps and a click, Bruce watched as Marinette looked at him with wavering eyes.

“Good luck.” Bruce heard Jason whisper as they watched Marinette swing off.

“Why didn’t you stop her?” Bruce growled, using Jason as a mode of support to stand up.

“Because even if you don’t believe in her, I know she can take that clown down.”

“You don’t know what he’s capable of!”

“Yes we do!” Jason yelled, grabbing Batman’s collar. “We’ve been fighting him for years! We’ve seen everything he’s done! From pranks to holding an entire building with its workers as host-”

“He’s killed you before!” Bruce reminded, taking Jason’s hand off of him. “And he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.” Bruce watched as Jason narrowed his eyes and averted his gaze, turning away from him.

“Guys we have a problem.” Richard said, appearing before the two, standing a few feet away from them when he felt the tension wrapped around them.

“Speak.” “Spit it out.”

“Those coordinates that we found.” Dick gulped, feeling his grasp on his escrima sticks tighten. “It was all part of Joker’s scheme.” Dick watched as Jason stiffened and Bruce took a step forward. “He knows that she’s coming for him. And he’s prepared to take her down, no matter what.”

#maribat #maribat to not be a bat series #bio!dad bruce wayne #anju writes

139 notes · View notes

smoochkooks · 5 years

Text

—the (un)holy cock-up (m.)

⟶ pairing: park jimin/reader

⟶ genre: smut, angst

⟶ word count: 14.5k

⟶ warnings: explicit sexual content, oral sex (m receiving), dirty talk, profanity, unnecessary amount of biblical puns, some critic on catholic church, this is a heavy read be aware

⟶ summary: there is a quite long list of circumstances, with student loan and rent on the very top of it, that led you to work in the sunday’s spirit editorial department, a newspaper overally known among fellow catholic community of busan, with park jimin as your boss.

when your small cock-up goes unnoticeably out of your hand, you find yourself in a situation painted in all shades of wrong.

or, alternatively: when it’s forbidden, it tastes bittersweet.

a/n: please, before you read this: take the warnings seriously. this is not a light read, it touches some heavy and quite controversial topics. tit also involves a scene where a person in charge exhibits inappropriate behavior towards their subordinate which I do not condone, however it’s all done with consent.

ps. im really proud of this work so give me some love please:(

Fingertips typing furiously on the keyboards, sights focused on the computers’ screens, brows furrowed, minds utterly concentrated and all of this accompanied by angelic voices of various religious songs playing in the background.

This is how a typical day at Sunday’s Spirit editorial department goes by.

The newspaper is a local source of information for the catholic community not only in the city of Busan, but in the whole country. Its history starts in 70s, when Park Min-Sung with his wife started publishing the very first version of the Sunday’s Spirit, selling copies in front of churches. Young activists definitely hadn’t anticipated such a big success, especially due to hard times of the military dictatorship in Korea, but two decades later they have become one of the most affluent families in Busan. The newspaper remains the Park’s legacy till these days, being owned by Min-Sung’s son, with the original founder’s grandson Jimin as an editor-in-chief.

Sometimes you ponder how did you end up in this kind of situation. Sitting at your desk with eyes glued to the screen, working for the catholic newspaper with Mary did you know and other holy songs playing from the Spotify’s Blessed Hits playlist.

First of all, you aren’t quite a Jesus stan yourself. Not a regular churchgoer, Bible reader or a person who lives according to God’s will with Ten Commandments written on your heart and soul.

Someone may wonder, what a young, aspiring journalist like you is doing here? Yes, that’s right.

Money is the reason.

The perspectives of wealthy life as a presenter in the national television or a host in the radio were just a mirage, because after receiving your master degree in journalism you realised that, unfortunately, a bright future was bright only in your unreal dreams.

The case was simple. You needed money. Your bank account was literally screaming at you to get your shit together and figure something out before you end up under the bridge. So you started searching for a job, looking over various offers on the Internet for two weeks straight. A waitress? Nah, too clumsy for that. Jewelry seller? Definitely not, since you are a happy owner of a few pairs of earrings from etsy-like online shop that certainly have nothing to do with real gold. You were almost convinced you’re destined to be a sexworker but then you stumbled upon an offer from the Sunday’s Spirit.

It was your chance. A God himself decided to take pity on you.

In that exact moment the genre of the newspaper wasn’t important. The vision of bankruptcy was enough for you to wear knee-length black skirt, white button-up shirt and a pair of high heels you’ve never worn before and go on a job interview with plastered smile on your face, looking delightful like you have just given birth to Jesus Christ in Bethlehem.

All the Hollywood actresses could be put into shame after your Oscar-winning performance you acted out on the interview in front of middle-aged woman in checked jacket that no one wears since 90s. Your enthusiasm and assurance you live good, catholic woman’s life, along with your master degree and motivational letter (you added a quote from The Letter to Philipians at the end of it to spice it up) was enough to be accepted for the position of Ask and you shall find column creator.

The job itself wasn’t complex or tough. The newspaper on its online site has a page where people can create an account and send asks to the author of the column who responds to them. You did something wrong and you aren’t sure it should be considered a sin? Having problems with regular praying on mornings and evenings? Write to us and we will solemnly help you with the God’s blessing, it says.

This is basically how it works. Each week, the said journalist chooses the most interesting questions and answers to make an article to the Sunday’s Spirit’s next publication. Of course, you can’t answer those questions the way you would like. You must do it according to the catholic laws and God’s plan (the True God’s plan, not Drake’s). A woman who interviewed you even gave you a notebook full of already made-up responses and a list of things you definetely mustn’t write if you still want to be employed.

To be completely frank, you don’t hate your job that much. You actually feel kind of nice, helping other people with their problems. You’ve been doing this for six months now and during this period of time you got used to some things.

A ‘Jesus, I trust you’ framed picture you swore your mother gave you on your 16th birthday standing on your desk. Holy beats blasting through the speakers until you leave the office at 5pm. A big-ass cross hanging right in front of the entrance to the editorial. Lee Chin-sun, the Weekly News column author, rushing to Park Jimin’s bureau every day at different hours in her pencil skirts and high heels knocking on the floor.

There’s only the Pentecost in the middle of the office that could actually surprise you.

“Looks like our Mary Magdalene is going to Jesus cave again,” mutters Kim Taehyung, the newspaper’s main photographer, friend from your desk and, actually, the only friend you have here. Very much gay and just like you, in desperate need for money. “It’s her third visit today. I wonder what it is this time. New prayer to Pope Francis she found?” he whispers and you chuckle at that quietly, looking around if anyone pays attention to your conversation, but everyone seems busy doing their own stuff. “Maybe she’s sucking his dick right now and we all think they are playing Who said it? Bible edition,” he adds in a hushed tone.

You start thinking about it for a while. Is that really possible for someone like Park Jimin, the editor-in-chief of the Sunday’s Spirit to have a sexual relationship with his coworker? The man who has a smaller version of Pietà in his office?

“I mean look at him. I would smash that ass too.”

You roll your eyes at Taehyung words, going back to your previous task but every time you try to concentrate, the face of your boss appears in front of your eyes uncontrollably.

Truth to be told, Park Jimin was a sight.

Blond hair, always perfectly styled and simply parted in the middle, revealing his forehead. Dark, sharp eyes that seem to pierce right through your soul and full, plump lips which could only be described as kissable.

He wears only high fashion brands, wandering through the office in Prada and Tom Ford suits that hugs his sculpted body just right. You think that as for a person who never misses Sunday’s mass, Park Jimin has also nice thighs. And a fine piece of ass, as Taehyung would describe it.

Newest Rolex that costs probably more than you will ever earn in your entire life on his wrist, Mercedes who just got brought out to the international market standing on his parking spot in front of the building, an apartment in the most luxurious area in Busan.

Park Jimin inhales God’s mercy and exhales money.

You spoke to him more explicitly only once, on your first day at work. He greeted you and wished good luck, saying that everything will be fine because you know, God’s good. Since that day, Park Jimin seems out of your reach. You contact him only through email, sending articles for him to check and approve, occasionally receiving some short message from him to improve this and that. He rarely leaves his office during working hours but when he does, it’s either for business meetings outside the editorial or for a lunch at nearby restaurant.

There’s also one, special occasion, every Friday, that’s a sacred time for all the employees. The clock hits 12am and so it begins. The angelic voices stop singing and everybody shifts on their sits.

“Oh, Holy Judas. I almost forgot about my favourite part of the week,” Taehyung sighs, standing up from his desk. And by that, he means-

“Friday’s Bible contemplation lunch break, everyone please gather up at the cafeteria.” Park Jimin’s sweet as honey voice says through the speakers.

You stand up from your chair with reluctance. Taking food with you, you go to the cafeteria, following Taehyung.

That’s actually the next thing you got used to while working at Sunday’s Spirit. Bible contemplation meetings are, as you found out from Taehyung, Jimin’s idea after he became an editor-in-chief almost one year ago. Every Friday all the workers sit together, eat their lunches and listen to Jimin as he reads a certain chapter from the book with true admiration written on their faces. After that, he usually asks some questions holding a discussion among the participants who, unlike you, happily takes part in.

The cafeteria looks rather normal, like any other lunchrooms you see in offices. Painted in bright yellow colors, with a few tables and a typical kitchen set in the back. Except for one thing.

A replica of Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper hanging on the wall.

You decided a long time ago that you don’t want to know how much money it cost Jimin to have something like that here.

The newspaper’s workers, almost like the twelve Apostles, sit together by the tables. Lee Chin-sun at the very front, looking completely mesmerized by today’s Park Jimin’s appearance. He’s wearing navy blue suit that Taehyung swears it’s from Hugo Boss. The place next to Chin-sun is always occupied by tall, black-haired guy named Choi Eunwoo, main graphic designer, hopelessly in love with her since his first days at work. Behind them there’s a group from emendation department, with their leader Min Yoongi and other journalists. You always sit with Taehyung at the back, near the kitchen, not necessarily paying attention to what’s happening in the front.

Jimin, as on every Friday, walks to the small podium, designed to look like a pulpit in the church and opens the Bible. But one thing is odd: Jimin ain’t no priest or altar boy himself and he certainly dosen’t look like one, flipping through the pages of what you think it’s New Testament this time.

From your point of view, you could practically see how Chin-sun sighs with content expression on her face, lacing her fingers together on the lap and straightening her back. Eunwoo, on the other hand, shifts uncomfortably on his seat, sending Chin-sun quick glances full of unspoken longing she never acknowledges, to his dismay.

Then, Park Jimin clears his throat and the whole cafeteria goes quiet.

Truth to be told, you never really listen to what he’s reading. This time is no different. You just chew on your avocado sandwich, occasionally taking a sip of coffee. Your boss’ smooth voice reaches your ears faintly but you don’t pay attention to it, focusing on eating and Taehyung’s hushed rumbling instead.

“Look at our Mary Magdalene, she looks like she might burst a nut just by listening to CEO Jesus,” he says, making you peek at the girl.

Mary Magdalene is a nickname that Taehyung made up for Chin-sun when he started working at Sunday’s Spirit, mainly because of her attitude and relationship with Jimin. It’s rather platonic, at least for now. She looks at him with pure admiration on her face and she literally melts everytime he smiles at her. But Chin-sun’s ‘stalking’ isn’t unreasonable. Her father is a well-known philanthropist in Busan. He donates catholic charities, churches and, what’s the most interesting – he has some connections with Jimin’s father, the owner of Sunday’s Spirit.

And here’s the thing: Chin-sun’s hare and hounds definitely have some hidden reason. Maybe the whole marriage thing that has become a gossip in the office is true. Which makes poor Eunwoo’s situation even worse.

“Sometimes I wonder why has he fallen in love with her in first place,” you whisper, pointing at the graphic designer. “He knows he stands no chance against Jimin.”

“What can I say, you can’t help who you fall in love with.” Taehyung muses almost poetically, shrugging his shoulders.

You hum at that, placing your coffee cup on the table and looking around the cafeteria. It seems like Jimin has ended his reading session for today and now he invites everyone to join the discussion about the topic. He flashes Chin-sun a gentle smile and you could swear the girl is biting her lip.

On the corner of your eye you see Taehyung smirking.

“What?” you ask.

Taehyung takes a sip of his coffee lazily (it’s always caramel macchiato), peering at Jimin. “Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if our boss really wants to settle not only with Chin-sun, but anyone in general,” he says languidly.

You furrow your brows. “What makes you think that? I mean, look at him. He probably waits with sex till marriage.” you snort.

Taehyung chuckles at your words. “Ah, sweetheart, you really know nothing about Park Jimin.”

“What do you mean?”

He moves closer to you, leaning towards your ear. “What I mean,” he whispers, “is that Park Jimin isn’t such a prude everyone thinks he is. At least he didn’t use to be.”

You raise your eyebrows at him with disbelief. “What? He’s secretly gay?” you mock.

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “I wish, but no, he isn’t,” he answers with a sigh. “Do you know Min Yoongi from emendation team?” he then asks, pointing at grey-haired man with feline eyes sitting behind Chin-sun.

You nodd your head. Min Yoongi is a hard to read guy. Always suspiciously silent, practically never leaves his office. Something makes you wonder how did Taehyung end up befriending him enough to casually gossip about the boss. You will ask him about this on another occasion.

“So here’s the thing,” Taehyung begins, lowering the volume of his voice. “He used to study at the same university in Seoul with Jimin. They even had been together in the fraternity. Yoongi-hyung told me some juicy details about our boss’ life back then.”

You frown at his words. “And you are telling me this now?!” you hiss.

“I found out literally two days ago!” Taehyung exclaims, maybe a little too loud, so you quickly place your index finger on your lips, shushing him.

“Fine. Continue.” you whisper, looking around to see if anyone pays attention to you.

“Well, Park Jimin used to be a trouble back then. A golden boy of his family in Busan, but a campus fuckboy and obnoxious heartbreaker in Seoul. He smoked cigarettes, drank enormous amounts of alcohol, got wasted on every weekend, missed classes and changed hair colors as often as his girlfriends. By the way, don’t you think he would slay pink hair?”

“Taehyung can you please–”

“Okay, okay. Enough thirsting over Jimesus. So, as you can see, there was no place for Sunday’s mass and Bible contemplation meetings in his life. And here’s the awaited plotwist. His parents somehow found out his son wasn’t living good catholic life on his studies and got extremely pissed off. They simply gave him an ultimatum: if he doesn’t stop his shenanigans, they will cut him off their money and they won’t make him Sunday’s Spirit heir.” Taehyung stops his rumbling for a while, letting you proceed all the bewildering informations about your dear boss he has just revealed.

Your eyes simply widen at the revelations.

Park Jimin, the man who organises Bible contemplation lunch breaks, a regular churchgoer, someone who you always thought has a cross tattooed on his back, was a playboy who slept with a half of the female community in the university?

Interesting.

“Rest of the story is simple. He changed his behavior, got a master degree in journalism and came back to Busan to work here. What is funny, his first position was the same as yours now,” Taehyung ends his story with a light chuckle. “Now you understand why it’s hard for me to believe he really thinks about getting married and having at least three kids.”

You look up at Park Jimin, who’s standing now in the centre of the cafeteria, with his arms crossed over his chest, nodding at one of the journalists words. His gaze is so intense and filled with such an authority that makes you understand why Chin-sun literally squirms when he looks at her that way.

It’s not hard for you to imagine him in much different surroundings.

Him, standing with a cup of beer in his hand in the middle of the crowd of drunken people at some frat party. There’s a leather jacket on his shoulders and he’s wearing tight-fitting pants that hugs his gorgeous thighs much better than his usual slacks he puts on every day before he sets off to work. He scans the room with a mishevious smirk dancing on his features, biting and licking his lips as he looks for his prey for tonight.

He then spots her, his pick for the night. He runs his fingers through his silky locks and approaches the girl, whispering dirty promises to her ear as he sways their bodies to the rhythm of loud music blasting through the speakers. Later that night he has her underneath him, begging him to touch her. He fucks her hard, leaving bruises all over her limp, exhausted body. There will be soreness between her thighs in the morning and a few violet love bites on her neck, a gentle reminder that all of this wasn’t just a dream.

But there’s no warm body next to her she could wake up to, no ‘good morning, baby’ or a second round of love making between the sheets. Because Park Jimin isn’t like that. He waited until her breath slowed down and eyelids fluttered shut, drifting her off to sleep. He left in the middle of the night, a cigarette caught between his swollen from kisses lips. He fumed the poison and smiled to himself, wondering what his parents would think when they found out. A golden boy of his family, future heir of the Park’s legacy, coming back from one of his sexcapeds with girl which name he didn’t even remember.

The Lord himself must have already cursed him and he’s currently planning the punishments for him in depths of Hell. But does Park Jimin look like he really care?

You stare blankly ahead, imagining those scenes in your head. You can’t help but squeeze your thighs because God, yes, Park Jimin is hot, even if he reads Breviary before he goes to sleep. What a shame he has changed.

A smooth like honey voice pulls you out from your airy-fairy slumber.

“Miss Y/N?”

You jolt in panic after hearing your name, glancing around and praying that wasn’t the person you think it was. But this silky, melodious voice you would recognize everywhere.

God hates you though, he knows what kind of scandalous things you were daydreaming about and now it’s his time to punish you.

Looking up, your gaze settles on no one other than Park Jimin, who stares at you with his left eyebrow raised, pursing his lips. He extinguishes the aura of pure dominance around him and you involuntarily blush, squirming under his intense glare. You’re royally screwed.

You clear your throat, trying to calm down rapidly beating heart. Without success.

“Yes, sir?” you manage to answer innocently. Certainly not like you weren’t thinking about being fucked by him minutes ago. You don’t even have time to be surprised he remembers your name.

Park Jimin looks unamazed by your sweet tone; he almost seems bored, but definitely irritated. “I asked you a question and I’m waiting for your response.” he says lowly.

Fuckfuckfuck. God have mercy on you. What was the question? Shit, you don’t even know what fragment he had read before.

In act of complete desperation you elbow Taehyung for help but this little shit pretends he has no idea what’s going on, looking at The Last Supper with sudden interest.

You are purely, loyally, utterly fucked.

You adopt the most charming smile you could muster, knowing that it will have zero affect on Park Jimin and ask, “Could you repeat the question one more time, sir? I’m afraid I didn’t hear you correctly.” Jesus, when has your voice become so high-pitched?

A cruel smirks forms on Park Jimin’s lips. He shakes his head, tsking. Taehyung mutters something under his breath that sounds dangerously close to “It was nice meeting you, sweetheart.” You gulp, waiting for your sentence and hoping Pontius Pilate will be gracious to you.

“My, my,” Jimin muses. It makes you feel like a little girl being scolded by the teacher due to her outrageous behavior. You bite your lip so hard you might draw blood, waiting for your boss’ next words. “Of course you didn’t hear my question, because you weren’t paying attention to our discussion.”

In the corner of your eye you see Chin-sun shaking her head with detestation. What a bitch, you think to yourself.

You take a deep breath then, nails digging crescent moons on the skin of your palms. You don’t like being in the spotlight, you never did, but now you have no choice but face the consequences. “My deepest apologies, sir. The behavior I exhibited was highly inappropriate,” you say, bowing your head. Jimin eyes your figure from head to toe and you might actually feel his burning gaze on your skin. Your cheeks flush in crimson even more.

The editor-in-chief seems to deliberate with himself for a while, turning his head slightly to the side, not breaking the eye contact with you. Finally, after a moment that seems to last an hour, he speaks.

“I think you need a lesson that will teach you to pay attention to our weekly discussions, miss Y/N. That’s why I want you to write a 4000 words long paper about the role of Mary Magdalene in Jesus Christ’s life which we had discussed today but you, unfortunately, didn’t acknowledge it.”

You freeze. Like a scene in the movie, everything stops. The embarassement you felt earlier is quickly replaced by pure anger and irritation. He wants you to write a fucking paper? What is this? University lectures?

Never before in your entire life have you felt so humiliated. All eyes are on you; you could practically sense how they are trying not to laugh out loud. Eunwoo and Taehyung look at you with apologetic faces while Chin-sun smirks, whispering something to Jimin’s ear.

“I apologize once again, sir,” you grit through your teeth with a forced smile. Jimin nods then, not even bothering to look at you again. You’re dismissed, that’s what his behavior is saying.

“Our meeting is over, you can go back to your work.” Jimin announces and walks away from the cafeteria with Chin-sun by his side.

You wait for everyone to leave and the you let out a groan of annoyance, burring your head in your hands.

“Hey, it could have been worse. He didn’t fire you after all.” Taehyung laughs but he quickly shuts up as soon as he sees your glare. You stand up from your chair with a scowl written all over your face, and storm out of the lunchroom.

And may the God help you.

Later that unfortunate day, you sit by your desk again, scrolling through the Ask and you shall find page absentmindedly and waiting for the new asks to come. Everyone has returned to their work like nothing has happened but it doesn’t stop you from feeling all those eyes constantly on your back. Maybe you weren’t fired but the humiliation and embarrassment of being told off by your boss publicly makes you want to disappear and never show up at the editorial again.

“Y/N,” Taehyung’s deep voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You look up at him and find the man smiling at you lightly. He’s wearing a long, camel coat and a big scarf around his neck with ridiculous patterns that reminds you of Persian diwans. He places his black camera bag on the desk, which means he’s leaving the office. “I’m free of office work for today so I just wanted to say goodbye.” he explains and you just nod.

“Bye, Taehyung. See you on Monday.” you say maybe a little bit to wryly and he feels that, letting out a long sigh.

Taehyung seems to deliberate with himself for a moment before he decides to speak again. He clears his throat audibly. “And I, uhm, I’m sorry. It’s my fault that you are in this situation. I started this conversation and I should be the one writing this stupid paper for Mister Prude.”

You can’t help but chuckle at the new nickname Taehyung gave Jimin. The anger you felt before drifts away from you slowly, and you smile at your friend apologetically. “Oh, God, Tae. I’m such a bitch sometimes, sorry,” you blurt out.”I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at him. Besides, maybe that’s good I’ve got homework. I don’t remember when was the last time I wrote some-”

Your words are interrupted by a loud laugh that resonates through the office. You look in the direction of the voice just to see Chin-sun with her manicured hand on Jimin’s chest, throwing her head back from the laughter, too dramatically for your taste. She seems to have changed her clothes, a black pencil skirt long forgotten and replaced by a red, bodycon dress. Her dark hair is also styled differently, curled and loose. She looks beautiful, matching Jimin’s appearance perfectly.

“Where are they going?” Taehyung whispers to you, furrowing his brows. You shrug your shoulders, tearing your eyes of Chin-sun and Jimin. “Maybe our Mary Magdalene’s plan to win Jesus’ heart is working. Poor Eunwoo,” he sighs, looking at his watch to check the time. “Anyway, I gotta go. I have to drive all the way to some shithole near the city to take photos of an old lady who swears she saw saint Francis or other dude with halo speaking to her,” he grumbles and you giggle at his words. “Good luck with your paper, sweetheart.” he leans and places a small peck on your cheek.

“Bye, Tae.” you say, watching him leave the office right after Jimin and Chin-sun.

You let out a long, tired sigh, counting the time to leave the office and finally be back home, with a bottle of red wine and new season of Game of Thrones that are waiting for you to watch the whole week. Then, when you’re about to stand up and make yourself another coffee, a new ask pops up in your inbox with the title ‘Sex S.O.S’.

You raise your eyebrows because honestly, what kind of title is this? Curiosity wins the battle with a hot cup of an americano and you click the show more button. You put on your prescription glasses and start reading.

Dear Sunday’s Spirit editorial,

My name is Kang Seoyeon. I study medicine at the University of Seoul, I’ve got an amazing group of friends and a loving boyfriend. And here’s where the actual problem begins. I’m from the catholic family with long traditions, and as you can guess, he isn’t.

We’ve been together for almost 2 years now and since my parents don’t want me to live with him before the marriage, there’s also no sexual life between us. I was actually surprised they agreed I can date a non-religious person in first place, so the rules weren’t that horrible at the beginning.

My boyfriend always seemed to be understanding about the fact that I’m catholic and he has never had issues against it because I stated this on the start of our relationship, but lately… he’s been distant. We meet up less often and I feel like simple kissing after 2 years isn’t enough for him. I even thought about initiating something that wouldn’t necessarily involve the real intercourse but I’m too inexperienced and shy for that. We are slowly drifting apart.

I don’t know what to do. I love him so much and I don’t want to lose him just because of some stupid rules I need to follow. I’m scared he will leave me for some other beautiful girl who wouldn’t have anything against sleeping with him, especially after considering the fact that he isn’t virgin unlike me and he experienced this kind of pleasure before.

I hope you will help me.

Yours faithfully,

Kang Seoyeon.

You blink once, twice. Read the message again and then, something snaps in you.

To Hell with these stupid, old-fashioned rules straight from the Middle Ages. To Hell with celibacy till marriage, masturbation prohibition and living according to God’s will. To Hell with Park Jimin and his ridiculous moral code (and his Bible contemplation lunchbreaks).

Unofficial eleventh commandment: If a girl wants a dick, she deserves to have it.

And that’s exactly what your response to the girl is in a nutshell.

Your blood boils in your veins with anger as you’re typing furiously on the keyboard, not even bothering to check if your sudden outburst makes any sense.

Dear Seoyeon,

It’s Y/N here, the journalist who you wrote this message to.

I don’t know what kind of response are you expecting from me but honestly? If you think I’m going to recommend you some praying to Saint Rita then you’re wrong. I’m done with this shit.

Let me make this straight: if you want to fuck your boyfriend, do it. Maybe God wouldn’t approve that but don’t worry, he won’t send you to hell because of some dick in your pussy.

They are plenty of worse things in this world than having sex with the person you love. Look at me. I’m literally writing to catholic newspaper while using words like ‘God’ and ‘Fuck’ in the same sentence. And that’s not even a small piece of what I’ve done in my life.

So you go girl, suck your boyfriend off. Make him beg. He will never leave you after this. You have my blessings and Jesus is giving you metaphysical thumbs up from above. Sex is amazing thing and you don’t have to wait for it until you say ‘yes’ in front of some guy in black cassock. Just go with the flow.

May the God help you!

Love, Y/N.

P.S. Watch out that guy. He seems suspicious. If he’s been really sex deprived for two years he will die after you give him a head.

Sent.

You exhale loudly, staring at the screen. You did that. Six months into working in Sunday’s Spirit and the time when you lost your temper has finally come. You should probably feel ashamed or have some type of conscience pangs but actually you aren’t even near this state.

Grinning to yourself, you delete the message you had sent to the girl from your inbox and check the time. It’s almost 5pm and it looks like you haven’t even realised you’re the only person at the office right now. Since it’s Friday and Jimin has already left, seems like everyone has decided to set off earlier too.

You turn off your computer, packing your things to the bag. Wrapping a scarf around your neck tightly, you leave the building, welcoming the coolness of the early Spring evening in Busan.

When you’re about to cross the street, your phone buzzes in the pocket of your coat. You stop for a moment, smiling to yourself when you read the message.

[04:23pm] from Tae: hey

[04:23pm] from Tae: i know you are probably planning an evening with mary magdalene n jesus but

[04:23pm] from Tae: wouldnt u want to go for drinks with me tonight?

[04:23pm] from Tae: same place as usual

[04:24pm] from Tae: as a wise man once said: nothing helps better for the writer’s block than vodka

[04:24pm] from Tae: so what do u say?

You don’t need to think twice when you quickly type a response. Game of Thrones and wine can wait till another time.

[04:26pm] from me: how could i say no to kim taehyung and vodka?

[04:26pm] from me: see u there

Kim’s is a place like no one other in Busan.

You wouldn’t even know about its existence if it wasn’t Taehyung who took you there first when you started working at Sunday’s Spirit, solemnly promising free drinks. Who would you be if you didn’t agree to that?

When you arrived at the bar, it eventually turned out the alcohol was costless hence it’s his family business since over thirty years and his brother Namjoon is a bartender, not because Taehyung willingly decided to pay for you.

Kim’s is located in rather industrial part of the city, sandwiched between factories and huge housing estates, not looking really inviting at first glance, but the place has its own, unique charm. There are some stories, shrouding the building’s history in mystery. Some people say it used to be headquarters of the most dangerous mafia in Busan, some even believe it served as the secret arsenal during the Korean War.

But what’s definitely true, it’s the fact that Taehyung’s parents bought this place in swinging times of 80s for a small amount of money and turned the place into disco bar which had become a must-go spot for young people in Busan.

Kim’s on the outside, with its large red neon sign hanging above the entrance, looks more like a night club than a bar, but on the inside the magic of kitschy 80s still remains the same (Taehyung swears retro is in fashion these days and that’s why he didn’t let his parents redecorate when they wanted to).

You always feel like you’re traveling back in time when you visist Kim’s.

The place is quite big, with a large dancefloor in the middle and red leather sofas strewn around the place along with the tables. Walls are made of brick and colorful, vibrant neon lights are shimmering on them. Oh, not to mention the huge disco ball on the ceiling. Everything accompanied with the quality music provided by Namjoon.

There are few billiard and foosball tables in the corner of the bar, always occupied by the same group of middle-aged men on weekdays and university students on weekends. But the thing that attract attention of the customers the most, is the bar with Namjoon behind it.

When you enter the place, you spot Taehyung and his blond mop of hair immediately. He sits on one of the bar stools, talking to his older brother. He’s wearing beige pants and floral button-up shirt that seems to match colors with his pinkish-looking drink he holds. You notice a new pair of sapphire earrings and a huge ring from the same collection on his forefinger. Classy, as always.

Taehyung grins broadly when he sees you. He puts his drink on the counter and stands up to greet you. His breath smells like strawberries and vodka when he leans to place his usual, small peck on your cheek. “Hi, sweetheart,” he says with his signature smirk plastered on his face, scanning your figure. “You look gorgeous. Last time you did this kind of make-up you wanted to get laid.”

You rolls your eyes at his words, sitting on a stool next to him. “Hi, Taehyung. Thank you for appreciating my efforts to look like a decent human being but no, I’m not planning on getting laid tonight.” you answer, waving to Namjoon who makes drinks for a group of girls a few meters from you. He smiles bashfully at you, showing his dimples.

“I’m not saying you want a fuck, calm down. I just assumed since it’s not everyday that you put eyeliner on,” Taehyung explains himself. “So let me do that again,” He takes a deep breath, placing a hand on his chest in a dramatic manner. “Y/N, you look absolutely breathtaking. I could stare at you for hours and I wouldn’t mind that even a bit. My homosexuality is at risk right now.”

You ignore his exeggarated outburst, rolling your eyes. “I’m not using eyeliner everyday because there’s something called dresscode in our work, you know?” you say. “Besides, my mum says you should look good on every occasion because you don’t know when you will meet the love of your life.”

Taehyung puts a hand on his heart and sighs with relief. “Thank God I always look good.”

You chuckle and then your eyes wander for a moment to Namjoon, who seems busy listening to whatever the pink-haired girl is telling him with polite smile on his face.

“Here,” Taehyung nudges your side, bringing your attention back to him. He hands you the same pinkish drink as he was drinking when you arrived. “Hyung told me it’s their new specialty or something. It’s called Flamingo’s Beach,” he says and you take the glass in your hand. “I have no idea what Namjoonie-hyung put here but as long as it looks good, it’s good. Cheers!” Taehyung sips his one and watches you with raised eyebrows as you’re taking a generous gulp of the drink. “And…?” he asks.

You lick your lips, humming to yourself. “Not bad. Tastes like strawberries.”

Taehyung opens his mouth to say something but he gets interrupted by his brother. “Y/N, hi. How are you?” Namjoon approaches you with two beer mugs in his hands.

His hair is back to his natural brown color now, purple strands long forgotten since the last time you saw him. It looks like he’s been working out lately, his posture more bulky and it makes his black shirt stick to his body tightly. Namjoon’s good-looking, you always knew that, but he seems to be even more handsome now.

“Hey, I’ve been good, thank you,” you greet him with maybe too much enthusiasm for your liking. You always had a weak spot for him. “How’s the bar going?” you ask.

“Busy, as you can see,” he replies, chuckling to himself. “I would love to talk to you more but I have some work to do in back room, so…” Namjoon trails off sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head with his hand.

“Oh, it’s okay. We can catch up another time.” You smile at him and you could swear his cheeks flushed.

“I’ll be going. See you.” Namjoon stammers out, not even waiting for your response before he disappears from your sight.

The pregnant silence sets in between you and Taehyung, something heavy hangs in the air and you feel it, tapping your fingers on the counter to the rhythm of one of the ABBA songs, waiting impatiently.

Taehyung looks like he’s debating with himself in his head. You narrow your eyes. He’s adopted a face you know pretty well, too well even. He looks everywhere but keep avoiding your gaze. He wants to ask you something, you’re sure of it, but he doesn’t know how.

Finally, after a moment of awkward quietness, Taehyung finally opens his mouth. “So, here’s the thing,” he starts and you wait for the bomb to drop.

Last time when he approached you like that, he asked you if you would be down for a threesome with him and some guy he met on Tinder. Your eyes almost popped out of your head when you heard his blunt proposition. You were eating lunch at cafeteria and the words casually slipped from between his lips as he chewed on his egg sandwich, like he didn’t just propose you having sex with him and instead asked for a lift to home after work.

Taehyung begged you for a whole week, pleading and convincing it’ll be fun. When you eventually agreed (sex draught make people do stupid things), the other guy didn’t show up. You ended up drinking tequila shots with Taehyung that night in his apartment, and you can’t quite recall how it happened, but somehow you found yourself unzipping your friend’s pants and the rest is history. He passed out right after he came. Now when you think about it, you feel a sudden urge to ask him if he remembers that.

You will do it next time, you promise yourself.

Taehyung though doesn’t ask you about having a threesome or robbing Park Jimin’s house this time. His intentions are pretty much different.

“See, Namjoon split up with his girlfriend few weeks ago,” he says and you prick your ears. “He’s not in good condition right now, as you can see. It was a nasty break up, he found out she’s been cheating on him,” He lets out a long sigh. You bite your lip, imagining Namjoon’s disappointed face when he discovered the truth. What a bitch cheats on someone like him? “So, I thought maybe you could… cheer him up a little bit?” Taehyung ends hesitantly, with a glint of hope in his eyes.

You frown. Cheer him up? Did he just imply what you think about?

“Look, I get it, he’s sad and angry, but what the fuck, Taehyung? What do you want me to do? Do you want me to be his rebound? Make him forget?” you exclaim. Taehyung quickly shakes his head but you don’t let him say anything. “I feel sorry for Namjoon but I’m not going to take advantage of him when he’s literally still hurt.”

“No, it’s not like that!” Taehyung rushes to explain. “Well, maybe it sounded like that but I swear, I didn’t mean that!”

“Then what should I do? Wipe his tears? Tell him a joke? Or maybe-”

“Of course he wants you to suck his brother’s heartbroken dick, doll.”

A sudden, low voice interrupts your conversation. Your eyes follow the direction when it comes from, looking to Taehyung’s left where not even a meter away a very familiar grey-haired man with feline eyes sits.

“Min Yoongi,” you say matter-of-factly.

The leader of emendation team from Sunday’s Spirit editorial raises his hand in which he holds whiskey, greeting you and Taehyung. “Hello, doll. Hello, Taehyung,” he says, not even bothering to look at you.

You elbow Taehyung searching for explanation but he shrugs his shoulders, turning to face the man as well.

“First of all, since when do you call me ‘doll’? We have never spoken a word to each other. Secondly, how long have you been sitting here and listening?” you ask Yoongi.

He snorts, smirking. “Long enough to know how Taehyung comforts his brother after break up.” he simply answers and Taehyung’s cheeks blush in crimson at his words.

“You come here often? I’ve never seen you here before,” you continue, crossing your arms over chest.

Next to you Taehyung lets out a sigh. “Yes, he does. Albeit I haven’t seen him for a while here,” You look at him in confusion. “Yoongi-hyung is Namjoonie-hyung close friend from university days.” he clarifies.

You raise your eyebrows at that. “So Namjoon went to the same school as Park Jimin?”

“Not the same. We met under different circumstances.” Yoongi cuts in.

“They’ve been together in underground rap group, or some shit. Didn’t like each other at first but eventually stuck together till the end of studies.” Taehyung ends and grey-haired man nods.

You can’t help but chuckle at that.

“What’s funny in that?” Yoongi scowls.

“Nothing. I just imagined you and Namjoon in snapbacks, rapping about the unfairness of social hierarchy,” you say, grinning at him.

“Well, you may believe me or not, but we even made a mixtape.” Yoongi reveals proudly, taking a sip of his whiskey.

Your eyes widen in curiosity. “Then what happened? Why aren’t you in Seoul now, still producing music? Why do you work in this stupid newspaper and Namjoon’s a bartender?” you ask interrogatively.

“Life happened, doll. We didn’t have enough money to publish our works so we decided to quit it.”

“Oh,” you breathe out.

You could see the nostalgia written across Yoongi’s face. You feel sorry for him, for Namjoon. Everything is always about the money. That’s why you’re working in Sunday’s Spirit even though it was never your dream in first place. Even though you have much higher ambitions than being Ask and you shall find column author.

Ever since you were little, you loved writing. You never complained, not even once, when your teachers in school assigned you to write something. They kept saying you have an extraordinary talent and it would be a shame if you didn’t do anything with that.

During your high school years, you were the leader of school newspaper’s team, still writing your own works every time you didn’t have something different to do. After that, you got to the university in Seoul, your another dream came true. You got a master degree, an apprenticeship in the Korean version of highly popular, world-widely known magazine. And then, nothing. No job applications available. No newspapers or publishing companies wanting you, dismissing you right away because they didn’t have any vacant places.

This is how Sunday’s Spirit, even if that’s not your dream job, happened. And quite literally saved your ass.

“I’m sorry.” you say after a while.

Yoongi smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t be. What’s in past, stays in past.” he ends the conversation, drinking the rest of his whiskey.

You find this as a perfect possibility to do what you’ve come here for: get wasted, forget about this prick Park Jimin and his stupid assignment. You turn around on your stool to face the bar again, calling for the red-haired bartender named Hoseok who’s substituting Namjoon right now. You order a round of tequilla shots and quickly pours two of them in one go.

“Easy, tiger,” Taehyung teases, still sipping his pink drink as you wipe your chin with the back of your hand. Taehyung has stated a long time ago that he enjoys only casual drinking, which makes you and you lightweightness snort at him.

“Loser,” you mumble under your breath, deep down knowing you’re oh so much going to regret this after.

You focus your attention on the dancefloor now; technicolor lights glittering as the crowd of sweaty people bounce to old Madonna hits. You feel like your spirit might actually experience new kind of awakening during the chorus in Like a Virgin. You mouth the lyrics, the vodka already half-way to your bopping head. Your drunken self almost asks Taehyung and Yoongi if they would agree to be your backup dancers.

You eyes scan the room carefully and then, you spot him. He’s sitting in the corner, his arms splayed over the backrest of the red couch. A devil himself. A black horseman of the Apocalypse. A man who looks like every girl’s next mistake. Taylor Swift’s ‘we are never ever getting back together’.

A true sin.

Jet-black hair parted in the middle, onyx eyes and lucious smirk written across his lips as he bites them purposefully. He’s wearing a leather jacket and you wonder for a while if you would find inked tattoos on his body. He cocks his head to the side, his eyes glued to the same spot as he waits for something, or rather someone.

“Who’s that?” you ask, not even hiding your curiosity at this point.

Taehyung turns around as well, his eyes glancing to the dark-haired man briefly. “Ah, this, sweetheart, is Jeon Jungkook, Park Jimin’s best friend.” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You raise your eyebrows, watching as Jungkook’s face expression immediately changes when waitress approaches him. He says something to her that makes her roll her eyes. She tightens her grip around the tray she’s holding, asking him for his order.

“Don’t worry. You are not the only one thirsting over him. I would let him top me too,” Taehyung whispers to your ear and you flinch.

“I’m not thirsting over him! I came her for drinks, not to get laid, I told you.”

“Okay, okay, loosen up a little. Tequilla makes you aggressive. Besides, it looks like he’s got his pick for tonight.”

Jungkook stretches out his hand and fixes the waitress’ glasses that seem to rode down her nose a little. The girl frozes in place because of his action and he grins, calling her cute.

“He’s trying to ask her out for two months,” Yoongi interrupts suddenly, again. It looks like he has nothing better to do tonight. “I’m serious. He’s here every Friday. Normally, he would have given up after the second time she had rejected him but there’s might be something in this girl that makes his dick hard and his heart soft.”

Jungkook’s eyes girl’s body as she bends to pick up the glasses from other tables and maybe that’s the alcohol swimming in your veins but you could swear his face lights up when she sends him another irritated glare when he calls her name.

“Does Park Jimin comes here often as well?” you ask before you could stop yourself.

Both Taehyung and Yoongi shake their heads.

“I don’t think so. Jeon comes here because he lives nearby in this huge ass apartment complex. His father runs a chemical factory and he works there.” Taehyung explains.

Jeon? Chemical factory? Something clicks in your brain. Right, you know who his father is. The King of Washing Powder. Another rich as fuck Busan’s snob.

“God, I hate him. I fucking hate him. What a prick. Douchebag. Asshole of the century,” The string of profanities leaves poor waitress’ mouth as she walks to the counter with tray in her hands. “How’s your day, love? You look beautiful today, love. Fucking leave me alone, love!” she mutters to herself, taking the beer mugs from Hoseok abruptly which makes the bartender raise his eyebrows in confusion.

“How’s your assignment about Mary Magdalene going on, doll?” Yoongi asks then, startling you.

You roll your eyes at him. “I literally got it today, Yoongi. I haven’t started yet.” you answer, gulping another shot.

On the corner of your eye you see Yoongi’s smirking. “I’m surprised, to be honest. You aren’t the only one who doesn’t pay attention to shit Jimin’s says,” he trails off. “I work for him from the moment he started this ridiculous Bible lunch breaks and I swear, he’s never called out someone like that before.”

“What do you mean he’s never called out someone before?” Taehyung joins in curiously.

“Look, I slept through the majority of these sessions and Jimin knows it, but he has never lecture me about it,” Yoongi remarks. “Maybe you’re an exception. Or he’s become more strict because of this bitch Chin-sun.”

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. You know Chin-sun has been making heart eyes for Jimin for a long time but what why it might have an influence on his behavior?

“Lee Chin-sun? What the office’s Mary Magdalene has to do with that? Besides the fact that she’s drooling for his dick every time she sees him,” Taehyung snorts.

Yoongi chuckles lowly. “Oh, so you two really know nothing about what’s going on between them right now,”

“What’s going on right now? Spill.” Taehyung says abruptly. You sigh when you see the way his eyes flicker with mischeviousness. One thing Taehyung loves more than photography and fashion is gossiping (and dicks).

“First of all, Chin-sun is a fucking bigot. And well… she might be closer to being miss Park than we thought.” Yoongi muses.

Taehyung eyebrows practically disappear in his hairline. You’re sure you mirror his expression right now.

Yoongi asks Hoseok for another glass of whiskey and continues. “My friend Seokjin’s wife is Jimin’s personal assistant and secretary. She heard this and that, quite juicy things I must say,” he says in a lower tone, like he’s revealing government secrets to them. You lean closer into his direction along with Taehyung. “Chin-sun’s father recently bought the claims to the most popular, conservative TV station in whole South Korea. But, what is more interesting, it looks like Park senior has some shares in it as well.”

You’re astonished. You knew there’s something looming in the air but you didn’t expect this. A TV station? Even your slightly drunken brain can calculate it’s very interesting.

“So the marriage between Chin-sun and Jimin would be pretty convenient for their families, especially after considering the fact that Jimin is the heir.” Yoongi adds, gulping the first sip of his new whiskey.

“Poor Eunwoo,” you whisper to yourself.

“But why so soon? Why do they want to legalize their relationship so suddenly?” Taehyung asks.

Yoongi lets out a heavy sigh. “There’s a rumour going around that Jimin’s father isn’t in good condition right now. Seokjin-hyung mentioned something about the heart disease. So, if that’s really true, you have the answer why he wants his eldest son to settle down already. Everything’s about the money, I told you.”

Taehyung whistles. “Woah, so Mary Magdalene is really about to be CEO Jesus’ wife soon!” he exclaims, clapping his hands. “Brilliant. Finally something spicy is happening in this boring editorial.”

“I wouldn’t be so enthusiastic if I were you, Taehyung. This kind of business never ends well,” Yoongi says coldly, placing his glass on the counter and standing up from the stool. He glances at his watch and throws a few bills next to his empty glass. “I’ll get going. It was nice talking to you, doll.”

“What about me?”

“Shut up, Taehyung, you’re not pretty lady.”

“I feel offended.”

“And I don’t care,” Yoongi mutters. Maybe that was alcohol swimming in her veins but you saw Taehyung lifting the corners of his lips in amusement. Weird. “Good luck on your assignment, doll. See you all on Monday.” Yoongi glances to your way one last time, adjusting his jacket.

“Bye, Yoongi.” you wave to him and a small, even sincere smile appears on his face when he as well raises his hand lazily and leaves. “Why didn’t you tell me he’s actually nice, Tae? I was always too scared to start a conversation with him because I felt intimidated.” you say after a while.

“I’m sorry, should have I set you up for a date with him?” Taehyung mocks.

A groan escapes your lips. “Could you please stop insinuating things?”

“You need to get laid, seriously. Like soon-soon. You get easily irritated recently. You need a d i c k,”

“I don’t need a dick!”

“A cock, Y/N,” Taehyung emphasizes. “A penis in your precious vagina.”

“Shut up!”

Several shots and a few drunken dances to Cindi Lauper and Bon Jovi, you’re pretty much wasted. And maybe, just maybe, you need a dick. And Taehyung, like a dipshit he always is, thinks that’s actually funny.

“Don’t wanna homff,” you slur, supporting your weight on Taehyung’s arm that shakes with laughter at your drunken antics, as well as his whole body. “I wanna danfce witfh somebodyyy,”

“Holy Mother of Jesus, you must be really drunk if you started referring to Whitney Houston’s songs. And you smell like booze,” Taehyung mutters under his breath and you whine, tugging on his arm.

“TaeTae, Taehyungie, pffleasee, can we go back?”

Taehyung ignores your grumbling completely. He exists the bar, walking (or rather dragging) you to the cab. As he tries to push your body to the car, he sees in the corner of his eye Jeon Jungkook, standing in front of his black SUV. The waitress from earlier accompanies him as well. It looks like he’s trying to convince her to let him give her a lift to home. The girl shakes her head at first but eventually gives up, stepping into the car. Jungkook grins to himself then, clenching his fists in gesture of pure triumph.

“I fuckin’ hate Park Jimin and his stfupid newspaper,” you mutter incoherently as you bury your head in the crook of Taehyung’s neck in the back of the cab. Old, korean songs are playing in the radio when you’re driving back home. Taehyung smiles to himself, hearing your light snores. But then, he falters.

Ah, yes, he almost forgot. It is going to be a long way to the third floor of your apartment building.

Next day, you wake up in the middle of noon with raging headache and an abrupt need to throw everything up. Frankly speaking, you had worse hangovers during you university days but it doesn’t change the fact that the state you’re currently in still sucks.

“Oh, good God, what have I thought?” you mutter to yourself while standing in the shower, letting the water cool you down.

Truth to be told, a drinking escapade when you have a whole ass paper to write in two days wasn’t the smartest idea you could come up with. You know that for sure, when you’re sitting down in front of your laptop with prescription glasses on your face and a cup of tea in your hand.

There’s a blank document opened on the screen, with only your name written in the corner and the title in the middle. You feel pathetic and useless, staring at it for 30 minutes straight. If you keep sitting like this, you might actually call Park Jimin right now and beg him not to fire you due to your incompetence.

“Get your shit together, Y/N.” you say to yourself, clenching your fists.

At first you fought about making some mind-map, outlining the most important parts of your essay, as you always used to do when you were studying. But there’s a huge difference between what you’re working on right now and what you usually did during academic days. Above all, at that time you were writing about things you had more knowledge about, not about Mary Magdalene and her role in Jesus Christ’s life.

“Ah, fuck it.”

You open an online Bible page and quickly type ‘Mary Magdalene’ in browser. All fragments when she’s mentioned shows up in front of your eyes. You fix your glasses and before you could stop yourself, you whisper, “Let’s get it.”

You don’t know how much time has passed since you started reading, but when you glance a the clock it’s nearly 7pm.

You went through every single page in the Bible when Mary Magdalene appears or when for some reason her name comes up in conversations. You read two thesis in which you found quite interesting facts about the heroine of your work. Also, you watched some conspiracy theories on YouTube about her, in which people claim that she was actually Jesus’ wife. You were bewildered, even in your post-hangover state.

And after all of this researching, you have settled a plan. You’re a journalist for God’s sake, you’ve been writing your entire life and none assignment will break you. So you start typing on the keyboard, filling the blank document pages with words, hoping that Park Jimin will approve your efforts.

On Sunday, you look like a ghost.

You’re a mess, cured from hangover but still in bad shape, especially after spending the whole night writing in front of your laptop. There are bangs under your eyes and you hair looks like you could cosplay a scarecrow. Your eyes are sore from staring to the screen for so long and you feel like you might collapse anytime if you won’t drink coffee in five minutes.

In between writing next paragraphs, you answer a call from Taehyung.

“How’s your assignment going, sweetheart?”

You let out a long, exhausted sigh. “It’s fine, I guess.” you respond to him.

“That’s lovely! I knew you would slay this, babe,” you hear him saying.

“I’m not done yet, Tae. I still have like a half to write,” you mumble and then let out a yawn, closing your eyes for a brief second before you speak again. “I would love to talk to you more but I really need to get this shit done as soon as I can, so I could have some decent sleep before Monday. I don’t want to look like an old witch when I hand in the paper to Park Jimin.”

“I know, I know. You got this, sweetheart. I’m sure you will make Mister Prude’s dick hard because of this.” Taehyung assures you.

You crack a tired smile even though you know he doesn’t see you. “Thank you, Tae.”

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” he says and hangs up.

You take another gulp of your coffee and start writing again.

It’s a little past midnight when you’re, with your last amounts of force you posses, typing the last words of the paper. As you look at your laptop screen, eyelids half-closed, you dream about nothing but going to sleep.

You did that. You really did. You wrote this stupid paper for Park Jimin and you’re actually proud of it. You carefully save the document three times (to be hundred percent sure) and as soon as you close your laptop, you pass out.

Little did you know what is waiting for you in editorial in a few hours.

You stare at your reflection in small mirror you hold, thanking God that he has enlightened the person who discovered make-up. You won’t say you look stunning but, after five hours of sleep you had in last two days, you would risk it all and say you appear much more than decent looking. You’re wearing your new black jumpsuit that makes your legs look longer and you even used a different shade of lipstick, painting your lips in crimson red.

And all of this for nothing, because when you stormed into the Sunday’s Spirit editorial to give the paper straight to Park Jimin’s hands, his secretary with polite smile said he’s coming to work later today.

You pursued your lips and handed the woman your blood, sweat and tears (you’re actually sure a few tears rolled down from your face on the keyboard while you were writing it), wishing you saw your boss’ face when you place the printed pages on his expensive desk.

“I changed a little bit the topic of my work while I was outlining it,” you tell Taehyung as you both sit together by your desks later that day. “I focused more on a role of Mary Magdalene character in world ruled only by men. I showed how a powerful woman she was, standing at Jesus’s side even though the church for the centuries referred her to whore,” you explain.

“Wow,” Taehyung muses. “You turned Mary Magdalene into feminism icon fighting against patriarchy.”

“It’s not like that!” You hit him in the arm. “You may laugh as much as you want but I actually got into her story.”

Taehyung smirks. “Looks like being scolded by Park Jimin wasn’t that bad.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up. I got humiliated in the middle of fucking cafeteria. I still hate him. And also, I don’t know what he thinks about my essay.” you say with a sigh.

“Don’t worry. He’s probably having an epiphany right now while-”

A voice from the speakers that certainly doesn’t sound like gospel choir interrupts him.

“Miss Y/N, please report to the Park Jimin’s office immadietly.”

“-or he isn’t.” Taehyung ends.

Once again, you’re frozen in place. It’s okay, you tell yourself, maybe he just wants to talk about my essay. But what if he didn’t like it? What if your sudden feminism outburst about Mary Magdalene was too much?

“Holy fuck.” you blurt out quietly.

Taehyung gives you an encouraging smile but he doesn’t look much convinced in positive intentions of summoning you to their boss’ office, he just doesn’t say it aloud. “Well, maybe it won’t be that bad! Maybe he wants to congratulate you,” he tries to comfort you, without success. You look horribly pale and scared to death.

“I repeat: miss Y/N, please report to the Park Jimin’s office immadietly.” Jimin’s stone cold voice pierce through the silence again. You shiver. The journalists in the editorial send you impatient glares.

“Whatever happens, remember that I love you.” Taehyung whispers, squizzing your hand, which makes you even more nervous. He gives you thumbs-up and you take a deep breath, trying to calm your trembling body. A whole Sunday’s Spirit team follow your movements with their eyes.

You stands from your desk on wobbly legs and walk to the door with golden sign hanging on its surface.

Park Jimin

Editor-in-chief

You take the knob in your shaking palm and twist, stepping into the lion’s den.

The atmosphere seems to shift when you walk into the room. You could hear your heart rapidly beating through the dead silence that lingers in Park Jimin’s office. “You wanted to see me, sir?” you ask after closing the door, subconsciously cursing yourself for sounding so weak already.

“Yes, have a seat,” Jimin says. “Give me a second. I need to finish something.” he adds when you sit down, not even bothering to spare you a look.

Jimin sits behind his desk, eyes glued to the computer screen. His hair is pushed back from his forehead, his jaw clenched. Oh, great, he looks pissed, you think to yourself.

He isn’t wearing his suit jacket like usually, which surprises you. His white shirt’s sleeves are rolled up, revealing a glimpse of veiny hands and his Rolex. This is the first time you see him like this. He looks so… unlike him.

Strange.

You use the time you have to take in your surroundings. Jimin’s office is painted in fair tone of grey. The rumors were actually right, there’s a smaller version of Michelangelo’s Pietà standing proudly on of the drawers. Behind the desk, on the wall, hangs a wooden cross with gold-plated figurine of Jesus Christ, and just underneath it there’s a framed picture of Lady of Fatima, which he once proudly showed to the whole editorial team on one of the lunchbreaks, saying his grandmother brought him this from her pilgrimage.

You focus your attention now on the wall filled with numerous diplomas and certificates, all of them signed with Park Jimin’s name.

You had read some of his works before you started your job in Sunday’s Spirit and you must admit: Park Jimin is a talented, smart journalist you aspire to be one day. It’s actually sad, you think, that he can’t pursue his career, wasting his abilities by working in catholic newspaper owned by his father. And as you know from Yoongi, his situation isn’t going to change soon. Maybe he was right after all. Money really does rule this world.

After a few minutes that seems to last forever, Jimin breaks the silence. “Do you know why are you here?” he asks, finally averting his attention to you. He stares so deeply into your eyes that you feel you might faint from the intensity of his aura.

You clear your throat, and then respond. “I do believe it’s about my paper I handed in to you this morning.”

Jimin raises his eyebrow at that. “Your paper? No, everything’s fine about it. I read it and I must say, you did a great job,” he says and you furrow your eyebrows. So if nothing’s is wrong with your essay then what does he want?

“Then… why did you call me in, sir?” you hesitantly ponder.

Jimin laces his fingers together and leans closer over the desk. “Well,” he begins, “Maybe you forgot or you really didn’t know about it, but I used to run the same column as you do now,” You nod your head, recalling what Taehyung told you recently. Jimin continues, “I was actually the one who created it. That means I am still, for this day, its administrator. Which leads to another conclusion: every single ask that is send to our editorial and your responses to them can be monitored by me.” he explains, gauging your reaction. You still don’t have an idea why is he telling you that, so you just sit still and wait.

Then, Jimin reaches for the paper that lays on the left side of his desk and hands it to you. “Could you please tell me what is this?” he asks, pointing at the paper.

You glance at it briefly. “These are the questions I got last week and my responses to them.” you reply straightaway.

Park Jimin doesn’t seem much satisfied after hearing your words. He then takes another paper and gives it to you as well. “And this particular one, Y/N? Could you please read it and tell me what is this?”

Ignoring his forego of ‘miss’, you take it to your hands and start reading.

Dear Sunday’s Spirit editorial,

My name is Kang Seoyeon. I study medicine at the University of Seoul, I’ve got an amazing group of friends and a loving boyf-

You gasp and immadietly put a palm over your mouth. Under Seoyeon’s ask there’s also, clear as day, your much inappropriate response to her. In which you persuade the girl to suck her boyfriend off.

Holy fuck. Jesus Christ. Shitshitshit!

Jimin said he monitors everything that people send to the editorial along with the responds. Of course he had to read it. Why have you been so dumb? How could you believe that simple deleting from your inbox would be enough? Why can’t you do something properly for once?

You gulp, trying not to cry because good God, he’s going to fire you. He will kick you out and write a bunch of negative letters to your future employees, in which he will explain in details how disobiedent, reckless of a worker you are.

“Did you also forget how to speak?” Jimin asks. You almost cry out right away from the coldness of his voice.

You muster up a courage and look at him, and that’s a huge mistake because as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re lost for words.”I-I don’t know what to say, sir,” you stammer out. “I have nothing for my defence. I can only apologize for my irresponsible and inappropriate behavior I exhibited.” you say, bowing your head down.

Jimin pursues his lips. He stands from his chair and walks to you, leaning his body on the desk. He takes the paper from you to his hands and starts reading. “If you want to fuck your boyfriend, do it. Maybe God wouldn’t approve that but don’t worry, he won’t send you to hell because of some dick in your pussy,“ he quotes your response to the girl and your cheeks flush in red; you wish nothing more than to disappear and never see your boss again. But he’s relentless and continues reading, spilling the crude words, humiliating you even more. “So you go girl, suck your boyfriend off. Make him beg. He will never leave you after this.“ Jimin chuckles to himself darkly and you shut your eyes. “Look at me when you are spoken to,” he demands. You quickly oblige, lifting your chin a little to meet his intense gaze. “Is that really how a good, catholic girl should act?” he asks in a mocking tone.

You shake your head. “No, it isn’t.”

Jimin clicks his tongue. “Do you think he really won’t leave her after this?” he asks out of the blue.

You furrow your eyebrows. What kind of twisted game is he playing now? “I don’t know, sir.” you answer honestly.

Jimin smirks. Devilishly, sultry and completely illegal. He then licks his lips and leans closer to you. You could swear his eyes are darken than before. Something has shifted in his demeanor; he looks daring. “Why don’t you show me then, how this poor girl should suck her boyfriend off, Y/N?” he whispers lowly.

Your eyes widen. Did he just-?

He didn’t. He can’t. Maybe you misheard him, maybe you started imagining things that aren’t real. Oh, sweet Lord, the look of absolute seriousness written on his face tells you very much different.

Park Jimin, your boss, the man who goes regularly on masses and reads Bible, wants you to give him a head. In his office.

May the God help you.

You should probably slap him in the face for his immoral proposition. You should save your dignity, leave and never come back again. But then, you clear your mind from all those twisted thoughts running through it and you realise that you’re walking on a very thin line. Line which is called unemployment and bankruptcy.

You think about your landlord who praised you recently for keeping up with rent every month regularly. You think about your student loans that you still need to pay.

And fuck, you hate Yoongi because he was damn right. Money wouldn’t buy you happiness, but it can provide you that.

That’s why you put away the humiliation, the what ifs. You shut your mind screaming at you and listing the future consequences. Maybe Jimin just tests you, but the way he looks at you denies it. He wants to see you on your knees in front of him. Perhaps he only wants to play before he fires you but you put that thought aside.

You at least need to try.

Jimin searches for any kind of protest in your eyes and when he doesn’t find it, he’s back to his domineering self. “What are you waiting for?” he asks, his voice an octave lower. “Get on your knees.”

He has a calm expression on his face and you wonder for a moment how many times has he been in similar situation before. Having a woman on his mercy and using her the way he likes. And now you know. All those stories you heard about, are actually true. Park Jimin isn’t a prude. He’s dirty.

You fall to the floor with a light whimper. Maybe it’s the last chance for you to leave, but the confidence that emanates from Jimin doesn’t falter your movements. You hate yourself for that but God, you want to see this man being a mess for your touch. Even if that’s fucked up.

And it’s wrong, so, so wrong, when there’s a cross hanging behind you, when he’s your boss who claims to be a good catholic, when you do that because you’re too afraid to lose your job. But in that moment, the morality doesn’t exist.

Jimin stands up to take his belt off, looking at you from the above as he slowly, purposefully pulls it from the belt loops. He doesn’t encourage you or say anything, he just waits. You gulp when he yanks his black slacks down, along with his underwear.

For a few, solid seconds, you just stare.

You aren’t a connoisseur of dicks. Dick is a dick, but Park Jimin’s length is just as perfect as the rest of him, semi-hard against his lower stomach. Your hands move to his sculpted thighs, running up and down, tracing the prominent lines of his toned abdomen. The muscles tense underneath your touch.

You don’t remember when was the last time you’ve gone down on someone. Maybe it was Taehyung few months ago when you were both too drunk to care? You can’t quite recall. Every move of yours is uncertain, but Jimin doesn’t mind. Maybe your uncertainty turns him on even more.

He watches as you take him in your palm hesitantly, hot and already stiff, stroking him several times until he hardens in your hand. The sight is purely erotic, filthy, and you lick your lips before placing a light kiss on his tip. Jimin hisses. That’s a warning. No teasing.

You pump him, trailing a thumb over his slit, spreading precum all over his cock. Jimin doesn’t say anything but from the shuddering breath he lets out you assume he likes it. You take a deep breath, wrapping your lips around his dick and swirling your tongue around the head.

Jimin groans, a guttural sound resonating through his whole body and you take it as a sign to continue. You ease more of him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and bobbing your head up and down around his length obediently. Some twisted and fucked-up part of you wants him to praise you, call you good girl with your lips around his dick and throbbing core. He does none of that. His hands tangle in your hair as he withdraws, and you know exactly what’s coming next.

It’s an unspoken question on his lips and your jaw falls slacks on command.

A forceful push of his hips and he’s burried deep inside your mouth till he hits the back of your throat. Tears brim in your eyes and you gag, breathing heavily through your nose. It hurts a little, a dull ache but the content sigh and fucked-out expression on Jimin’s face is worth it. So you let him fuck your mouth the way he wants, let him pull your hair harder, wreck you a little more. It’s so easy to submit to him, to let him overwhelm you in every sense possible.

Your eyes fall shut and Jimin stops his movements, pulling from your mouth. Drool dribbles down your chin and you wipe it with the back of your hand. Jimin lets out a shaky breath, staring down at you so intensely it makes your insides tighten, even if you don’t see him yet.

“Look at me,” he rasps and you do, how could you not. The sight of your boss’ flushed cheeks and sweat forming on his forehead will be imprinted in your mind forever.

You curse yourself for wanting him to fuck you senseless right against his deck, with a hand around your throat muffling your screams, fuck you so hard you won’t remember your name anymore, no matter how wrong it is.

“Good girl. You’re so pretty like this, letting me fuck your mouth,” Jimin nothing but purrs, filling you to the brim again, until there are tears forming in your eyes and running down your cheeks, until he hits the base of your throat again and again and you fight back choked gags every time. “Just like that, fuck-” he moans, lowly and beautifully, head thrown back and mouth parted.

He’s close, you could feel that, so you take him deep once again and when your throat tightens around him one last time, he lets out a gutural groan and comes. You swallow every drop of his bitter release and when he pulls out from your mouth, you nearly fall forward.

Jimin catches you, placing his hands on your shoulders, balancing your exhausted body. You look at him through your half-lidded eyes. He looks so young now, so innocent, his cold demeanor’s gone and replaced by pure bliss written on his face. For Park Jimin, cheeks rosy, disheveled hair and loosen tie, you would do it all over again.

He then does something unexpected. He reaches for your face, brushing your tangled hair away and placing the strands behind your ears. This is a loving gesture, something exclusive he definitely shouldn’t be doing. You’re frozen, you can’t move a muscle while he wipes your cheeks from the reminiscences of your tears. He trails his thumb over your swollen lips absentmindedly, faltering there. For a moment he looks like he might say something, but he quickly shuts his mouth, regaining his previous posture.

You take this as a sign to leave. You get up from the floor, your knees sore from the uncomfortable position you’ve been in. You walk to the mirror that hangs on the wall of Jimin’s office. You sigh, seeing your current state. There’s no way someone would believe you that you haven’t just sucked a dick.

Your cheeks are flushed in pink, there are smudges of mascara under your eyes and your lipstick is smeared in the corners of your mouth. Not to mention your hair is still a mess.

You are painted in all shades of wrong.

In the reflection of the mirror you see Jimin buckling up his belt and straightening his tie. He runs a hand through his blond locks and looks up, catching you staring at him. You quickly look away.

“Don’t worry. No one will notice anything. Everyone should be off for their lunchbreaks by now.” he says. He sounds so pathetically normal, yet there’s still a slight rasp in his voice.

You glance at the watch on your hand and check the time. It’s a little past 12. You brush your hair with your fingers quickly and proceed to leave, but you stop, remembering you have to ask about one last thing. You turn around to face him.

“Are you going to write a bad opinion about me to my future employees?” you ask, flinching at the hoarseness of your voice.

Jimin raises his eyebrows. “Bad opinion? No, absolutely not,” he answers, shaking his head. “I was never going to fire you in first place.”

You fight back the shocked expression that threatens to appear on your face. You quickly rush to leave this damn office and never look in his eyes ever again. What were you even thinking?

“And Y/N,” Jimin’s voice makes you stop with your hand hovering over the door knob. Single tear rolls down your cheek and you gulp. “I’m sorry.” it’s all he says.

You don’t ask him what he meant by that. You don’t deliberate if he was sincere or not. You leave the office as soon as you can, running to the nearest bathroom, closing the door behind you and leaning on it.

He wasn’t going to fire you. He just wanted to use you, demand to get down on your knees and please him the way he wants. It was all a game for him, and you became his plaything.

“I’m so stupid,” you mutter to yourself, burying your head in your hands. “God, I’m so stupid.”

You feel sick, used, but at the same time you can’t get away with creeping feeling that you enjoyed it, wishing he wanted you just as much as you wanted him in that moment.

You sigh, closing your eyes. You’re probably foolish for thinking it won’t have any consequences. You’re just about to face them.

The coldness of early Spring hits you when you exit Sunday’s Spirit editorial. You hug your body tighter with your coat, standing in front of the building awkwardly. You take a few deep breaths, trying to clear your mind, but nothing really works. There’s a vacant space inside your body, like your soul has drifted away and left nothing but emptiness.

You feel hollow.

You don’t know how long have you been standing there, inhaling fresh air and waiting for your blood to start circulating properly in your veins again. When you’re about to head to the underground station, on the corner of your eye you see Jimin’s black Mercedes. You probably shouldn’t stare but you helplessly do.

Probably if you didn’t, it would hurt less.

He approaches the car, looking perfectly fine as always, which you couldn’t say about yourself. And he isn’t alone.

You recognize dark curls of Chins-sun’s hair, contrasting her beige coat beautifully. The corners of Jimin’s lips lift when he sees her. You don’t know if it’s a honest smile or a forced one. You wonder for a while how does he look like when he’s truly happy. Maybe he’s happy now, when Chin-sun is by his side.

What you are really sure about Park Jimin, is that he’s a man of many maybes.

Something which definitely doesn’t look forced are his palms, cupping the cheeks of Chin-sun’s flushed face. He starts tracing circles on her skin in intimate gesture and murmurs something. Maybe he asks her how was her day. Your lips still tingle where he trailed his thumb over it bitten, swollen surface. Maybe he still remembers how they felt around his cock when he was relentlessly bringing tears to your eyes and stabs to your heart.

The way he leans and kisses Chin-sun’s cherry colored lips is purposeful, perfectly measured. Maybe he sighs into her mouth with content, a beautiful sound you have witnessed with your own ears, as you were working him to his climax. Jimin’s hands grip Chin-sun’s dark locks but it isn’t the similar manner he did to you earlier, as he laced his fingers through the strands, when you wished him to do nothing more than pull harder and harder, until the pain in you scalp was replaced by dull ache, until a whimper fell from your lips and eyes squeezed shut. He kisses Chin-sun lovingly and there’s no roughness in that. It’s gentle caresses and soft murmurs.

After a moment he breaks off, soothing his palms over Chin-sun’s shoulders. She sends him a smile and opens the passenger’s door, getting into the car. And then, when you swallow a lump in your throat, when you decide to turn around and go, run as fast as you possibly can, when you dream about nothing more but never seeing him again, you catch eyes with him.

Jimin looks pathetically apologetic. There’s something in his dark brown orbs you can’t read. Maybe it’s guilt, maybe regret. Park Jimin is a man of many maybes, yet he stares at you with expression you could only mistaken for sadness.

You wonder if he sees the way your eyes stare at him blankly. You wonder if he knows how he nearly wrecked your body and made you feel things you shouldn’t. If he hurts the same way as you do now. However, Jimin quickly diverts his head away from you, closing the door to his car behind him as well. You laugh quietly at the ridiculousness of this situation. A bitter laugh that escapes your mouth and deepen the hollowness inside you.

A hand touches your arm and you don’t even flinch, knowing already who it is.

“So you know the news,” Taehyung says, looking at Jimin’s car leaving the parking lot. How long has he been standing behind you?

“What news?” you ask, turning your head to look at him.

“Chin-sun is really going to be miss Park officially,” he replies. “Jimin proposed to her this weekend. The wedding is in may. But that’s not important right now. How’s your conversation with him, sweetheart?”

You feel sick. You excuse yourself, mentioning something about needing to catch earlier train and texting him later. Taehyung calls after you but you don’t listen. You start running.

You run until you couldn’t breathe, until there’s a soreness in your throat from the coldness of air. You run until you reach your apartment, stumbling into it on wobbly legs. Your back touches the wall and you slide off, sitting on the floor.

You don’t cry. The tears don’t strain your eyes. It’s only this damned, dull hollowness.

There’s written in the Bible that a guilty person is the one who broke God’s law, who committed a sin. The said person will be judged by their actions after their death. Because every human being has a conscience, the thing that sets the line between good and bad, so when we did something wrong, we should feel remorse.

When you sit on the floor and stare blankly in front of yourself, you know you have sinned.You both did. You wonder if he, trailing patterns of tender touches on his fiancee’s skin, feels the same as you. You wonder if guilt eats him up as much as devours you. Maybe there’s hollow ache in his chest, just like in yours. Maybe he doesn’t feel anything.

And may the God help you both find your redemption.

1K notes · View notes

acelikesturtles · 4 years

Text

“For The Love of Cake”

Prompt: Bakery AU - Mikey x Gender-Neutral Y/N

Warnings: Profanity

Word Count: 3,885

A/N: Okay so despite what the screenshot looks like, the original prompt came to be from a conversation on discord, but @wacheypena was the one that officially came up with the prompt, @dw-im-just-sad just sent it to me because I consistently have the memory of a goldfish, so credit for the idea totally goes to wachey. @dw-im-just-sad also wrote her own version of this prompt so go check it out on her blog and give her some love!

“Fuck.”

A blast of warm air from the oven hit your face and pushed the stray hairs out of your eyes. Despite how delicious the freshly baked poppy seed muffins smelled, there was no way in hell that these met the signature Paisley's standard. You tucked a loose strand of hair back behind your ear with your free hand as you set the tray down on the steel counter behind the oven. Two other perfectly top-notch batches of muffins from 45 minutes ago sat only a couple inches away, freed from the confines of the muffin tray and sitting pretty on the tabletop cooling rack. You popped one of the new muffins out of the tray and set it on the counter as a half-pout began tugging at the corners of your mouth. All the muffins here were caved in on the top and looked dense and chewy instead of moist and soft like they were supposed to.

You racked your brain, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. You poked the muffin with a toothpick to check the center then sliced it open with a fork to check the inside. Little tendrils of steam escaped from the muffin’s tortured core; a squashed, condensed, pathetic looking center that seemed ashamed of its own existence sitting beside the high and mighty rises that all its cousins had managed to achieve. You figured that in a moment of absent-minded baking you must have put too much baking powder into the batter, thus creating the chewy texture and the catastrophic cave-in on the tops. With a firm frown and a short sigh through the nose in defeat, you picked up the muffin tray and headed towards the back door quietly.

Normally you wouldn’t be so secretive about bad muffins and tossing them in the bin outside, but the manager, Heather, had been cracking down on all the wasted ingredients that went into batches of bread and cupcakes and muffins and cookies that ultimately ended up ruined beyond relief by new-hires. Admittedly these muffins weren’t as bad of a mistake as per the other new-hires’ usual (like leaving whipping cream mixing until it turned into butter), but these sad excuses for poppy seed muffins were still a recognizable mistake that could easily be attributed to you rather than Rosetta, who always managed to forget at least one egg when she made cake batter.

You opened the door to the back alley behind Paisley’s and kicked the rubber doorstep underneath the gap to hold it in place. You balanced the tray in one hand and used the other to lift the lid off the unofficially named “Fuck-Up” can. With a few small taps against the rim of the bin, the muffins tumbled out of the tray and into the trash, only leaving behind the faintest lingering scent as you returned the lid. You wiped the sweat that had gathered on your brow with the back of your hand. Looking up, the sky had turned a shade of pinkened violet that felt reminiscent of the childhood summer sunsets you had enjoyed back home. You checked your watch. Five minutes until the end of your shift. You hauled yourself back inside and began cleaning up your work station with the torn and stained damp rag assigned to your work space.

Your mind felt full with thoughts, heavy even. Five months in New York and aside from securing a relatively nice apartment with only a mildly concerning roach problem and an “only kinda-severely-cramped” bathroom, you weren’t feeling as if you were making much progress like you had maybe anticipated when the opportunity to move had first arisen. You had moved, after all, in the hopes of starting your own café. It would be something small and quiet, a safe space in the heart of the city for people to come and bask in the welcoming atmosphere and enjoy the soft sounds of Lo-Fi playing above their warm cups of coffee and freshly baked cinnamon rolls. You’d donate food to the homeless on Wednesday evenings after closing time, and on Sunday nights the café would host Bingo and Trivia competitions for charity like they did at some of the local bars. The thought of being able to make your dream come true here made you feel immensely grateful to be on the path your heart had been calling you to. Paisley’s was better than being stuck in your hometown selling discount jeans. Right now though, working these grueling hours made you feel even farther away from the finish line than you had thought it would when you started. Rather than a feeling of excited and determined immersion in a career area that would someday be a part of the larger puzzle you longed to complete, Paisley’s felt like a chore that truly nobody enjoyed aside from Heather’s domineering managerial attitude.

You tossed the dirty rag into the laundry bin on the other side of the kitchen and began making your way towards the time clock to punch out for the night. Your aching feet were relieved just knowing that rest was coming soon.

“You headed out for the night?” A coworker asked, bumping into your shoulder while you punched in your employee number.

“Yep,” You stifled a yawn. “Poppy seed muffins at my work station still need to be stored for the catering thing tomorrow, so have somebody do that when you close.”

“Sure thing, on my way to do that right now.” They responded.

You finished clocking out and lazily shuffled back through the kitchen towards the rear door again, now fully caught in a yawn. You opened the door and took two steps outside before waiting to hear the slam and the click of the lock behind you, finalizing the official end of your shift. Now that you were outside though, something felt off. You glanced down at the “Fuck-Up” bin. The lid was ajar instead of firmly placed like it had been when you had messed with it earlier. Perplexed, you picked up the lid and peered inside the can only to find it empty of the muffins you had tossed in there before. Bizarre, but not unheard of. Paisley’s didn’t donate any of their leftover food to homeless shelters and you had heard from your coworkers that the homeless often peruse through the large dumpster behind the bakery for scraps hoping that the trashed food wasn’t as bad as employees thought. You could hardly blame them for trying. One company’s terrible batch of cookies is another man’s saving grace. At least someone was making use of your mistake.

You yawned again, shuffling down the concrete steps towards your neon green motorbike. You knelt down to unlock the chain holding it to the company bike rack, absently humming some commercial jingle that had been stuck in your head for the last day or two. Once the lock was completely freed you stuffed it into your bag, kicked the kickstand back up, and fished your keys out of your pocket to turn the ignition. Just as the motor began to sputter to life, you heard shuffling feet and a faint and stifled cough echo in the alley around you. It was near impossible to not feel spooked or even just a little bothered at the thought that the person from earlier could still be lurking in the alley, even if you had no real proof that they were harmful. You had heard too many horror stories and seen too many documentaries to be foolish. Not taking any chances, you hopped onto your motorbike and immediately hit the gas, taking a sharp turn into the street and not daring to look behind you. You could have just been paranoid of course, squirrels and other animals liked to dig through their trash and make noise in the alley too, but when confronted with the silliness of the concept of hundreds of rats carrying the muffins away you found yourself instead hoping that the person that had fished through their trash had gotten what they needed (and that they wouldn’t still be there by morning).

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

The next morning as you came up the back steps to the kitchen you noticed a bright yellow post-it note stuck to the lid of the “Fuck-Up” bin that hadn’t been there the night before. At first you hesitated to read the note. There was an anxious pang in your gut that made you feel uneasy about it in a way that you couldn’t put you finger on. You reached your hand forward to open the door to the kitchen, but found your hand only hovering over the knob with no real intent of going in yet. You needed the closure that would likely come with reading the note, even if it was a little intimidating, the thought of someone interacting with you by way of your ruined poppy seed muffins. You plucked the sticky note from the rusty lid and held it up to your eyes, squinting to read the chicken scratch.

“Hey dude! These ones were not my favorites but still yummy! Get me some oatmeal cookies next time, the crispy ones! Those are fuckin’ delicious! -MC Mikey.”

Your face scrunched up in confusion. Was this person seriously asking for more rejects? The only crispy oatmeal cookies that Paisley’s made that ended up in that bin were overcooked or half burnt, unless…did they think that this was a donation bin? Confused, you pushed your way through entrance and into the kitchen, claimed an empty work station, and headed over to the time clock to punch in your employee number. You were suddenly feeling a little bit more concerned for this individual than you did afraid of them. Maybe this was just someone ridiculously naïve. Maybe this was a kid that didn’t know any better and liked the smell that the trash behind Paisley’s had. Your sympathy had kicked in alongside a compulsive desire to bake those requested oatmeal cookies, and once you’d returned to your station you began flipping through the company cookbook for the recipe so you could sneak a mini-batch in-between actual requests.

After about 20 minutes, you pulled the first batch of cookies out of the oven and pushed the next sheet in. The smell was heavenly, an intoxicating mix of warm vanilla and cinnamon that made you salivate at first whiff. You picked up a cookie to check for the soft texture that was so characteristic for the recipe and sighed in relief when they pulled apart just like desserts did in those viral Instagram videos, softly and delicately. Hopefully these cookies would become this stranger’s new favorite. Whoever this was could have the experience of a real oatmeal cookie without the element of burnt edges interfering with the flavor, and the thought of being able to provide that joy was enough to put a little more pep in your step than was there before.

Several hours, a lunch break, and a couple run-ins with your bitch-of-a-manager later, you found yourself in front of the time clock again with a small Ziploc baggie of oatmeal cookies secured in your bag. They wouldn’t be as fresh as they were when they first came out of the oven unfortunately, but they’d still taste better than burnt and crispy cookies--that you were at least certain of. Once you’d finished punching in your employee number you made your way towards the back door as quickly as you could with aching arches and a stiff lower back. You stepped out onto the concrete stairs and waited for the latch behind you to click before making your way down the steps with one hand firmly grasped on the chipped railing beside you while the other dug around in your half-zipped bag for your keys and the Ziploc filled with cookies.

Your sneakers hit the alley and you let out a loud yawn while rolling your neck from shoulder to shoulder. You turned towards the “Fuck-Up” bin and gently placed the baggie on top of the lid. Should you have left a note? Would this person even care if there was a note as long as the cargo inside was sealed away from the elements? You let a puff of air out through your nose and let the worry roll of your shoulders as you turned back towards where you had parked your bike, keys jangling in hand. Just as you were about to reach your bike, you heard the shuffling sound again. Without hesitation you turned on your heel and looked back towards the garbage bins. Nothing had changed, nobody was there, but the noise of muffled footsteps said otherwise. This time you didn’t feel like running as much as you did like investigating the source of the noise to ease your curiosity to rest. You kept one hand firmly gripped on your pepper spray, and slowly stepped forwards, stopping at about the halfway point between you and the trash.

“Anybody there?” You called out. Your voice sounded particularly sick and crackly from the long work day. There weren’t any response and the sounds in the alley went dead quiet to underscore the sound of your own breathing instead. “If you’re the one who came by yesterday digging through our trash-” You started, wincing at your own condescending tone. You sounded so harsh, especially considering the fact that this could easily be a child based on what the handwriting had seemed like. “Sorry, I…I left you some oatmeal cookies. They’re on the lid.” You spoke softer, gesturing towards the “Fuck-Up” bin vaguely. The silence persisted. Now you were beginning to feel uneasy. The hairs on the back of your neck were practically standing up and you were beginning to think that you had either gone crazy or that maybe you were dealing with some kind of back-alley ghost.

Do ghosts even eat? Can ghosts even eat?

Without warning, a large hand partially cloaked by shadows broke free from the dumpster and began swiping in the general direction of where you had left the Ziploc bag. It would almost be comparable to a scene from a horror movie if the hand and the arm didn’t seem so clueless and desperate to get to the baggie. You fought back a smile and took a couple steps closer. You still had a grip on your concealed pepper spray just in case, but the thought of the stranger assaulting you was fading from the forefront of your mind. It wasn’t until you got close enough to see that this person’s hand was noticeably malformed—only two large fingers and a thumb—that fear was pushed onto the main burner once again. Clearly frustrated with the whole ordeal, the head and shoulders the appendage was attached to slammed up against the top of the dumpster and pushed the lid up against the wall behind him. That’s when he made almost immediate eye contact with you. Crystal blue eyes clashed against orange fabric and scaly green skin in a way that shocked your system to your core. This wasn’t a child, and it wasn’t a human, and it wasn’t, as far as you could gather, anywhere in between. A large shell was fused to his skin in a way that further broke your perception of reality as you tried to rationalize what you were seeing without thinking about costumes or special effects makeup or even aliens. You stood in shock for a moment, unblinking, watching as he strained to reach the baggie in front of him. He poked his tongue out and grunted as he stretched over the side of the dumpster, just barely missing the Ziploc with each swing of his arm.

“Dude, you could at least help!” He groaned, collapsing his upper body over the side of the dumpster in defeat.

You blinked and suddenly you were forced back into reality…or at least, whatever reality this was.

You took several more steps forward and snatched the Ziploc up in your hands, gently handing it to the…creature that was currently in the company dumpster. You had so many questions you needed to ask, too many questions, and without even opening your mouth the turtle began answering at least some of them one-by-one while shoving oatmeal cookies down his throat.

“I see you’re kiiiinda freaked out, and that’s okay! I get it, Mikey’s just so overwhelming to the ladies,” He said with a smug grin. “Turtle, mutant, ninja, sex god, what isn’t there to love angelcakes?” Your carefully baked batch of oatmeal cookies were disappearing in seconds, miniscule in comparison to the size and capacity of his stomach. “Oh, also?” He spoke through a mouthful of crumbs, spewing half-chewed chunks of oats and sugar all over the concrete beneath them. “These could use more cinnamon.”

“I-“ You hesitated for a moment. Your mind was filled to the brim with unfinished thoughts and rabbit trail theories about how Mikey himself was even possible (that is, if you weren’t dreaming) but they all came to a screeching halt when his comment about the cinnamon broke through your occupied mind. “Wait, really? I thought there was plenty, let me try that.” You huffed, snatching a cookie from one of his oversized, mutant hands. Within the first bite you were able to tell that he was right. The cinnamon flavor was more subtle than you had intended; a mere hint of warmth rather than the overwhelming comfort that you had been aiming for. “Oh. Yeah, I-I guess you’re right…Mikey.”

“Yeah, and those cupcakes the other day were-“

“Too much baking powder, I know,” You laughed and shook your head. “Those must’ve tasted gnarly, sorry,” You stopped mid-breath. “Wait. Cupcakes? Those were muffins.”

“Oooohh! So that’s why they didn’t come with frosting,” Mikey laughed. “Well that’s disappointing, I thought I was getting cupcakes. No wonder.” As the turtle crawled out from the dumpster with his empty Ziploc in hand, you became dwarfed beside him. He was tall, but not as menacing as you may have originally assumed. A half smile gradually worked its way onto your face as you looked up at him, trying to avoid grimacing at the smell of liquid garbage dripping all over his body.

“Next time I...I could make you cupcakes if you’d like.” You responded.

Mikey’s eyes looked alive with excitement as he nodded in complete agreement, musing aloud all his favorite flavors and fillings and frostings to you with a childlike delight. First there was snickerdoodle with extra cinnamon, then there was lemon meringue with more meringue than there was lemon. Red velvet with a whipped cream filling, double chocolate fudge with a gooey peanut butter center, tangy orange creamsicle with a tangerine wedge on top. You weren’t taking notes, but you figured that your personal investment in listening to a mutant turtle talk about his own takes on classic (and invented) flavors was enough to hold onto what he said in your memory, even if in the morning it may all seem like a hazy, drug-induced fever dream. You actually found yourself so intrigued with some of his flavor combinations and substitutions that you barely noticed that the grip you had been holding on the pepper spray had been entirely released, instead allowing that hand the freedom to gesture in a more relaxed manner as you articulated.

It wasn’t until the sound of a distant police siren echoing several streets away that the conversation stopped rather abruptly. The sound had grabbed the turtle’s attention in a way that stopped him in the middle of a sentence and replaced his excited expression with one of worry and concern. His eyes fell back towards you. You were searching his expression for a reason behind his troubled gaze just as much as you were looking for a clear answer behind what it was that made him who he was.

“Do you have a Sharpie?” He asked urgently. He looked behind him and over both of your shoulders nervously, as if he was waiting for someone to pounce, and that alone was enough to make you feel on edge again.

“Why?” Bewildered, you began digging in your bag again, searching for a permanent marker. You couldn’t find one but after clarifying that something similar might work, you managed to fish a red ink pen from the depths of your disorganized mess of a bag. Mikey snatched the pen from your hands, pulled the cap off with his teeth and spit it out onto the concrete, then stretched your forearm out in front of him. He scribbled a bunch of numbers rather messily onto your skin. He had accidentally smudged the undried ink a time or two and had to correct it, but when he was finished the string of numbers came out looking exactly like a standard, New-York area phone number. If this was a dream it sure was a detailed dream, you had to at least give it credit for that.

“My digits,” Mikey beamed while making the oh-so-stereotypical ‘call me’ gesture with his hand. “Call me, angelcakes. Unless you don’t want to, then like, don’t call me.” He shrugged. His confident aura practically dripped off of him as he began backing away into the shadows, shell nearly flush against the wall behind him. His hands rested on his holstered nunchakus as the police sirens faded away into the distance.

“Wait,” You faltered. Seeing him leave just as quickly as he had arrived made the flood of jumbled and confused thoughts come rushing back to you all at once. He couldn’t leave now, not when you were just beginning to get a grip on having him be a part of the same reality you were in. “Where are you going? What’s going on? What about the cupcakes?”

“Orange dreamsicle,” Mikey called back with a song in his voice. “Extra orange!” He said with a wink, while gesturing toward the cloth that covered his eyes.

Mikey had vanished into thin air, and just like that, you found yourself immersed in relative silence again. You pinched your forearm but didn’t wake up. You pulled on a singular lock of hair really hard, but didn’t wake up. Whatever you had just witnessed was still your reality, as evidenced by the smudgy red ink on your skin. You blinked once, then twice, then wiped the sweat off of your keys and your pepper spray and began shuffling towards your motorbike again. You turned your keys in the ignition, but when the engine started you didn’t feel the relief that you normally did when you were getting ready to head home from a grueling shift at work. If anything, your energy levels had peaked alongside your need to satiate your newfound curiosity aching in your bones. You pushed the kickstand up, removed the lock, pulled your phone out of your back pocket, and took your seat. You glanced down at your forearm again. The messy red ink was becoming clearer the more you stared at it. Perhaps it was just natural human tendencies at work, or maybe even fate, but the words just seemed to naturally tumble onto your keyboard once you’d copied the smudgy numbers into your contact list.

“Hey, Mikey right? I forgot to tell you my name. It’s Y/N.”

#authoring by ace #acelikesturtles #tmnt #tmnt 2012 #tmnt 2016 #bayverse tmnt #prompt

25 notes · View notes

zankivich · 5 years

Text

The Arrangement: CEO’s Son/Dom!Shawn x Black Sub Reader Chapter 5

Hiya! This is the chapter when we get to figure out a little more of why Shawn is the way that he is. I’m not interested in villains for villains sake; I’m interested in complex characters in need of healing and kindness and also to maybe fight for themselves a little bit. I think this is gonna get very interesting if the thoughts in my head are anything to go off of. Also I try not to bug y’all too often but I am very very poor at the moment so if you did want to buy me a Kofi right here. That would be life changing. Ya girl got bills. K bye.

WARNINGS: sex without a condom (gotta wrap it up folks), a mini panic attack w/o much description, and just some general softness.

*Shawn’s point of view*

He’s in the studio. It’s his happy place. He remembered being eight years old, just barely big enough to climb into the seat, but finding something magical about the sound board. His nanny used to pick him up from school and he would beg her to take him to where his dad was working. They only started letting him go once they realized he’d stop throwing temper tantrums. He thrived there. He listened quietly and he learned about how to track vocals, how to create rhythms and what actual sound waves could look like for a vocal. And then he was thirteen, and his dad brought this guy in.

He was in baggy jeans and a green sweatshirt. His guitar had a plus sign on it, and there were scratches against the body where he’d strummed too hard. The sound guy told him his name was Ed Sheeran. He was there to sing for his dad. That day changed his life forever.

He went from playing soccer every day after school, to playing guitar and creating covers. His dad happily put him in the guitar lessons and the piano lessons and the vocal lessons. It was the outlet he never knew he needed, but couldn’t live without. Shawn was always thoroughly convinced he hadn’t been destined for much. Was never smart in school, never particularly passionate about anything either. And since the day he was born, all he knew was that his dad was powerful and his dad had money, and that meant one day he would have the same. Not because of who he was or what he accomplished, but because of who his dad was. Music changed that for him.

“Hey, pull back on the reverb?” He suggested to the producer. “It’s clouding the vocal. Trust me.”

There’s a guy in the booth. His dad’s new golden star. Niall Horan. His first album had done twice the numbers they anticipated, and so after a North American tour to test the waters he quickly pulled him in to try and do it again. That’s why Shawn was there of course. To oversee the creative vision, and “provide feedback”. What it really meant was, his dad knew he could determine what was good and what was bad, so why waste his time when he could have Shawn do it. As far as his dad was concerned, he should feel lucky that he was even allowed to be a part of the process.

“Aye, this is just isn’t feeling right. I’m coming out.” Niall said from the booth in his thick irish accent.

There’s a room of writers, but it’s actually pretty organic in comparison to some of the other artists under his dad’s belt. Two of them are friends of Horan’s from home, who had followed him along for the ride. He plops down on one of the couches and reaches for a guitar. His fingers pluck absently at the strings and Shawn can’t help but glance over there instead of filling out whatever dumbass report his dad was asking him to fill out. There’s a redheaded woman on the couch who started playing alongside him. Another guy uses his lap as drums, and they just start jamming with each other.

It’s electric. It’s that thing that made his stomach lurch like he was at the top of a rollercoaster. It’s what left him more at home in his own skin than anything else ever could. The energy in the room actually shifts. He swears he can feel the music. Like actually feel every strum in his fingertips as if its his hands on the guitar. It’s authentic and real and they’re just playing for fun.

But, somewhere in there he remembers that this is all he’ll ever get. Just watching from the sidelines while everyone else gets to play. It breaks his heart. It makes him sick to his stomach. So sick that he leaves abruptly in the middle of the session crashing outside and choking desperately for air. This is what he got. A noose that always felt too tight, with the hope every day that he just might get the chance to breathe. This was it for him.

***

*Y/n’s point of view*

Shawn: I need you.

y/n: That’s gonna be a little difficult. I’m in Miami, remember? First show of the tour for Grande.

Shawn: Well when are you coming back?

y/n: I’m staying through the first week of shows to make sure all the kinks get worked out. No pun intended.

Shawn: I don’t think I can wait that long.

You were walking past the merch booth getting set up and stopped to chat with some of the people working it. You had a lot of respect for merch booth people, depending on the show--and the pop shows were always the worst--shit could get hectic and fast. They deserved tons more respect than they got, and you were happy to show them some.

You peered down at your phone and read Shawn’s text over again. It felt a little off, even for him. You had gone stretches of time without hooking up before. There were times where he needed to be in LA while you stayed behind in New York, times where you had one show in one city, while he had one in another. It hadn’t been a problem before. You always just found time when the two of you available, and went from there. Shawn hadn’t ever pushed it further than that before.

y/n: everything alright?

Shawn: my dad is satan

y/n: well retweet sis! We been knew that.

y/n: Sorry. I wish I could be there to relieve the stress. If you wanna hop on a flight and meet me in Miami feel free lol

You head for the sound check, checking in to make sure that that stage was being set up, so that meet and greet could go off without a hitch later. You nearly trip over one of Ariana’s dogs and die, but other than that it’s fine. There’s hours and hours of labor that have to go into a show before the doors ever open, before those kids every step inside to see their idol get up on the stage. It’s your job, along with a host of other incredibly talented and hard working people, to make sure that those hours seamingly don’t even exist. You don’t mind it. Back in the early days you used to go on whole tours to make sure your artists were taken care of. It wasn’t until you turned thirty that you realized slowing down a little bit was in everyone’s best interest.

When you’re not needed you set up in an office space to answer emails and check in with the office. The afternoon passes quickly, and before you know doors are opening up, and the kids begin to pile in. You’re backstage making sure the band and Ariana are good to go, when the tour manager comes up to you looking panicked and confused the way he always did.

“Hey, y/n! Sorry to bother you, but can I borrow you for a second?”

You clap hands with Ariana wishing her luck she won’t need before heading off with Mike.

“What’s up, Mike? Everything okay?”

He nodded. “Yea! It’s just that I got a call from the head of security at the back of the venue, and there’s a guest for you who doesn’t have a pass.”

“A guest for me? I don’t have any guests tonight. Did they catch a name?”

“It’s uh...It’s Manny Mendes’ kid? Shawn?”

“What?!”

Mike winced. “He uh, he told them you personally invited him. Guy must be charming, or they probably would’ve turned him away.”

Charming, your black ass. He was a nuisance is what he was.

“I didn’t personally invite him anywhere! Take me to this dumbass, please.” You groaned in frustration.

The whole walk there you’re just trying to figure out how the hell he managed to get here that fast! Who takes a back handed joke, and then actually follows through it? Shawn fucking Mendes. This man was going to be a thorn in your side for the foreseeable future. God, was he lucky his dick was big.

Sure enough, at the back of the venue at one of the stage doors, Shawn is sitting there with a couple of security guards. His hands rest easily in his pockets, and he’s telling them a fucking joke that has them laughing their asses off. Where was the justice?!

“Hey. Took you long enough.” He chuckled reaching for a duffle bag at his feet.

What was he moving in?

“Shawn what in the hell are you doing here?”

He stared at you incredulously. “You told me to come!”

“I was kidding! How in the hell did you get here that fast anyway?”

“Honey, we have a private jet. Surely that’s not surprising to you. What are you gonna turn me away at the door right now?”

Mike is still staring at you with nothing but confusion on his face. He probably had no idea you even knew Shawn Mendes, let alone enough to accidentally invite him to Miami. This was bad. This was bad, bad, bad.

Your gritted your teeth. “He is very unfortunately with me. Mike give him a pass.”

“Are you sure th--”

“Mike just given him the damn pass.” You sighed turning on your heel to disappear back inside.

Shawn keeps up with you easily with his obnoxiously long legs. Mike power walks behind the two of you ear piece and ipad still blaring.

“Mike you can run along before curtain call. I’ve got things here.”

It’s not an option. It’s a directive, and he quickly follows it leaving you alone with your headache of the day.

“You really call the shots around here, aye?”

“Little bit. Follow me.”

You lead him to the little office space you have in one of the green rooms, and quickly close the door before more people find out that the two of you are together. He takes a seat on one of the couches like he belongs. You want to pull your hair out.

“What in the hell Shawn?” You groaned. “We have rules. Very specific rules.”

“I know. Look, I know! But you offered, okay? And I couldn’t...I wasn’t gonna wait a week. I need this. I need you.”

That certainly was a little more honest than the two of you typically got with each other.

You paused to take a better look at him, and it isn’t the prettiest sight. The smile and witty laughter from outside was a thin facade to the bags beneath his eyes and the frown that’s evident now. He looks a little pale, like paler than usual, and if you didn’t know any better you’d say he hadn’t been sleeping well. You did know better. In fact you were starting to realize that maybe you knew him a little better than you gave yourself credit for.

You took a seat on the table in front of him, your legs knocking together in the small amount of space between you.

“What’s going on? And don’t say it’s just cause you’re stressed.”

He peered up at you, his fingers tapping anxiously against his thighs.

“Since when do you care? That’s not exactly within the parameters of our relationship now is it?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not all of us go through life only living based off of what we can take from others. I know it’s a wild concept to you, but some of us? Some of us can actually be decent human beings.”

“Great so I’m a piece of shit and you’re a saint, is that it?”

“Why are you trying to fight with me? Don’t be a child; stop deflecting. Just tell me what the hell is wrong, and maybe we can fix it.”

“You can’t fix it, y/n. I’m stuck. I’m always going to be stuck okay? There is no fixing me.”

He looked exhausted. And it wasn’t the hard day at work exhausted either. This looked bone deep in him. You couldn’t tell if this was something you’d just never noticed, or if he was letting down a wall for you to see behind for the first time. Whatever it was, you didn’t like it. There wasn’t time to work through why that was, or what it meant for you to care enough to want to fix it. You just knew that you didn’t like it. That’s all that mattered.

You reached forward, your fingers pushing at his knees to make more room for you to straddle his lap. His hands immediately came up to rest on your ass, and you slid your hand over his heart. It was beating like crazy. He just needed to slow down. He needed you to help him slow down. When you kissed, his fingers dug a little more deeply into the flesh of your ass. He groaned softly against your mouth and pulled you closer. It wasn’t necessarily that you didn’t kiss at all in the time that you spent together. Shawn had no problem dominating your mouth. It just so happened that in a relationship built on dominating your body there were a lot of other things you could be doing than kissing.

His lips were still heavenly though. He knew how to tug at your jaw, how to pull you in closer and run his tongue perfectly along the roof of your mouth. It was as intoxicating as all the other things he seemed to be able to do with his body. Only instead of quickly moving to the next phase the way that he usually would, he kept you there a while longer. His lips moved against yours and your arms wrapped tight around him. You could feel his shoulders release beneath your touch, could feel his hands relax against your ass. By the time he flips you to lay your body down against the couch, fingers already tugging to get his jeans down his thighs, your lips are buzzing, and you feel kind of lightheaded. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Tell me what you need.” You whispered against his lips. “Tell me how to please you.”

“Need to be in you. Right now.” He muttered reaching beneath your skirt.

His fingers found their way between the fabric of your underwear, gently nudging between your folds where you were already wet. He tugged the thing band down off of your legs and tucked them into his jean pocket.

He groaned softly plunging his middle finger inside. “You’re always wet for me. Know exactly how to be good for me.”

He curved up and to the right, rubbing quickly against your walls to get you where you needed to go. This wasn’t about foreplay. This wasn’t a scene. There was no plan here. It was frantic and a little messy. But you liked it. You liked it more than you knew what to do with.

“Are you my good girl?” He panted jerking his finger up and down to touch the thing inside of you that made you thrash.

“Yes. Yes, I am. Please, Shawn. Please?”

“The faster you cum, the faster I can get inside this pussy.”

His bicep tensed and his breath came out in harsh pants against the side of your neck. His fingers won’t stop, won’t let up, and your body gives him exactly the reaction he wants every single time. It’s like magnets. Like he knows exactly how to touch you to make you scream. And you do. Always.

His thumb rubs circles on your clit and your body practically melts. Your back arches and your moans get higher as your orgasm hits. Not one to ever be outdone unless it’s by himself, Shawn withdrew his fingers and immediately pushed his way inside of you. The stretch alone in conjunction with the weight of him pressing you down into the couch was enough to heighten your orgasm to a place it’d never been before.

“You’re so fucking tight, shit y/n.”

“I can’t fucking breathe--Shit! it’s so good!”

The arm of the couch provides a kind of leverage you couldn’t get if you prayed for it, and Shawn’s taking full advantage. There’s something different in the way that he handles you. He’s a little more desperate than you’re used to. His hips are less skilled precision and more broken lunges. But you love it just the same. Push your hips up against him chasing something similar, chasing a high that will take you both straight off that cliff together.

“I love being inside you.” He whimpered against your chest. “Nothing feels like you. Wanna give it to you so good.”

“You do. You fucking do.”

His teeth sink into the flesh of your shoulder and it drives you up a fucking wall. You dig desperately into the couch with your heels and cry out for him. It’s fast and dirty and not at all like what you’re used to. It’s just him, just him in all your senses. And you just wanted to give that back to him tenfold.

“Want you to cum for me again. Want you to come while I shoot my load in your pussy.”

“O--Okay. Okay I’ll cum, just please keep fucking me just like that. Please, just like that”

He pushes himself up onto his knees and moves your thigh up so that your knee is pressed against the arm of the couch. His dick doesn’t even make sense at this point. It’s like amnesia. Dick amnesia. But, he does this thing where he twists his hips every time he pushes his way back into you, and it makes you cum like a waterfall. And the second you’re cumming, his thrusts deteriorate into quick, rugged slaps against your sex. When he peaks, it’s euphoria for you both. Absolute Euphoria.

For a while neither of you move except for the pounding of your hearts in unison with one another. You can’t feel your toes, and it’s so sensitive to feel him inside you in this way. It’s not just good sex it’s a feeling that he gives you in wide abundance. You feel complete with him on top of you. Sated and fulfilled and taken care of.

“Wow.” He chuckled leaning down to kiss you roughly. “That was incredible.”

You giggled. “Yea. We’re good at that. Real good.”

He slides off your body and disappears into the bathroom for a few minutes. He comes back with some damp paper towels and cleans tenderly between your legs.

“It’s not my egytpian cotton, but it gets the job done.” He chuckled.

He already looks entirely different. There’s color in his cheeks and his eyes have that obnoxious sparkle shit that they do. You like him a lot better when he looks this way. And there’s a part of you that feels a sense of pride at being able to bring that out of him.

“Thank you, kind of.” You snorted softly.

You fix your skirt while he pulls his jeans back up. You can’t help but notice you managed to yank the neck of his t-shirt horribly out of place somewhere in the midst of your climax. The least you can do is grab him one of the merch shirts. It hits him in the face when you toss it, but that’s at least a few more seconds you have to calm the hell down.

“What’s this?”

“Figured we didn’t want people asking questions. Put it on, I’m sure there’s still some more of Ari’s set left.”

His eyes widened a little and he stared back at the t-shirt before looking back up at you.

“You want me to stay?”

It’s your turn for your eyes to widen and for the ground to become more interesting.

“You don’t have to obviously. You got what you came for. Ari, just puts on a really good show.” You mumbled.

“No I--I’d love to see the show. Haven’t seen her since Coachella.”

He changed quickly out of his t-shirt, sliding on a God Is A Woman shirt instead. The outfit change is a good one in your estimation.

“Great now give me my underwear back.” You murmured resituating your lanyard that got you in everywhere around your neck.

“Oh. Yea, no.”

You looked up at him and there he was leaning against the same part of the couch that he’d rammed you again not ten minutes ago. His long legs crossed in a similar fashion to his arms across his chest. That confidence was just obviously roaring in his system all over again. He was back, just like that.

“Excuse me?” You asked, eyebrow raised and pointed.

“I’m gonna keep them. Kinda want you to think about the fact that you won’t have any panties on all night, and I’ll be the only one who knows. Every time you have to yell at someone to do their job right, every time someone from the crowd bumps into you, it’ll just be you and I who know that you’re my good little girl. So I’m gonna keep them until I’m ready to give them back to you.”

And just what in the fuck does someone do with a speech like that?

“Yea….okay.”

You leave the greenroom behind in the hopes that no one will be able to tell what was done in there that night. Instinctively you reach for his hand and tug him along behind you to get the pits. It’s a sold out show, so there’s definitely a hell of a lot of people there, but you make it work nonetheless. With only the first half of the show missed anyway there’s still plenty of talent left for him to see.

At first you thought that you needed him to see what you were capable of. Ariana was all talent, all vocals, and iconicism, and magic. But, it was you that brought it all together, you who coordinated every little piece to make sure it all ran together without problem. Before you met Shawn, before ever deciding to do the little arrangement he schemed for the both of you, there had been a need to prove yourself. It came with the territory as a woman, let alone as a Black woman in a white male dominated industry.

Something happens in the middle of the show though, when the moon hangs from the ceiling, and her voice is belting out through the whole arena. You peer up at him watching the show, and there’s no ego to be had. It’s not like when other music execs come to visit shows, and they're just looking for a way to upstage you. He’s just there. Enjoying every note and letting the vibe of the crowd fill him in that way that you loved and cherished about live shows. It’s the first time outside of the bedroom that he eases the tension for you, that he gives you a sort of metaphorical pat on the back to say, “you don’t need to stand tall. Put that away for right now.”

You take a deep breath and let your head rest against his shoulder before there’s even room to think about it. Before you lose the moment, before the tension finds a way to ease back into your body, he wraps his arms around your waist from behind. Ariana keeps singing. The crowd keeps screaming. And he doesn’t let up until the lights come back on.

***

“Where are you staying tonight?” You asked, trying to pay attention to the break down of the venue happening around you.

“Wherever you’re staying I guess.”

You peered over at the way that he was leaning against one of the barricades, still dressed in his God Is A Woman shirt, with a smirk upon his lips.

“So fucking cocky, all the time.” You snorted. “I’ve got a lot of work left to do here. I’m always the last to leave from a show.”

“That’s fine. You want me to head up to the hotel, or should I wait behind for you?”

“You’re really staying huh?”

“Told my dad I’m doing research. I think he’s found a new intern to screw, so he’s not really checking in at the moment. I could use a little vacation.” He hummed. “You want me to go?”

You bit your lip and ran your fingers over your waist where his hands had touched. It was dangerous letting him in like this. You knew it. You had to know it.

“No I don’t want you to go.”

He smiled softly. “Guess I’m not going, then.”

“Guess not.”

“Besides if I left?” He murmured stepping forward to cup your hip intimately. “When would you ever get your thong back?”

Bastard.

It’s well past one in the morning before you get to leave. Your feet hurt and you really need a shower and the hotel can’t come fast enough. There’s a car around back waiting for you, and Shawn trails right along side you with his louis vuitton duffle bag that again just reeks of unnecessary indulgence, but you let him have it this time. The soft leather seats of the BMW and the gentle shake of the car is enough to lull you towards sleep. You were the queen of sleeping on cars. Touring life was perfect for you. What you weren’t used to was having someone beside you too as you made yourself comfortable.

“Are you falling asleep right now?” Shawn chuckled.

“I’m just resting my eyes.” you mumbled heading leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed. “Don’t worry, I’ll be plenty well rested for sex later.”

“Yea...Okay.”

*thirty minutes later*

“Honey, wake up.”

“Mmmm...No.”

“No?”

“No. I’m comfy, Ti. Leave me alone.” You whined snuggling deeper into her shoulder.

“As much as I have a feeling Tianna could kick my ass, I don’t think our biceps quite look alike. I am definitely not Ti.”

Your eyes popped open in shock alerting you to the fact that you wrapped your whole fucking body around this man’s arm and he had done nothing to stop you. The gal! The injustice!

“What are you doing? Why did you let me do that?” You gasped detangling yourself from his grasp.

He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t ‘let’ you do anything. Your body tends to have a mind of its own. Apparently even in slumber. We’re here though, princess.”

Sure enough the hotel is there staring back at you from the window. You had really fallen asleep. And he had let you.

“Shit. Okay. Let’s go.”

The hotel room is neat and pristine. You won’t be there nearly long enough to do any damage to it. Shawn places his duffle next to yours and starts his routine that he always does at night. His watch comes off. The bracelet. The rings. And it is insane the effect that it has on your body. Your spine straightens. And he turns to look at you over his shoulder, curls extra fluffy without any product in it, and it just runs through your body like a fucking current.

He makes his way over to you and his fingers skim your chin like it’s fine. Like he’s not shirtless in front of you with a six pack and perfect wisps of chest hair. You kind of wanna ask him if the women he sleeps with ever don’t want to get undressed in front of him, but then a yawn leaves your lips and that thought gets left far behind, along with the moment.

He smiled at you softly and tapped your cheek.

“Look you’re exhausted. Why don’t we just wait for the morning. It’s no big deal.”

You wrapped your hand around his wrist to keep him with you.

“It’s fine. I swear.”

He shook his head. “No. It’s really not. Let’s go to bed.”

“Shawn--”

“I said consent at all times didn’t I?” He interrupted. “You’re too tired to consent. We’re not doing it.”

Too tired to consent. That was certainly a new one.

But the way that he settled himself into his side of the bed told you negotiation wasn’t an option. And you were fucking exhausted. So, you crawled beneath the blankets and let your body relax for only the second time that night. How odd for it to be that both of those times were because of Shawn? And what the hell did that mean?

His scent was in your sheets. It was on your skin and in your nose. He was there. This all consuming force that just seemed to fill the space around him infinitely. To the point where you barely felt like you fit in the bed beside him. And yet he sometimes looked so small that you wondered how he could ever fill any space at all. You couldn’t ignore the look on his face in the green room. The exhaustion. The smallness. What was up with that? And why were you thinking of him so damn much anyway?

“You’ve gotta shut your mind down to actually fall asleep.” Shawn mumbled from somewhere in the dark.

You rolled your eyes. “Thank you for mansplaining sleep to me.”

“I’m not--just...Look, what’s on your mind?”

“Nothing. What makes you think there’s something on my mind?” You asked defensively.

“I just can hear you fucking thinking from all the other way over here. Why do you have to be so stubborn all the time?”

“I’m not stubborn!”

You had one of those out of body experiences where you actually hear yourself speak, and it subsequently proved his point. Rude.

“It’s genetic.” You murmured softly. “Sorry. I guess I uh I’m just not used to having someone else sleep in bed with me.”

“Well thank you. We fall asleep after fucking most times though?”

“Yes well there’s a difference between being fucked into a coma and just lying beside the person.”

He took a deep breath. “Do you want me to leave? I can just go get another room.”

“No it’s fine! It’s fine. I swear. I’m just...adjusting.”

“Fine. You...adjust, then. I’ll try not to breathe too much and disturb you.”

It was a long night.

***

*Shawn’s point of view*

The sun fills the room and it’s a complete and utter nuisance to him. Too early. Too bright. Too not cuddly. So he snuggles his face back into the warmth and ignores it for a little while longer. It’s the most well rested he’s felt in months. So well rested that he doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to be without this warmth that he’s never felt before. And why would he? Why would he ever want to leave this?

He opens his eyes and all that he sees in brown. Cocoa brown with deep red undertones that light up beneath the sunrays. It’s the first time he’s ever woken up before her, her mental clock seeming to always pull her out of bed before his dick is even awake let alone his mind. The fact that she’s asleep is a miracle within itself. The fact that he gets to look at her while she does it feels like maybe a little extra miracle on the side.

There’s a freckle on the divet in the small of her back that he’s never noticed before. Her bonnet to cover her hair is the same color as her nails and there’s a part of him that needs to know if it was a conscious decision or not. Knowing y/n, it could go either way. The covers had slid down her back and he’d wrapped himself around her at some point in the night. And it was somehow the best night sleep he’d had in so long. No sex. No ropes. No lube. Just sleep.

He wasn’t dumb. Something was different. Something had been different from the very beginning. His hooks up didn’t sleep over. He didn’t fly to anyone, ever. Hell, he didn’t even drive to anyone. Uber was practically part of his foreplay in life. How the fuck did he end up in miami grabing her waist while Ariana Grande scerenaded them by fucking moonlight? He didn’t do this. He didn’t grab hips if he wasn’t fucking. He didn’t tell a woman he’d rather sleep then have sex with them. He needed to end this. And fast.

However . . . she was still asleep. And the sun was still just coming up. So what was really the harm in lying there a little longer? He pressed his arm back over her waist, thumb rubbing smoothly into the skin of her tummy. He’d get up in just a minute, would end it in just a minute. For sure.

*three days later*

“I will be back in less than a week.” She says.

“It will be over in no time.” She says.

“Stop fucking biting my thighs while I’m answering work emails!” She says.

After a break full of rushing her off to different rooms with locks on them in the venues so he could get his head between her thighs, it was finally over. His dad had finally called to ask why the hell his new Director of Talent Management was nowhere to be fucking found. It was time for him to leave, which meant days before he would see her again. Which was fine. Totally fine.

“So hear me out,” He argued as they drove to the final venue, he’d get to see her out. “I just think maybe Tianna should be taking me into account when she’s making your schedule. That’s all.”

She snorted. “I am not going to ask that woman to schedule dick appointments for you.”

“They’re not for just me! I’m thinking of you here too. Had I not taken off from my busy schedule to come to Miami, you might have actually combusted.”

“Women can go longer than twelve hours without sex Shawn. It’s yall who act like the world will explode if somebody doesn’t touch your dick for two seconds.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “I’m just saying it might be nice to know that you’re gonna be gone for weeks on end, ya know?”

She peered over at him from her phone where she’d been working away. She seemed to work harder and longer than anyone he’d ever met. Even more than his dad, which is explained why he couldn’t stand her.

“You could always...hook up with someone else while I’m away.” She said.

Her eyes are curious, watchful. There’s something behind the question that she’s asking, but he doesn’t know that on account of him being stupid. All he knew was that women didn’t just offer up the opportunity to sleep with other people. Even his past hook ups grew easily attached. It was his main reason for never repeating. Who was this woman?

“What makes you think I’m not, already?” He asked trying to match her eye contact.

She bit her lip. “The fact that you’re here right now.”

“Are you...hooking up with other people?”

“What if I was?”

He broke his gaze, not having it in him to keep staring at her. She was definitely stronger than him there.

“Whatever. Wouldn’t matter. ‘Snot like we’re together.”

She nodded. “Exactly.”

“Yea, exactly.”

The rest of the ride is silent. She was getting dropped off at her venue to continue on with Ariana through the rest of the week. He was heading back for NYC to get back to work. It would be a few more days before she flew back home. But, that was alright. He could wholeheartedly find other things to fill out his day. He didn’t need her at all.

The car pulls up to the arena and she pauses before she exits the car. She looks back at him like she’s waiting for something, like she expects him to say anything else. He doesn’t know what to say, just completely goes blank under her stare. She smiles at him.

“Goodbye, Shawn.”

“Bye, y/n.”

***

Taglist:

Permanent taglist

@simpledomain @liliane106 @thecurlsofgod @kamahriii @sinplisticshawn @lifeoftheparty74 @xeuphorically-moonstruck @euphoric05 @daijanicole @bruhh-whateven @learning-howto-be-myselfx3 @decewill @goldiean @bitchacho25 @bruhh-whateven @justbeingoceana @loveylangdon @september-lace @valedictorian65

@disaster-rose @sinplisticshawn @kamahriii @thecurlsofgod @lifeoftheparty74

Arrangement Taglist:

@moonlightmendes22 @iloveshawnieboi @iloveshawnieboi @shawnsblue @cottoncandyshawn

@claredolphinbear24 @peterbrokenparker @shawnase @blackharry @shawnwyr @speakingofmari @moniehp

253 notes · View notes

sugar-petals · 5 years

Text

:: Sloppy Savvy (m)

— pairing ♡ Reader x JK x MYG

warnings ⚠️ threesome, bdsm, sub!jk-centric, sub!yoongi joins, dom!reader, fwb, spit kink, facials, degradation, face-sitting, as the title says: very wet and messy

summary: You delight in rainy-day bed pleasures with JK and Yoongi.

word count: 2.1k | one shot | domestic au

➳ NOTE: A gift for @/re-sugance. Kura you’re the kindest, your support always means a lot.

The room is in shambles. Two ripped open suitcases. Empty take-out boxes from Manolo’s down the road. Black Gore-Tex raincoats on the bed. Still dripping off. With you standing on the carpet in the center of the room naked.

“Watch closely.”

And Jungkook kneeling at your feet. Panting.

You let saliva pool long enough at the tip of your tongue for him to tremble. Looking up from his position, sitting on his heels, Jungkook’s neck looks tense with the sustaining upward bend to it. In order not to make it strain too much, one cupping hand under his chin suffices. Perfect.

At the stroke of your fingers, you feel a little peach fuzz underneath, as slight as the one above his belly button that tends to escape his razor in the shower. Barely coarse to the touch, you fondle it, making Jungkook arch into his position even more. Obedient. And delicately servile as ever.

Seeing him gasp, and wriggle, and wait for the reward so much anticipated during two days and over seven hours in the plane — is the delight of a long week off your back through his gentle presence underneath you. Fuck. Missing him is nowhere near as hard as making up for the lost time when he’s in your hands this way.

“Y/N...”

He’s whimpering. So needy, his cock can’t take it. It throbs so hard against his abdomen, begging for the ease of stimulation that you will not allow.

At least not yet.

When you let a small thread of saliva drip downwards into his mouth, Jungkook sticks his tongue out to let your spit cool first, and then, lets it slide into his esophagus slow enough for you to still observe it disappear.

Your voice is placid. The room damp. With a little help from your other hand, his bangs stay out of his eyes.

“Swallow, babe. Don’t be shy.”

“Ah—”

Jungkook gulps down every new portion of drops and threads you give him. The guttural noise that follows each time after his Adam’s apple pokes forward has always satisfied you, and still, never fails to stun. He’s endlessly ravishing.

The saliva that has gathered around your own jaw you swipe up with the hand once at his own chin, and slather your wet digits across his bottom lip. It’s gotten a little plump by now.

“Blow a bubble for me, sweetheart.”

Jungkook obliges. Gathering some more of his own spit, then pouting his lips to accumulate the mix. When he opens his mouth to exhale, a little pop escapes, and tiny droplets create spray all over his cheeks. He’s giggling. So it was more saliva than intended. Cute babe.

“Oh my! I’m sorry. Sorry, Y/N.”

Some of the spit also disperses on the foamy black floor mat, leaving small little dots around his thighs and between his bent legs in their remaining position: Jungkook has been kneeling steadfast like a champ.

“You’re the best slut. Don’t apologize for that.”

The praise brings Jungkook to bare his teeth in a wide grin that makes his eyes smile alike. You wish you could nibble at his ears, his crinkling nose.

But not yet.

When you tickle him inches short under his jaw, he throws his head back laughing even more. You love the sound. It’s heart-melting. His bangs part further.

“Can I gag for you?”

What a question. He can, always.

“Baby, want my fingers?”

The look in his eyes is the answer. So bad. His hotel room in Bangkok has been awfully devoid of you and his texts read just like that. It’s time to catch up tonight.

You make sure to wipe the very last of your spit from either lip and pass it down between his teeth where both your index and middle digit find a warm space to linger. So hot.

Jungkook visibly finds delight in brushing his head faithfully against your legs before resuming his position. The movement of your fingers draws ample chokes from him, many accompanied by what remains the grin that Jungkook sports with your hand in his mouth. He is diligent gagging himself onto either finger bit by bit until you decide to slide them out again and create space on the bed shoving the coats aside. The mattress got a bit wet from the raindrops covering the fabric. But who could know the way back from the terminal to the carpark would be a rapid cold shower. One that practically called for heating each other up again. You’ve marked him up enough.

And indeed the temperature in the room has long increased.

“Got a reward, boo. You’ve been good.”

The surprise on his face inspires a rush of adrenaline, one that makes you realize that you have him on your bed, finally, after last week’s busy period.

“Yes. Lay back.”

You slide on top of him. Prurient. More adrenaline. His body is luscious.

“Is it a new toy?”

“Certainly. For you and for me.”

“Oh!”

“Can you wait for one minute?”

“Sure, are you getting it now?”

“Yes,” you gently lift from the edge of the mattress. “Called us a guest, sweetheart. You know who.”

Because the texts from Bangkok didn’t just reach you by yourself. It’s a group chat, after all.

“Sit, Yoongi babe.”

The mattress sinks a little more when he does. Three people on it makes the room, despite its chaos, more hospitable. Yes, homely. How hostile can the best house be with nobody to be close to. Yoongi smiles, with his suede brogue boots already kicked off, and his trench buttoned down, in fact, half pulled off.

“You’ve been in the rain, too?” he asks.

Jungkook nods in reply, flat on his back from the pillow.

“At the airport.”

Meanwhile, you help Yoongi rid his lithe arms off the coat completely, and make note that they really— are not that lithe. At least, anymore. He’s been hitting the gym two blocks away. You feel how sturdy his shoulders have become, removing the black tee covering him underneath the jacket.

“Wasn’t as wet as I am.”

You chuck the shirt to your raincoats. Yoongi gets comfortable on the bed.

“I’m ready.”

“Jungkook’s first.”

“Got it.”

“We’re safewording with Bangkok tonight.”

“I can tap the mattress, too?” Yoongi asks.

“Tap the mattress. Yes.”

Because how much will he be able to actually talk.

You hook two fingers in the elastic upper hem of Yoongi’s jeans. He knows you’re not going to open the button. But teasing has always made him feel more ambitious.

Turning to Jungkook, you meet a smile knowing and flustered. The reward comes.

“I’ll let Yoongi have it.”

The carnal flash in Jungkook’s eyes is quickly replaced. By a whimpering fade that doesn’t make it past his teeth, no, he keeps them tight. Yoongi has already grabbed hold of the meaty base splayed before him, picking up Jungkook’s erection that rose against a bruised abdomen just minutes ago.

“Please. Don’t hold back on me,” Yoongi brings his glance toward you, although it is hard for him. Too delicious and distracting what his hands embrace.

You love his eyes. They flicker. From the tone you know: He is shy with it.

“Not been fucked since Belgrad?”

Last winter. When you saw Yoongi disappear with a mature lady from the night club Jungkook and you spent a lackluster New Year’s Eve at. The hosting and music were nowhere near as organized as the whole attendance thought it would have been. But Yoongi had caught the eye of someone. And left early.

“Just once.”

Alright.

Yoongi’s hands nestle more with Jungkook’s strained cock. They’re quite bony, you reckon. And nervous. You figured Belgrad was a tipsy fling. She was too busy for him. Language barrier. Who knows what else.

“Already thought you’d like it rougher tonight. You wanna have a taste?”

Yoongi bites his lips in reply.

“M—hm!”

His eyes have already shifted back to eyeing Jungkook.

“Make some space in your mouth, babe.”

Pliant, half-clothed Yoongi pushes his head down giving off subtle, but constant little glucks. He’s going to be hoarse for a day, but reckless abandon got the best of his tongue.

Even now, the clench of Jungkook’s teeth remains unyielding. You tap one finger on his chest to speak.

“Kookie. I wanna hear your moans. Respect the rules for Mistress.”

“Sorry, shit,” Jungkook winces, with Yoongi incessantly gobbling up another inch. Making sure to let his tongue sway like a merry-go-round. How far his frenulum can stretch, you can’t believe. He is visceral. And Jungkook winding, so sensitive with Yoongi’s breath puffing against his skin.

“You know my punishments,” is the only thing you add, pointing at his marked belly as a reminder before withdrawing the finger from the top of Jungkook’s ribcage. There is something else your hands gravitate towards now. Yoongi’s messy hair. It got puffy in the rain. You make no efforts finding the picture-perfect spot for grip. Simply slipping five fingers into his strands is proper.

“Nnh—!”

“Listen, boys,” you maneuver Yoongi’s head down by another inch. “You both have the same problem.”

Jungkook looks mortified.

“What?”

“My house is still too silent. I wanna corrupt you boys and get a show.”

Yoongi, in a futile attempt to hum on the girth between his buck teeth, makes big enough eyes at you that Jungkook’s following whimpers become even more delightful. Because your hand in Yoongi’s hair has become more resolute.

Poor boy with a throat bulge, barely missing a heartbeat getting more inches crammed into his mouth anew. Rough you want. Rough you get.

Stuffed with tearing eyes and heavy breath. Jungkook’s legs are twitching. You are persistent bringing Yoongi’s head down to the base. He’s choking harder. Jungkook’s legs twitch more.

“Please. Pull him off, please, please, god, shit, I cum—”

Tugging Yoongi backwards makes Jungkook’s dick flop out of his cheek pulsing. A deep sigh follows. Yoongi’s hands grip tight, and you watch with intent. The milky liquid already sputters out, lands across Yoongi’s nose and forehead. Translucent. The prettiest thing in the world.

“Fuck!”

Jungkook has gone crimson in the face. He’s gotten so loud. The room is boiling at this point. Yoongi��s face is decorated with dripping semen. He doesn’t have to blow spit bubbles.

“Lick that off, Kook,” you say. “Be a clean boy.”

The pillow is reduced flat with Jungkook’s head pressing into it so heavily. His heart rate still is working overtime. With Yoongi desperate beside. And you bouncing, a grip at either side of Jungkook’s head. It leaves the mattress creaking to the rhythm.

Whatever happened in Belgrad— you wonder how Yoongi isn’t there making babies this very moment. He’s tired and emptied out Jungkook in a matter of minutes. The tongue between your legs feels delirious. Wandering without aim, poking. With every bounce, it flattens more against your vulva. Jungkook’s eyes rest suavely closed, concentrating on the moment and bringing more stimulation between your folds.

“Missed you so much.”

Taken by pleasure, you squeeze him with your inner thighs. Caress his ears, his comely forehead. The response is one, two moans. Yoongi still watches lying beside you, shaken about with every time you bring your pelvis down to bring friction to your core. Making the bed posts give off increasingly jarring noise, with you hoping the screws will take it.

The gyrating becomes messy. Your hips are tired, too. Jungkook’s languid mouth provides more suction than tongue winding now; his hair is sweaty enough to stay out of his eyes.

“Switching over,” you pant. “Toy’s turn now.”

Yoongi perks up. Demure in his expression, with an aurora of gold crossing half of his face. It’s a bit of sunshine peeking in from the window. His little blinks against the light are soft.

He accepts your hips with splaying fingers that close lightly at your waist. Jungkook normalizes his breath to your close left, already entering his afterglow. You have to be careful leveling your balance not to press Yoongi into the mattress too much.

But his arms make a surprising lift that works to let you grind across his chin more freely. He really has been bulking up.

Slick and agile. Wanton. His tongue carries months of yearning. Of not pleasing anybody.

It’s been so long since New Year’s Eve. But this moment is not meant for looking back.

The arousal bolts deeper into you with every flick and murmur. The movement of his lips brings a final passion to your loins, a heated surge making you groan out. It’s electrifying. And not until long that you start leaking cum on his tongue. Yoongi’s fingers grip a little tighter with your every twitch as not to lose contact with your clit, licking and sucking it through your orgasm until the last waves through your body become faint.

The bed is hardly made for three, but Yoongi’s vibrating phone in the kitchen makes you huddle together almost by instinct. Too disruptive the buzzing noise in the mellow silence that has brought the room into serenity. Legs entangle, sheets crumple up. You talk soothingly at them. Pick up a tube of ointment from the nightstand to spread out on Jungkook’s belly. The balmy feeling cools the marks and smoothens his skin.

With the sun wandering its endless path, now headed towards horizon, comes a placid little half-dozing, half-humming from your left where Jungkook curls up against your side, his hair tickling your armpit. Yoongi has long zoned out after scrambling for the blanket, fully dried, at least, with your coats all scattered on the ground. You kiss his cheek and make a mental remark to send him a text about the details of your planned vacation in Berlin. Hotels, sights, schedule. He’s free in July, after all.

“We can crash at Manolo’s for dinner at eight. Bill’s on me, boys.”

The promise of a late-night visit after napping makes Jungkook hum against your skin. Manolo likes the regulars. To your right, Yoongi smiles into his pillow. He slightly lifts himself out of the cushion to grin.

“Manolo’s. Is it all you can eat?”

Thank you for reading! | masterlist link in bio.

#bts smut #yoongi smut #bts fanfics #jungkook smut #bts #sub!bts #jungkook oneshot #yoongi oneshot #yoongi scenarios #jungkook scenarios #yoongi #jungkook #jungkook x reader #yoongi x reader #bts x reader #bts scenarios #bangtan #bts fanfic #bts fic

550 notes · View notes

lovemesomerafael · 5 years

Text

El Amor Todo Lo Puede Chapter 29: Broken

Chapters 1-25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28

Fin and Laura sat watching nothing from the confines of their unmarked car. There was no activity at the run-down brick house across the street, and hadn’t been since they’d begun this shift five hours ago. Laura squirmed around to change her position. Fin looked over at her.

“You got something on your mind. Might as well tell me, we got nothing else to do.”

“You don’t wanna know.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s man problems, that’s how.”

Fin rolled his eyes. “You’re right. I don’t wanna know.”

Laura threw up a hand.

Ten silent, event-free minutes later, Fin sighed and said, “All right, all right, your man problems will at least be amusing. Spill before I die of boredom.”

“I’m not here for your amusement. Entertain yourself.”

“Whatever.”

Another ten minutes of absolute silence and lack of activity on the street followed. Fin turned to look at Laura once again, raising an eyebrow.

“OK, so there’s a guy. I’m really into him, and I think he likes me, too – he acts like he does, but… I don’t know. I’ve given him a million signals, but he… he just doesn’t respond. He texts, he calls, he comes over, but he never makes a move. Normally, I’d just jump him and see what happens, but this guy…”

“This guy what?”

“I told you, I’m really into him. I care what he thinks. If he’s not into me, I’ll get over it, but I don’t want to lose him as a friend.”

“Bulllshit. You’re scared,” Fin laughed.

“Terrified,” Laura agreed.

“White people,” Fin groaned. “Look, you said this guy acts like he’s into you, right?”

“Up to a point, yeah…”

“OK, so, he obviously likes you. I’m a man, if some woman I like makes a play for me, I’mma be flattered, even if I’m not into her. I’m gonna be cool about it, let her down easy. Never mention it again.”

“So you think I should make an unmistakeable move.”

“Yeah. Just corner Barba and plant one on him.”

“What makes you think –“

Fin silenced her with a look. “Don’t even with me.”

Laura sputtered for a second, but realized the futility of argument.

“And I’ll tell you something else. You better do it somewhere private. Dude’s gonna respond. Bigtime.”

“You don’t know that.”

Fin made a disgusted sound. “Right.”

********

Rafael walked into the breakroom just as Laura grabbed her soda from the tray of the vending machine.

“Hey,” she said, smiling at him.

“Detective.” He looked a little odd. She held the door to the squad room open and stepped aside for him, thinking that he was on his way to see Lieutenant Benson.

“Actually, I came over to ask you something.”

“Oh,” she said, letting the door fall back closed. “What’s up?”

Rafael changed his briefcase from one hand to the other. “I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“The Bar Association holds this annual torture carnival fiendishly disguised as an awards dinner. The worst possible food, lots of irritating people in garish outfits, monotonous speeches. Basically purgatory with a no-host bar.”

“Uh-huh. And you’d like me to arrest you so you don’t have to go.”

“Kind of you to offer, and I’d take you up on it, but this year I drew the short straw. They make sure there’s at least one senior A.D.A. at our office’s table, and McCoy’s just informed me that I’m this year’s martyr.” He stopped and looked pleadingly at her, dropping his voice. “I’m hoping I can talk you into coming with me. I need someone to make snarky comments with so I don’t end up in a rubber room. Or locked up.” He quickly followed up with, “It doesn’t have to be a date. More like… backup.”

“Sounds awful.”

“I promise, it will be.”

Laura smiled. “What should I wear?”

Rafael beamed back at her.

******

Laura was annoyed with herself. He’d said that it wasn’t a date, and she wasn’t going to try to turn it into one. Their unexpected friendship had become too important to her. She was not going to do anything to jeopardize it, including take Fin’s advice and just kiss Rafael. So they would be dressed up. Otherwise, it would be no different than eating dim sum in front of a Fast & Furious movie on her couch. Right?

Still… she was dangerously attracted to Rafael. No matter how resolutely he maintained his distance, his deep green eyes and sexy smirks still struck her mind momentarily blank. And it wasn’t just physical. She responded so strongly to his dry, sardonic humor that she found herself looking forward to seeing him just to hear what he would say. So the idea of spending an evening with him, dressed in evening clothes, just the two of them against everyone else at the bar association dinner, was intoxicating.

She removed her curling iron from the last tendril of hair artfully pulled from the bun in her hair, scoffing at the irony of spending this kind of time creating the trendy “messy” look. She grumbled as she again questioned her makeup choices and tried to determine how much perfume was enticing without overdoing it. She tried to tell herself she was just irritated by the difficulties of trying to prepare for an evening out, but in truth she was nervous. Date or not, it mattered that Rafael thought she looked – and smelled - good. Finally, she was ready to drop her gorgeous new dress over her head and strap on her new heels.

Rafael could not believe he was even thinking about his hair. He had work hair and not-work hair. No thought, no choices. Yet here he was. He didn’t allow himself to consider the thought in the back of his mind that the real question was which Laura preferred. Finally, he decided that this event was work, so work hair it was.

When Laura opened her door, Rafael literally caught his breath. Until that moment, he had thought that was a cliché. Now he knew better. She looked so gorgeous he had actually almost gasped. She was wearing her hair in a way he’d never seen; not the businesslike bun or ponytail she wore at work, or the haphazard knot she sometimes wore at home. It reminded him of the way a woman’s hair got messed up in bed… better not to think about that. Her dress, too, was different than anything he’d ever seen her wear. It was a floor-length sheath in a clingy mauve material with the slightest sparkle, with a trail of twisted fabric draped enticingly across her neck and right upper arm, and tiny straps that left her shoulders and arms bare. The skirt flared just enough from the knees down to swish beguilingly. It accentuated everything he appreciated about her body.

“You, um… wow.”

“Wow?” Laura smiled.

“Yeah. Going with ‘wow’.”

Laura felt almost shy. Rafael looked elegant and rakish (yes, she suddenly realized, that was a real thing). Something about the way he stood comfortably in his tuxedo, looking at her like a man looks at a woman, made her feel clumsy and tongue-tied. He seemed suddenly so urbane and sophisticated, she felt like a gawky teenager.

“Well, you look like James Bond’s hotter American cousin.”

Rafael’s smile of genuine pleasure touched her heart.

He put his hand on the small of her back as they stepped out the door into the street. She shivered at the touch. Rafael guided her to the car waiting to take them to the hotel where the dinner was being held. He saw her notice that it was a town car, rather than simply an Uber or taxi. He smiled. It had been a strange impulse to spoil her that he was now very glad he’d indulged.

When the car pulled into the semi-circular portico built into the ground floor of the hotel, people in evening dress were arriving in limousines, taxis, and private vehicles. Rafael and Laura could see more glamorous people milling around in the lobby behind a glass wall.

Rafael stepped out of the car and held his hand out to Laura. She took it, feeling like Cinderella on the way to a particularly businesslike ball. She noticed with pleasure that he kept her hand in his as they began to walk toward the doors, shoulder to shoulder.

“You ready for this?” He asked, leaning into her.

“Nope.”

“Me, neither.”

“Stick close. I’ll cover you,” she said, leaning back into him, and squeezing his hand.

Rafael knew everyone. It took half an hour to work their way across the lobby to the ballroom where the event was taking place, greeting and being greeted by lawyers and judges. Laura knew some of the people they spoke to, most she didn’t. She was impressed to find that Rafael was always attentive, asking her each time whether she knew the people they spoke with and introducing her when she didn’t.

Laura found herself hiding a smile on several occasions. Rafael made comments to a number of people which, on their face, seemed innocuous, but which she knew were not. Clearly, the objects of the comments didn’t know that, which made her feel like she and Rafael were sharing a secret. It felt intimate. As they moved from one encounter to the next, one of them would often lean toward the other and whisper a private comment about the people they’d been talking to.

Defense attorney Roger Kressler and his 20-year-old wife were the last to greet them before they made it into the ballroom. “Mr. Barba, I believe that’s the only intelligent thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

“What’s that, Mr. Kressler?” Rafael asked, his lips twisted in anticipation of an insult.

“Bringing a police detective as your date. She can protect you from the many, many people here who may want to do you harm.”

Rafael put an arm around Laura. “I’m kind of hoping she has to. I’d love to get a look at that thigh holster I’ve heard about.”

“Just so you know,” Laura said over her shoulder as he led her around the Kresslers and into the ballroom. “’You’re on your own.” She winked at Kressler.

“Thigh holster?” She whispered to Rafael.

“No rompas mis sueños.”[1]

They settled at their assigned table and spent some time meeting the others from the D.A.’s office and their dates. Introductions soon gave way to shop talk for the few moments before the program began.

Rafael hadn’t lied about the bad food. The Governor gave a short, canned welcome speech and the first several awards were presented while the guests were served a dinner of bland, lukewarm chicken. Throughout dinner, Rafael and Laura spoke quietly in Spanish, trying their best to make each other laugh.

Soon after dessert was over, Rafael and Laura scooted their chairs so that they were facing the dais directly. They sat as close together as they could so that they could continue to share snarky remarks about the speeches. Rafael laid his arm across the back of Laura’s chair, which made it difficult for him not to run his fingertips over her bare shoulder. Laura wished he would.

Hours later, when the awards program had mercifully ended and some couples were taking advantage of the music playing and a small dance floor that had been set up, Laura and Rafael sat together near the table, their chairs half-turned toward one another. They sipped surprisingly good coffee and talked about any number of things, forgetting where they were for long stretches of time. Occasionally, during breaks in the conversation, they watched the crowd.

“You’re a nurse, right? Your CPR card up to date?” He asked Laura, over the music.

“Worried about Buchanan?”

“I am. I don’t think he’s done that much dancing since his disco days.”

“Which is apparently a good thing.”

Rafael shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. He’s got some moves. And you have to admire his pluck. Not everyone would have the boldness to do… that… in public.”

They shared a look and a laugh.

Rafael leaned back in his chair, looking at Laura with a bemused expression on his face. “I just realized something.”

“Which is?”

“It’s after 10 p.m., which means this wretched ordeal has been ongoing for over four hours and I haven’t wanted to kill myself once.” He smiled and held up his cup to her in a toast. “Congratulations, Detective, you have performed a miracle.”

“Mission accomplished,” she smiled, and clinked her coffee cup with his.

“I actually think we can safely escape, if you want to. Half our table has already bailed.”

She looked around the room, pondering his suggestion. She didn’t want her evening out with Rafael to end. Returning her gaze to him with a coy expression, she said, “Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You haven’t asked me to dance yet.”

His eyes smouldered. For the past hour, he had been trying to find a way to suggest that they dance, without betraying how much he really just wanted to take her in his arms. He grinned and offered her his hand. “Detective Parker, may I have this dance?”

“I’d love to.”

They made their way, hand in hand, to the dance floor where several couples had just taken their places. The song was a fairly good cover of the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody”, which gave Rafael the opportunity to hold Laura close, as he’d been aching to do all evening. They found that they fit together comfortably; their heights allowed them to make quiet comments to one another without being overheard, which lent an increased intimacy to the moment. Laura felt her body reacting to Rafael’s embrace. She could smell his subtle cologne, something clean with a hint of musk that made her want to nuzzle his neck. As she fought the urge to pull him tightly against her, she wondered how closely she could appropriately hold him.

Rafael was wrestling with the same urge. He could think of nothing but how good her body felt where his arms encircled her. Without consciously planning to, he turned his head to whisper into her ear.

“I’m glad you agreed to endure this with me. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she whispered back.

They slowly danced, neither focused in the slightest on their surroundings, enjoying being so close. Rafael felt Laura give the slightest shake of her head.

“What?” He asked, turning his head and pulling away from her a bit so he could look into her face.

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s… inappropriate.”

“I love inappropriate. Tell me.”

She looked uncomfortable. “I was just thinking that… you smell amazing.” She looked away from his eyes.

He grinned, ridiculously pleased by her comment. “In that case,” he began, in a voice that sent shivers through Laura. “I will tell you that I’ve been spellbound all night by the way you look in that dress.”

She inhaled and looked up at him. He pulled her closer, looking down into her eyes. “There,” he murmured in a bedroom purr. “Now we’re both inappropriate.”

They danced slowly, looking into one another’s eyes, suddenly past all pretense.

“You know,” he said huskily, “I said this didn’t have to be a date, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be.”

Laura pulled him a bit closer, finally giving in to the desire to melt her body into his. “I vote date,” she murmured.

“It’s unanimous.”

He slowly began to lower his head as she tipped her face up to his. At the last moment, they simultaneously realized what they were about to do in front of half the New York Bar.

“Let’s get out of here,” Rafael whispered.

“Let’s,” Laura agreed.

They said nothing as they collected Laura’s wrap and evening bag and walked, hand in hand, out to the hotel entrance. The attendants motioned to the next cab in line, and they slid into the back seat. Rafael put his arm around Laura, and she nestled into him. Both were breathing a bit harder than normal, their hearts beating faster in anticipation of what might happen. They were uncharacteristically quiet.

“That was fun,” Laura finally tried, looking up at him in hopes that he would take the opportunity to kiss her.

He didn’t. Instead, he laughed. “Said no one, ever, about that particular event.”

“Well, I had fun.”

He squeezed her and she snuggled closer to him. “I did, too,” he said quietly, kissing her on the top of her head. “I knew if there was anyone who could make that bearable, it was you. I should have known you’d do better than that.”

Again she pulled away slightly to look up at him. “Yeah?”

He skipped a beat. “Yeah,” he whispered, and tilted down to brush her lips softly with his. She wondered whether he was feeling the same rush of sensual heat from just that small, brief kiss. He was.

He held her hand on the way into their building, then put his hand on her back after holding the door for her. They walked across the lobby, entered the elevator, and rode, silently, to her floor, holding hands and standing more closely than they ever had when riding together in the past. As Rafael followed her to her door and into her apartment, Laura thought he might be able to hear her heart hammering in her chest.

As soon as she’d closed the door behind them, she turned to him.

“We didn’t finish our dance.”

The invitation in her voice was clear. “We can finish it now,” he said huskily.

There, just inside her apartment door, he put one arm around her waist and took hold of her hand in his. She rested her arm on his shoulder, her hand tantalizingly close to the bare skin on the back of his neck. He began to sway his hips, moving his feet to lead her in a small circle. Through her unease about making a move on him, she noticed two things: first, that he was a good dancer, and second, that moving with him felt very nice.

They hadn’t turned on any lights; they were lit only by the glow of the city coming in through the windows. They enjoyed a few moments together before she met his eyes in the dimness, took a breath, and asked, “Hypothetically, what if I said I wanted to kiss you?”

“I’d let you.” He didn’t look away from her eyes, and didn’t stop leading her in a slow, sexy dance.

“Let me.” Laura’s soft voice held a note of disappointment, although she moved a bit closer to him. “Like, just to be polite? Because if you’d let me kiss you just to be polite, I’m not going to kiss you.”

His voice dropped to a throaty purr. “Well, there would be other reasons, too.”

“So you would kiss me back?”

“Definitely.”

“Definitely? That’s pretty good,” she grinned, turning her face up to his but not moving to kiss him.

Rafael smirked wryly down at Laura. “Why are we having a hypothetical conversation about kissing? Why aren’t we just kissing?”

“Because I’ve been trying to get you to kiss me for a long time. And you keep… not kissing me. I didn’t know if that was because you didn’t want to and I didn’t want to kiss you if you didn’t want me to.”

Rafael furrowed his brow. “I want you to.”

“Are you sure? Because I want to, but I don’t want things to be weird.”

“Laura, this conversation is weird,” he almost whispered, their lips now close enough to feel one another’s breath as they spoke. “Just kiss me.”

“Really?”

“Por Dios…”[2]

She lifted her chin and gently pressed her lips to his, moving them softly and slowly. He immediately tightened his arms, pressing her body to his. At first, he kissed her tentatively, but that didn’t last. Their embrace became more intimate as they concentrated on learning one another’s lips, tasting one another for the first time. Somehow, this first kiss felt like a conversation – a confirmation of what they both knew they felt, and an ecstatic acknowledgement that something wonderful was happening between them.

They forgot to keep dancing as their kisses lengthened and deepened. Laura knew immediately that she was in the hands of an expert. After a few moments of skillful, progressively more intimate exploration of her lips, she felt him use the tip of his tongue to tease her lips apart. With a small gasp that went straight to Rafael’s groin, she opened her mouth to him.

Rafael could feel himself already getting hard. His mind was having trouble accepting that he actually had Laura in his arms and that it was her tongue dancing with his, but his body knew. She was almost breathless. He tasted so good, and his body felt so much better than she’d imagined, that she found herself becoming dizzy with desire and holding on to him to stay standing.

“I can’t believe it,” she panted. “My knees actually feel weak. That’s really a thing.”

He chuckled, smoothing his hand over her hair and pulling her mouth back to his. Their kisses became instantly more intense.

Until he stopped. Laura was pretty sure there wasn’t actually the loud screech of tires resounding through her apartment, but she heard that deafening sound nonetheless.

He let go of her and turned toward the living room, taking a few steps away and trying to regain control of his breathing. “I can’t think when you’re close to me.”

She didn’t know what to make of any of this. Breathless and awash in hormones, she was more than a little confused by his abrupt withdrawal. Slowly, she moved past him to drop her wrap and purse on the nearest chair, then turned to him in the dimness. She just waited, standing a few feet from him.

He ran a hand through his hair, dismayed and trying to find a way to express what he needed her to know.

“You know I was married,” he began.

“You told me.”

“It was… bad.”

“You said that, too.”

He stepped back toward her and took both her hands in his. “The things you told me, about how the attack permanently changed you… I’m not comparing my divorce to what happened to you, but… I recognized that. I’m like that.”

She didn’t know what to say, and didn’t want to do anything that might stop him when he was finally giving her the answers she’d been trying so hard to find.

“Can we just… sit and talk?” He led her to the couch and sat down facing her, their knees touching and her hands still in his. The darkness made it easier for him; he didn’t want her to see his shame and pain. But he owed her the truth.

“What happened?” Laura’s voice, soft and low, held warmth and compassion.

“Her name was Anatalia. I was only twenty-five when we got married, but I don’t think it would have mattered how old I was.”

He struggled with what to say next. As a result of whatever had happened to him, he had become a man who didn’t share any more than he absolutely had to. Laura understood that. She was not going to be able to rush him, and the obvious depth of his wounds made her want to protect him, rather than do anything that would make it worse. What had this woman done to Rafael? She felt a profound, possessive anger that anyone could, or would, hurt this man. She waited, trying to be patient until, all at once, words began to spill from him.

“I thought it was forever. I meant it to be forever. And I felt that way until the day she served me with divorce papers. By then, it was hell; she didn’t even try to hide her affairs, or the utter disregard she had for me. But I thought I was supposed to stay in hell because I’d made vows. So that day, when I got the papers, I went home to confront her. You heard that right – we still lived together. I’d been sleeping on the couch for a year, but there I was… still trying to be married. I came into our bedroom – her bedroom, I guess - crying and begging her to try one more time, and she laughed at me. Laughed. She couldn’t have cared less about vows, or forever. Or me. She never had. The only reason she was bothering with a divorce was that one of her boyfriends had proposed, and he had a lot of money. She told me all of that, in so many words.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I loved her completely. She was my whole world, and I had trusted her with everything I was. I had given her everything, all of me. And in that moment, I finally saw that she had never had anything but contempt for any of it. Nothing about me had any value to her whatsoever. That moment… broke me, Laura.”

“Rafael… I’m so sorry.”

“I swore in that moment that I was done with anything having to do with trust, or love. Permanently. I’m like you. The same way you’ve lived your life to make sure you never go back into that room with the dirt floor, I’ve lived mine so I never go back into that bedroom where I got my guts ripped out. Does that make sense?”

She nodded. “Of course it does.”

“That’s why, as much as I’d love to, I can’t get involved with you.”

His words hung between them, so final and necessary to him, so understandable but flawed to her.

“I was with you until right then.”

“I’m not negotiating here. I’m just telling you how it is.” He let go of her hands.

She took her time framing her response. “I respect that. Of all people, I get having a moment in your life that you will do anything never to repeat. I have several. And I understand doing whatever it takes.”

“Exactly. So do me a favor. Whatever ‘buts’ you’re about to give me, please don’t.”

She smiled at him in the dim light. “I think you know me better than to think I’m going to be able to do that. Don’t you?”

He sighed, just the barest hint of an upward tilt of his lips giving her permission to continue.

“If I told you that my only option to avoid what happened to me is never to go outside again, you wouldn’t agree, would you?”

“That’s a false equivalency.”

“No. It’s exactly the same. And it’s no more necessary for you to become a hermit than it is for me to. It was. I absolutely understand that, for a long time, that was necessary for you. But I don’t think it is anymore.”

The look on his face was halfway between anger and some kind of terrified hope. “I disagree.”

“Are you sure? Because you let me in a little. And so far, you’re OK. Right?”

He sighed deeply. “I didn’t mean to let you in at all. But the usual rules don’t seem to apply to you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m kinda known for that.”

“Laura, I have those rules for a reason.”

“I hear you. I do. I understand and I respect that. I’m not asking you to get rid of your rules, or do anything you don’t want to do. But couldn’t we maybe just stay where we are for now? We’re already friends. And if that’s it, then it’s enough. But what I’m thinking is, if you just let me hang out with you some more, you’ll see that I’ll keep on… not ripping your guts out. And then you’ll get so used to me not ripping your guts out, pretty soon you’ll learn that I’m not going to. You’ll forget you didn’t trust me. And you’ll just start trusting me because… osmosis.”

“I don’t think that’s how osmosis works.”

“Shut up, Harvard. It’s science.”

He shook his head, chuffing just a little. “Damn it, Laura…”

He reached for her and they held one another as best they could while sitting side by side.

“I need time. Probably a lot of time. Can we just leave it at that for tonight?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she assured him. “But can I say one more thing?”

“One.”

“That woman? She was dead wrong. About everything. And if you let me, I’ll prove it to you.”

[1] Don’t crush my dreams.

[2] For God’s sake…

#law & order svu #law & order: special victims unit #rafael barba #raul esparza #chicago pd #chicago fire #chicago med #chicago justice

13 notes · View notes

multiverseofmiracleshq · 5 years

Photo

Upon learning that they would be able to make a move to save their captured teammates and strike out against the Phoenix Five, the remaining Avengers gathered together to debrief and strategize. They were joined by a few new mutant allies and a powerful but familiar face.

THIS IS THE OFFICIAL COMPLETE CHAT LOG COVERAGE OF THE IC

SAM WILSON: Things were rough. From the beginning there had been an expectation that this was going to be a difficult right, but this wasn’t just difficult. This was the impossible fight that they somehow had to make possible. Everyone in the debriefing room looked beaten and torn like they had seen better days – and they had. But at least they were alive at all. That was more than a lot of their friends could say. There were dents in his shield and a chunk missing from his wings but Sam Wilson was glad to stand before his remaining team at all. “I know it’s bad out there,” he cleared his throat. “More than half our team is gone. But we can’t quit now. We had some information piled on our current status. I know some of you are missin’ loved ones, but we need you to hold out to the end so we can get through everything. As it stands: the Asgardians have no leader. Odinson was taken hostage by Emma Frost and we lost Valkyrie on the moon to Wither. She’s in the med bay along with all of the other infected patients. Don’t touch them for any reason or you’ll get infected too. Prince Ahura is now King of the Inhumans after Namor killed Crystal. Other casualties include Lana Baumgartner and Nathan Summers at the hands of Magneto. Billy Kaplan was wounded by Magik but we managed to retrieve him from Antartica. Wolverine managed to survive a fight with the Phoenix Cyclops as well, but most of our fights against their hosts haven’t gone well. Confirmed hostages include Kate Bishop, Gwen Stacy, Scott Lang, Jessica Drew, Janet Van Dyne, Doctor Stephen Strange and Rikki Barnes among others. Susan Storm was last seen in Latveria but we’ve lost all communication since. We’ve also had some wins though. We evacuated the Hellfire Academy, Madripoor, Subterranea, Tymyr Peninsula and Wundagore Mountain. Our goal was never to take hostages but currently have the younger Scott Summers and Sebastian Shaw in custody. To those of you who have won your fights, congratulations. Our infirmary has filled up faster than we have room to accomodate. I know it’s a lot, but we don’t have a choice in all of this. Which brings me to my next point,” Sam sucked in a lungful of breath. “We have to bring more protection to Wanda and Jean if we’re going to beat the Phoenix. So far we’ve kept their location a secret but we’re running out of options. Carol and I have been talking and we trust you all enough to tell you that they’ve been in Citrusville, Florida. It’s the Nexus of all realities and we hope that’s enough to amplify their powers. Both Jeans and Wanda have been instructed not to leave but that clearly was not obeyed as last night the elder Jean Grey left Florida for Krakoa and hasn’t been seen since. We’re assuming her husband, Scott, has her so that’s one less option for solving this. Anyone have any suggestions?”

ERIK: “Jean and Wanda are not left defenseless.” Erik spoke up after Sam had finished. He had just been outed to the group as a murderer– which was completely true– but he steered clear of that topic for the moment. “The elder Jean trusted me with their safety, but I had not anticipated her departure.”

AHURA: Ahura sat at the table, arm in a brace from a sprain he received from his fight with Sebastian Shaw, who was currently held in his custody. He had his father and fallen king on one side and his cousin’s lead guard on his left. He did his best not to hold judgement on Dante for what happened to his cousin. “I understand stand that we’ve been trying to keep this as isolated and small scale as possible but I think we’ve all learned that’s not an option.” The new king spoke up. He was beginning to grow tired of Magneto and how everything appeared to revolve around Jean Grey to him, therefore he made it the center of everyone’s attention. “This is a war so let’s treat it like one. I have two armies currently at my disposal along with the most advanced inhuman technology, and I assure you both are eager to avenge their queen and those who died during the attack on Atillan. I’m sure the proud warriors of New Asgard feel the same and just seek a figure to lead them. What I’m saying is that it’s time for drastic measures and full scale offenses less we end up like the other half of our comrades.”

RIRI: “We were trying to do something.” It was the first time that Riri had left her room in over a week. She worked better alone and time kept slipping by. “Originally it was the create a vacuum to suck the Phoenix from its hosts. Still the plan, but we’re also trying to triangulate the locations of those who are missing. The mutants have to be holding them somewhere. Between all your murdering you didn’t happen to hear anything useful did you, Magneto?”

ERIK: “Not so much.” Erik winced, but his expressions remained steady. “There was not much chance of rumors reaching me since I was alone on Genosha. I was brought to Jean and Wanda and that’s the extent of my knowledge.”

LOGAN: “I’ll go after Jean.” Finally Logan spoke up. “She understands the Phoenix better than anyone. We need her.” And he needed to make sure she was okay.

CAROL: Carol was sitting near Sam, though she wasn’t participating as much as she should have been. Instead, she was slouched in her chair, picking at her lips, lost in thought. She’d been dealing with the guilt of allowing the Phoenix to possess the five mutants — she’d been trying to be pacifist instead of putting an end to it then and there, like she should have. Like she would have. But Carol had been trying to fill the shoes of Steve Rogers, and that meant going in with a steady head. “We screwed up.” She finally spoke, offering what input she thought was necessary, despite the leading conversation. “I hope you all understand that we have no friends on the other side right now.” She glanced at Erik, but let it pass. “If you’ve learned anything, it’s that they will stop at nothing to achieve their goals. That includes injuring and killing us. If you haven’t put your war paint on already, it’s time to start now.”

SAM WILSON: “No offense, buddy, but if she didn’t come back I’m not likin’ your odds and we’re short staffed as is.” The Captain folded his arms over his chest as he addressed Logan. He spoke once more after Carol finished. “Just in case it hasn’t been said, your majesty, we’re sorry for your loss. There’s too many of our men falling. The Asgardian’s don’t have a ruler but I’m betting they’re willing to avenge their King as well. Us having an army isn’t the problem. They just keep cutting them down. Who here’s gone up against a host? What do we know about what they can do one on one?”

LOGAN: Logan might have sided with the Avengers, but he wasn’t part of the team. He didn’t have to follow their orders. So he tucked the idea of going after Jean away for later. “I did.” He spoke up again. “He kept goin’ on and on about how all of us were wrong, and that the five of them were going to change the world. He was overpowered and overdramatic.”

SAM WILSON: “You and Val went up against Wither, Dr. Brashear. Only one of you is here so we know it didn’t go well, but did you notice anything?”

JOHNNY: "Sounds about right.“ Johnny said from his place at the table, where he absentmindedly toyed with a pen. "So how are we going to get them back?” he looked straight at Sam, expecting an answer. “And how will we find Sue?”

BUCKY: “Why don’t we ask someone who actually took a hostage?” Bucky spoke up and looked towards Lorna, pointing at her. “She was the one I fought in Wakanda. And she took Rikki with her.”

ADAM: “I got the chance to examine Mr. Ford’s powers in great detail. I’d never seen something quite like it. It was fascinating.” He responded leaning in over the table, some of his injuries still remained. “What I did learn is that his powers now cause the atomic corrosion of any state of matter, including in its negative state, down to the subatomic level. In theory he can destroy anything. Furthermore. I trapped him in one of my opaque light field generators I made in order to protect the earth from threats the like of a supernova or world ending astroid and he was able to burst forth in less than a minute.” In truth, adam had never felt so overpowered by an opponent.

REED: Reed glanced between Johnny and Sam as Sue was brought up. But before he could add something to the conversation, Bucky brought something new to the table. “Right to the source– that’s always the best course of action. That’s how we’ll find her. So–” He turned his attention to Lorna. “You’ve been awfully quiet during this conversation. But it’s come to light that you have valuable information.”

FRANKLIN: Franklin was sat next to his uncle Johnny. He was terrified about all of this. If this had just happened a little bit longer ago he probably could have just willed the phoenix into being a pigeon but now his mother was gone and his powers weren’t what they used to be. “I can’t find her. I keep willing it but I just can’t find her.” He said seemingly looking to the others for answers. “I’ve always been able to find my Mom since I was a baby and now. Now I just don’t know.”

LORNA: A call out. How lovely. Lorna had been mostly unsure about whether or not she should come. Word of her father switching sides hadn’t meant much to her. She had been working with Remy more than him anyway and all Erik had been as of late was a headache. If he had his little epiphany or whatever that was his own business. The only reason she was there was the mutants and the fact that they were no longer safe under the Phoenix Five. "No matter what your whack powers tell you, she’s alive. They all are. Even some of the dead ones. Not all of them, mind you. We can just say that sometimes things look worse than they are. Krakoa didn’t want them to harbor hostages on him, so they got creative. What do you know about the mutant who took Sue out? Her name’s Blink and she’s… Well, she used to a good friend of mine before this. Definitely not the type to teleport the air out or someone’s lungs like she did your mother.”

TOMMY: Tommy couldn’t handle looking at his dumb face any longer. Erik killed them and he was just supposed to sit here and act like everything was kosher. Not happening. Even if it was petty and childish it would be worth it. Time seemingly slowed for Tommy as he began weaving around to the opposite end of the table. Taking a firm grasp on Eriks nipples through his shirt and twisted with gusto before returning to his seat and acting like nothing happened.

GWEN: Trouble trouble trouble. He was trouble. Gwen had been doodling out the hanger battle from Civil War in beautiful stick figures when there was a slight breeze. Cackling slightly she shook her head at the mini speedsters antics while she kept drawing. Half of the Fantastic Four were here and she’d have to lock lips with one at some point.

ERIK: Doing his best to pay attention but also keep quiet, Erik suddenly was caught up in a sharp pain. He winced, taking in a sharp breath of surprise and then laying a hand over his chest in confusion.

HANK: “Quite frankly I don’t care about whose friend they were or how good of people you once found them to be. They’re threats not just to the planet but the galaxy.” Hank finally spoke up feeling annoyed. “I understand wanting to end things peacefully but as Captain America stated, we have no friends on the other side, so let’s not act like we do.” Hank replied as he began fussing with his toolbot as few items came together. “Back to the vacuum concept. It’s promising if it works and that’s a big if. However, there are band-aid solutions that we can use to by time, to name a few, Quantum realm, neutral zone, negative zone and microverse. Banishing even just one there may by us the time we need to perfect a solution and test the effects of what happens to the phoenix when it’s split up between dimensions.” He said ignoring the fact that there was sentient life in most of the places he suggested. He thought it would be best not to bring up the topic of creating a man made blackhole and taking the phoenix five into them in hopes of shredding them to pieces.

REED: Reed huffed in frustration. “The fact that they are dangerous to the world doesn’t need to be debated currently. We need the hostages back.” He shot Hank an annoyed glance before turning back to Lorna. “Her mutation allows her to create portals for teleportation, correct? I’m assuming you wouldn’t bring her up if she hadn’t played a bigger role in this than we are aware of.”

LORNA: “Of course not. And I’m not saying we should go easier on her because she was a friend. I’m saying that that thing looks like Blink but isn’t. I’m no Phoenix expert but if it did that to her I don’t know what to say about the others. Kevin was always a little more rough so I’m not as surprised. He and Clarice are more separate from Emma, Scott and Namor. They’re a team but I don’t think they’re as much in charge. Blink used her Phoenix powers to boost the mutation of Magik. Illyana controls Limbo so together they pulled part of the hell dimension to Earth. Consider it a nightmare realm. That’s where your friends are. Blink and Wither are currently guarding it and you saw what happened when he touches you. Maybe it doesn’t kill you at first but it doesn’t take long to spread completely. If you want your people back you have to get through both of them and Limbo. I’ve never liked humans or how our people have been treated, but too many of us agree that this isn’t the way to fix our problems. We’re making the world worse, not better. The entrance is Cape Dezhnev in the Bering Strait. As for the Phoenix vacuum, well, I think you’d have to talk to my darling big sister.”

TRAUMA: Trauma had been silent just about the whole meeting and finally decided to chime in. “I’ll go… Go to the Hell on earth or whatever you want to call it.” His powers were magical in nature and that’s all he really knew. Between that, his experience with fear, and being able to be the perfectly tailored opponent for any individual it felt like volunteering.

SAM WILSON: "I’m sure we can make a sign up sheet.“ Sam’s voice was wry. "We’re glad you’re here, Polaris. Gambit as well. This isn’t Avengers against X-Men anymore. It hasn’t been for a while. If we’re going to save the world we don’t have a choice but to work together here.”

REMY: “Speakin’ of X-men,” Remy was standing near Lorna as he spoke, hot on the heels of her words. “It’s come to our attention that us mutants don’ all share t'e same ideals as Emma, Scott, and Namor. I know it’s hard as hell to go against people like you in support of people who not only aren’ like you, but also don’ like you, so I don’ blame t'e mutants t'at fought for other mutants, even if it were under Emma and t'e rest. However, Lorna an’ I will be givin’ t'e mutants t'at are left a chance to leave the Phoenix behind. It won’ be easy, but as many as we can get to go against the Phoenix Five will be more t'an we currently have.”

LORNA: Her head inclined towards Remy in agreeance. “We can’t get you onto Krakoa, but we can help you rescue the hostages and let you know what we do. I understand my father has stopped being a raging prick and you have most of the Grey-Summers dynasty as well. Between them and Wolverine you’ve already got an important chunk of the mutant leadership.” Lips twitched at the thought of everyone they were forcing to work together. “So we do our part. What are you doing to stop the Phoenix? If you’re taking the Limbo guards out you better have a plan.”

SAM WILSON: “We don’t have as much of a plan as we should.” Sam admitted. “These last few weeks we went through a lot to keep Wanda and Jean’s location secret in Citrusville, but between one of the Jean’s bailing we’re making exception to our rules. Wanda?” He looked to the door to where he knew she was waiting. “Your turn.”

ERIK: What Erik responded with was almost an eye-roll, but not quite. It wasn’t that he was annoyed with people bringing up his horrible actions as of late, but it made him uncomfortable. “I wasn’t in my right mind. It does not excuse anything I have done, but that part of me is gone now. My mind has been made right again.” He glanced over to his daughter, trying to express how sincerely he felt about it all. “Things will be different from now on.” That was all he had to say for now– and he let the room focus on Wanda and the task at hand.

WANDA: Leaving Citrusville for the first time in weeks hadn’t been as freeing as Wanda would have hoped. Anxiety still knotted her gut and tensed her spine. She belonged back at the Nexus but instead she stood before the war battered group of familiar and foreign faces. It was a conscious choice to ignore her father, knowing that he had made choices she couldn’t condone but didn’t want to discuss. “Vacuuming the Phoenix will only work to a certain extent. I overheard Dr. Brashear say Kevin broke free quickly. It will do the same, and the power will condense itself.” It was hard to explain. Wanda wasn’t a scientist but this was something she felt. “If you go tomorrow to face two of them, send a group after a third. Isolate them. Jean and I will monitor the energy from Citrusville. We need more time.”

CAROL: “So we have two missions then,” Carol interjected. “Rescue the hostages and separate the Phoenix. We will send a team to rescue the hostages, and another to battle the Phoenix. Assignments will come at a later time, but be ready. As it’s been said, this is war.”

VISION: “It’s possible that we could track down the location of a Phoenix Five member.” From his place next to Wanda, Vis took a small step forward to address the room. “I’ve learned that it is best not to bore you all with the details, but there are methods at my disposal that could be utilized. But this meeting has gone on long enough– Wanda should be getting back.”

SAM WILSON: “Of course. We appreciate everyone takin’ time to come out at all, especially since it’s so bad outside.” People had families to protect while they could. “Lorna and Remy will be sticking around even though Erik will be going back to Citrusville with Wanda. Vis, if you could come see me after you drop them off that would be great. Assignments will be sent out tonight about where to go from here. We got any other questions before we wrap up?”

ERIK: “Let’s just be done.” Erik interjected before anyone else had a chance to answer Sam and keep them all here. He glanced back to Vis and Wanda and then swept himself quickly out of the room to wait for them outside.

SAM WILSON: "Your discretion will be appreciated.” Sam nodded his head towards the door. He waited a long moment before following behind. The lights clicked off and the latch turned. They made it through another day. Hopefully they’d be as lucky the next.

#event: avx #avx: versus #avx: versus debriefing #chatlog: versus debriefing #momevents

1 note · View note

kumkaniudaku · 6 years

Text

Moonshine

A/N: I’m inspired by @justanotherloveaffair and her ability to write beautiful smut. This is my attempt to emulate the master. Enjoy some Sunday filth.

Warnings: SMUT

Word Count: 4k

Audio from Beyonce’s Coachella set kept your attention as your younger sister, Tiana, applied a light dusting of contour to the perimeter of your face.

“Get that double chin, girl,” you instructed. “I still have five pounds of hungry weight to get rid of before I can get to the baby weight.”

“Hush, T! You look good. Now you finally have an ass and some to hold up your jeans.”

Tiana dodged your playful attempt to her arm before she returned to your makeup. Despite the self-deprecating jokes, with some help from your husband and personal trainer, you’d learned to love your new body. You were far from the slim figure you sported in throughout your early years, but you appreciated the changes that came from bringing two humans into the world.

“May I ask why you and Chadwick are getting dressed separately? Is something wrong? Do I need to call Daddy?”

You chuckled at her rapid-fire questioning and shook your head, “No, TiTi, nothing is wrong. We’re, um, setting the mood.”

“Gross. I didn’t wanna be part of y’all’s freaky escapades.”

“Too late. You’re an accomplice to the murder of this pu-”

“Lalalalalala! I can’t hear you,” Tiana exclaimed, dropping the fan brush she was using to walking away and search for the setting spray in her kit. “I can’t even believe I’m asking this, but what mood are you setting?”

“I suggested we spice things up, you know. A little role play ain’t ever hurt nobody.”

“Please, spare me the graphic details.”

Rolling your eyes, you caught a glimpse of the message from “Ashy” flash across your screen. Like Micah when she’s promised ice cream, you jittered in your seat. The thought of your plan leading to some passionate, no kids around sex was the most exciting thing to happen in your life in months.

“It’s not super graphic,” you explained. “It’s only a little ‘pretend we don’t know each other double then go home and fuck like college students’ role play.”

Tiana’s dramatic gag made you double over in laughter. “Mama always said you ain’t listen. I bet he just sent you something nasty.”

“See, I wasn’t gonna say anything, but since you did, let’s see what we got from Daddy.”

“Don’t ever call him that around me again.”

“Anyway,” you giggled, “He said, ‘We’re excited to see you later.’”

“We? Who is we?”

The attached images sent in invisible ink kept your mouth closed, mainly to stifle the moan tickling the back of your throat. Looking over your shoulder, Tiana caught a glimpse of what had you so preoccupied.

“Oh my God, do not open that while I’m standing here! This is like hearing mom and dad have sex that one time!”

“Are you comparing your brother-in-law and me to senior citizens? I’m offended.”

“Then you’ll just have to be offended. You’re old now, and Chadwick feels like my blood brother. I never want to hear about y'all's sex life.”

A long pause as she applied your lashes kept the room silent until you decided to speak. “You wanna know how it turns out, don’t you?”

“Girl, yes! If it works, I’m definitely stealing that idea for Nate and me!”

______________

Getting dressed for an event was always a long production for you, but nothing could compare to preparing yourself for the red carpet at Diddy’s annual white party. The lavish event almost always featured a day party with Hollywood’s elite in attendance. This year, the hip-hop mogul decided to switch things up. Instead of a day party, the event was moved to the evening to accompany the theme for the year, the Roaring 20s.

Standing in the mirror, you looked at your ass over your shoulder while twisting your hips. The custom Valdrin Sahiti gown fit your curves in all the right places while providing ample room to twerk and bounce as you saw fit. The bright lights in the hotel suite made the dress twinkle like a brand new diamond, adding to your confidence. Your face was beat, your wig and headpiece were secure, and your shoes were the perfect balance of stylish and comfortable. The only thing missing was your man.

An hour-long drive to the mansion that inspired the Great Gatsby gave your mind time to wander to what would happen during the evening. It felt like you were preparing for an actual first date, except it was with the man that had been in your life longer than most people. Still, the thought of “meeting him for the first time” kicked up nervous energy that you hadn’t felt since your wedding day. For Chadwick, a glass of whiskey and a three-way conversation with both brothers before leaving the suite he was using to get dressed calmed his nerves enough to convince him that carrying a flask to a party full of alcohol was a good idea. By the time the chartered car pulled in front of the opulent venue hosting the event, Chadwick was loose and ready for a good time.

Red carpet pictures for both of you were filled with questions from reporters about where the other one was. Deciding that it would be too weird to discuss your intentions to role play throughout the party, smiles and waves spoke for you. You were sure there would be a headline that all but confirmed your divorce, but it didn’t matter. They would see you making googly eyes at your man on the way out and change their tune while you raced back to the hotel to get what your body folded into a human pretzel.

Stepping inside the mansion opened up a world like no other. A host of famous faces covered in expensive fabrics moved and mingled in the expansive space, freeing themselves from whatever problems they had before coming inside.

“Tasha, girl, you look good,” you heard from behind you as you leaned over a railing to search for Chadwick for what felt like the hundredth time. Turning around brought you face to face with Jemele Hill and her boyfriend.

“Me? Girl, you! How you been?”

“Working and pissing off these old white men. The usual,” she laughed. “How are things with you and the family? I see you pulled up here alone.”

“The family is good. The kids are great, and Chadwick is doing well.” Your decision to ignore the latter portion of her sentence was not lost on Jemele.

“Oh, so you just gon’ not say anything about the last part, huh?”

“He’s here. Between you and me, we’re playing a little game. Consider it foreplay.”

“Oh, really,” she asked, looking over your shoulder with a smirk. “Looks like the other player is ready to get the game started.”

“Wha-” A warm hand on the small of your back and the scent of his familiar cologne alerted you to the presence you’d been looking for since the party began.

Jemele offered a silent smirk and nod before walking away to greet other party goers. After taking a deep breath, you turned to face Chadwick for the first time all night.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” He greeted with a broad smile and a confident aura that took your breath away. Running his fingers down your arm to reach your hand, he lifted your knuckles to his mouth to brush his lips across them. “I’m Chadwick.”

“I-I, uh, I’m...I have no idea who I am right now. Damn, you look good, baby.”

“Co, you ruined it,” he laughed, pulling you close to peck your lips.

“I’m sorry! Dammit, I was supposed to say my name, huh?”

“That’s usually how those conversations go.”

“But these conversations have never involved a man as fine as you. Turn around so I can see you.”

Taking a step back, Chadwick allowed you to hoop and holler as he gave you the full scope of his outfit. Using Quick from Harlem Nights as a style reference, Chadwick dazzled in an updated version of the classic choice. The white blazer and shirt contrasted his brown skin beautifully, complementing the black bowtie, pants, and shoes that went with the look. A red rose on his lapel, and an ornate pocket square tied the look together. You almost felt underdressed standing beside him.

“What you smilin’ at, girl?”

“You look so good! Is this the day my husband outdresses me at an event?”

“It might be,” he chuckled. “You look amazing, Sunshine. I saw you when you walked in, and I couldn’t even focus on the conversation I was having.”

“So, I make you lose focus? I’ll keep that in mind.”

Chadwick’s eyes twinkled with mischief before he spun your body around to direct you through the crowd.

Returning his hand to the small of your back, he leaned over to whisper in your ear, “Enjoy it now. You’ll be the one losing focus when we get back to the hotel tonight.”

A high pitched squeal of excitement left your lips, making him laugh. For the remainder of the night, no matter what was taking place at the moment, whenever your eyes would land on your man, anticipation made your body hot to the touch.

You watched him move around the room like he owned the place, waiting for the signal to head to the door. Every dance resulting in your ass being pressed to his crotch was torture, and he knew it. Inconspicuous nods to the door only made him want to stay longer to draw out your excitement for what was waiting for you on the other side of room 1405. But, as the party continued and the shots of “moonshine” were passed around, you noticed Chadwick morphe into a version of himself that you hadn’t seen since both of you were much younger.

The more the alcohol was introduced to his body, the more loose and carefree he became. Carefree turned into uncharacteristically loud and handsy, making you worry about what was to come.

Pulling him aside, you cupped his face in your hands to get a look at his eyes. Sure enough, Chadwick’s drooping lips did little to hide his red eyes.

“Babe, you’re drunk,” you deadpanned. “Let’s go. I’m not babysitting you through a hangover in the morning.”

“I’m fine, Sunshine! We’re having fun, right?” His arms circled your waist as he dipped his head to kiss random places along your jaw.

Alcohol mixed with his natural scent, creating the smell that you hoped would be intertwining with yours in a moment of sensual passion. It was clear that the only action you would see tonight was a 200-pound man smothering you under his weight for ten hours.

“You’re having too much fun. It’s time to tell your friends goodbye.”

“You look so cute when you’re mad at me.”

“You haven’t seen mad yet, Aaron. For the last time, let’s go. You’re one shot away from stumbling out of here and embarrassing yourself. These shoes are too cute to be dragging your heavy ass.”

“Those shoes are cute, baby. Did I buy those?”

“Get yo’ ass outta here, nigga,” you scolded Chadwick through gritted teeth, adding a hit to his arm with your clutch.

You sent a silent prayer to God, asking him to grant your inebriated spouse the strength to pull it together long enough to make it out of the building with no major mishaps. Channeling the sober actor deep inside, Chadwick made a clean exit, but not without sneaking one last shot when you weren’t watching. The last shot would prove to be the dagger.

Riding back to The Peninsula hotel was a task as both of fought to prevent Chadwick from ending up on TMZ the next morning.

“Drink the water, Chadwick,” you whispered through pursed lips. “If you throw up in this car or on me, I am going to call your parents.”

“I’m trying, Co. I feel like I gotta -.” His sentence was cut short by a loud dry heave, startling the driver.

“Is everything okay back there? I can stop if you need me to.”

“He’s fine!” Your answer was a little too cheery and obviously a lie. “Please, no matter what you do, do not stop this car. Get us back to the hotel as quickly as you can and pull up to the back entrance. I can handle it from there.”

Chadwick managed to hold in the consequences of his rapid alcohol consumption until he reached the hotel room. The moment his expensive oxfords hit the plush carpet of the hotel suite, the race to find a nearby receptacle was on. From the small kitchenette, you watched with an annoyed stare while he hurled into the first trash can he could locate.

“Baby, help,” he whined from his spot on the couch. His body sagged against the couch to match his disheveled appearance and crestfallen expression. His eyes, round as saucers and pleading for your attention, were almost too hard to ignore.

“Hell no. I told you to slow down, and you didn’t. Suffer. I’m taking a shower and going to bed.”

Over his shenanigans, you retired to the bathroom to take off your wig and wash off the night before stretching across the bed naked to mourn what could have been. The idea to masturbate the pain away was fleeting, leaving you to scroll through social media feeds until you were tired.

Chadwick followed your lead soon after and took a shower to forget about the evening’s events. He knew he shouldn’t have gone that hard, but when the drinks are flowing and the vibe is right, it was hard to turn down a shot or ten.

After allowing the shower water to wash away his sins and begin his descent to sobriety, Chadwick entered the bedroom with his shoulders slumped.

“I never want to drink like that again, baby. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry to me,” you answered without turning to look at him. “Be sorry to yourself. You knew your old ass didn’t need that much liquor.”

“Shit, if I didn’t know then, I sure as hell know now.” Ignoring your condescending “mhmm,” Chadwick chose to take advantage of your position on the bed and rest his head on your bare ass. He hummed a sigh of approval as he wrapped his arms around your waist and nuzzled his face your supple skin. “This is the only thing that makes sense right now.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get comfortable. When this tutorial is over, I’m getting dressed for bed.”

“Give me five minutes, sweetheart. The room feels like it’s spinning.”

A Jackie Aina holiday look tutorial played in the background, becoming the only sound in the room for several minutes. While you clung to the YouTuber’s every word, Chadwick drifted in and out of sleep with his face pressed into your behind. The concoction of Ace of Spades and whatever was in the house Moonshine was still influencing his decisions, and trying to convince him to do the unthinkable. There were a few trends he promised he would get himself into, but the alcohol was in control.

He started with a quick kiss to the cheek he was laying on to test the waters. A small peck didn’t kill him or garner your attention, so he decided to up the ante. With a hand gripping the left cheek, he ran a tongue across the right side before sealing it with a kiss.

“What are you doing, boy?”

“I have no idea. Just go with it.”

“Aaron, if you don’t - oooh!”

In an unexpected turn of events, Chadwick’s hands spread your cheeks to make room for his face. Your breath hitched when his tongue came in contact with your rim, surprising you while sending a tingle from the tip of your toes to the top of your head. He’d done a lot to your body with his mouth, but this was a first.

You’d heard the stories from your girls about their significant others venturing into uncharted territory, and told yourself it was something that you wanted to experience without forcing the issue with your husband. Now, with your body writhing in pleasure against your man’s face, you finally had a story for the group chat in the morning.

Chadwick was lost in his own world, alternating between different pressures and speeds as he used his hands to jiggle your ass for his amusement. His tongue swirled in time with his long index and middle fingers pumping in and out of your center. You saw stars, and with the assortment of liquors in his system acting as a low budget Heart Shaped Herb, he showed no signs of letting up.

“It’s too much,” you whined between whimpers. The slurping behind you and the wetness leaking from your core added to your sense of euphoria, making the current activities overwhelming.

Chadwick chuckled at your attempt to tap out and continued to give your rim his undivided attention. His tongue flicked between your puckered hole and your perineum, drawing breathless moans from your throat. The more you voiced your approval, the more he met your cries of pleasure with groans of his own.

Feeling your walls contracting around his fingers, he took the opportunity to attack your clit with his mouth. Chadwick sucked and licked without regard for your mild convulsions under the weight of his arms. Pushing your right leg up gave him a better angle to suck the rest of your consciousness from your pussy. He was a man on a mission for your pleasure and his. As far as he was concerned, he could and would taste you until the sun took its place in the sky the next morning.

You came with a silent scream followed by an ear-splitting groan before your muscles released to leave you in a pliant heap. The way your chest heaved in search of oxygen to replace what was lost during your mind-boggling orgasm. You needed five minutes and a water break before you could engage in any more activities. Chadwick only needed a split second to shimmy out of his briefs before he was flipping you onto your back and pulling you to the end edge of the bed.

You yelped in surprise and readied yourself for whatever he had in store. Chadwick’s eyes were blown wide with lust, a far cry from what you witnessed at the party. Lifting your legs, he used one hand to keep your ankles together and the other to stroke himself.

“C’mere, girl,” he growled into your ear before aligning his tip with your entrance. He stared at your pussy in awe of the way the head of his dick glistened the more he rubbed the sensitive area along the seam created by the position of your legs. Still, he wasn’t satisfied.

Letting go of your ankles, he pushed your legs until they were parallel to the bed on both sides. He wanted you wide open for him, and you knew what to do next. Braving through the sting of the position, you took control of your legs to keep them open. As your hands gripped your thighs, he slid into you in one fluid motion.

Chadwick’s jaw dropped to let out a moan that you couldn’t distinguish from yours if you tried. Leaning over, he thrust his tongue deep into your mouth to accompany his deep strokes. The way his chest hair teased your taut nipples and the coarse hair of his beard rubbed against your face as he sucked on your neck felt like sensory overload. You hoped the slow swivel of his waist to hit every spot within you would continue until both of you collapsed in satisfaction.

Instead, after he’d suck every inch skin he could get his mouth on, Chadwick began a relentless pace. His hips snapped to yours rapidly, his shaft disappearing and emerging drenched in your juices each time. His hands pressed your waist into the bed as he threw his head back and let out a string of praises and primal grunts.

“Look at this pretty ass pussy,” he husked with his eyes fixated below your waist. “Who this pretty pussy belong to?”

“You! It’s yours!”

“And what’s my name, gorgeous? Say my name.” He slowed his pace again to suck your bottom lip into his mouth, not releasing until it was swollen and red from the contact. It felt like he’d taken your common sense with him, leaving you wide-eyed without a clue on how to make your mouth say words. “What’s my name, baby?”

“Fuck,” you squealed as he returned to his quick thrusts. “You fuck me so good, Daddy! Shit!”

“Let me see if you can take all of it, Co. Turn around for me.”

You didn’t have time to comprehend the instructions before you were flipped onto your stomach and repositioned at the edge of the bed.

Your feet could barely hit the ground before he spread your legs with his knee and pulled your hips back to meet his body. He stilled for a moment to kiss a trail up your spine and to your ear.

“Can you take it,” he whispered into your ear while nuzzling his nose into your temple.

You responded with a nod and a breathy ‘yes,’ receiving praise and a gentle kiss to your ear.

With the pads of his thumbs buried in the small of your back, he resumed his long, deep strokes. The bed quaked in time with his rhythm, creaking under the power of his movement.

You reached for any available fabric to keep you steady as you tried to form a coherent thought. For as long as you’d be intimate with Chadwick, you’d never allowed him to do all the work during sex. Though he’d dominated the encounter thus far, you had to contribute to the group effort.

Mustering up some strength, you met his strokes at the halfway point, earning a pleased moan. His hand came down hard on your thigh as he increased his pace, daring you to keep up. The burn of his skin colliding with yours triggered an animalistic nature in you that was rarely explored.

“That’s right, baby, use me. Give me all that shit.”

Chadwick didn’t verbalize his reaction past a few grunts of effort, prompting you to twist your body to look back at him. When he pulled his eyes from his work to look at you, the fire in his eyes was one you hadn’t seen in a while.

Even in the dark, you could make out a primal desire smoldering behind the eyes that always looked at you with love and admiration. Releasing his bottom lip from his top row of teeth, he reached to your face and gripped your chin.

“Look at me.” His movements never stuttered despite the momentary shift of focus.

Obscene smacking and expletives filled the atmosphere already thick with the musk of sex. Chadwick’s grip in your chin forced you to maintain intense eye contact through the onset of another orgasm.

“Kiss me,” you rasped. “Kiss me right now!”

He obliged with no hesitation, pressing his palm into your back to flatten you against the bed before connecting his mouth to yours with a string of his saliva. Under normal circumstances, the thought of someone else’s spit entering your mouth in this manner was a hard boundary. Fortunately, these weren’t normal circumstances. You welcomed the lewd fluid swap with your tongue outstretched. His lips came crashing against yours seconds later, excited to nibble and lick to his heart’s content. Together, your tongues explored each other’s mouths and absorbed moans to eliminate some of the noise in the room. Chadwick’s left hand moved from your waist to fondle your breasts while he kissed your shoulder blade.

“You gon’ cum for me, baby girl? I wanna feel you all over this dick.”

“Mhmm! Yesyesyesyes!”

“Good. Tell everybody on this floor who got you this wet.”

“You, Aaron!”

“That’s right,” he smiled against your shoulder. “Tell everybody who’s making you feel like this, Queen.”

“Fuck,” you gasped as the first wave of your release came crashing down “You, baby!”

Knowing and feeling how close you were to his desired goal, Chadwick straightened his body and pulled your arms behind your back for leverage. With your arms crossed in the middle of your back, your body shook through a gushing orgasm, soaking your legs and his to match the tears rolling down your face.

The strength of your release, the pulsing contractions of your walls surrounding him, and the waning effects of the alcohol contributed to your husband’s pursuit of his own orgasm.

“I’m ‘bout to cum, T. Can I c-”

“Do it on my face, Daddy.”

His eyes searched yours for any sign of reluctance or a joke but found none. He couldn’t believe that you of all people would make such a request. He was intrigued and ready to live out a dark fantasy from his late teens.

He pulled out of your pussy and jerked himself until you were situated on your knees in front of him. Pushing his hands away, you took over.

Your hands twisted in alternating directions as your mouth focused on the head of his dick.

“Got damn, Co, just like that,” he groaned with his hands palming the back of your disheveled cornrows. “Fuck, let me finish.”

Your hands relinquished control to slide up and down his thighs while you braced yourself. Chadwick pumped at his shaft vigorously, moaning and rasping incoherent phrases until he was at his peak.

His release came complete with a booming grunt and his toes curling beneath him as ropes of thick cum sputtered across the smooth plain of your cheeks and mouth. You thought you’d feel disgusting, but the more he came, the more you felt like the most powerful woman in the world.

His massive head tapped against your lips until he was sure there was nothing left to give you. Immediately, your tongue jetted from your mouth to taste all that you could reach.

“Mmm, you taste so good, Daddy,” you purred, still covered in his cum.

Cupping your face, he pulled you to your feet while enthralling you in a kiss so passionate you could feel your knees buckling below you.

After what felt like an extra ten minutes of kissing, Chadwick left to fetch a warm towel to clean both of you up.

“Damn, Lil Bow Wow, who knew you were down to get this nasty?”

“Did you just call me Bow Wow,” you laughed. “How rude! I was going for Queen Latifah in set it off.”

“Right now you’re Skin Diamond, and I’m not mad at it. This was definitely top five between us. I’m willing to give it the number one spot.”

“Oooh! Wanna see if we can...top it? You’re not too tired, are you?” You pulled your bottom lip into your mouth, hoping that he would agree to one more round before you were forced into quiet sex when the kids were asleep.

He quirked an eyebrow at you with a smug smile, “Is that a challenge? You must be trynna make another baby.”

“Woah, no! That is not what I said! Put me down!” Your squeals and giggles fell on deaf ears as Chadwick hoisted you over his shoulder to carry you to the hotel balcony.

“Nah, you were talkin’ real tough, CoCo! We ‘bout to make a baby on this balcony. Hell, we at least gon’ get some good practice in!”

______________

TAGS: @njadont @k-michaelis @wakandanmoonchild @idilly @texasbama @afraiddreamingandloving @inxan-ity @daytimeheroicsonly @onyour-right @brianabreeze @sisterwifeudaku @ironsquad @killmongerdispussy @90sinspiredgirl @willowtree77785901 @maynardqueen101 @heyauntieeee@halfrican-heat @purple-apricots @lalapalooza718 @blue-ishx @profilia @ljstraightnochaser @girl-wtf-lmao @dramaqueenamby @royallyprincesslilly@melaninmarvel @thiccdaddy-mbaku @lavitabella87 @purplehairgawdess@unholyxcumbucket @airis-paris14 @uhlxis @oshasimone @maliadestiny@drsunshine97 @cozyshack2 @zxddy-panther @queentearra @skysynclair19 @retro-melanin @mermaidchansons @misspooh @melanisticroyalty @babygirlofwakanda @wakanda-4evr @sarahboseman @karensraisns@blackmissmarvel @wakandankings @kaykay4454fan @ororowrites@awkwardlyabstract @mixedmelanin @brownsugarcocoabutterwildflowers@sunflowerpsalms @panthergoddessbast @justanotherloveaffair @jaeee-http @iliketowrite1996 @blackpantherismyish @thompettiedatheaux @msincognito67 @reignsxjackson @yaachtynoboat711 @syreanne @ilcb7@minim236 @yoyolovesbucky

#Chadwick Boseman #chadwick boseman smut #chadwick boseman imagine #chadwick boseman x reader #chad x coco #black panther imagines #black panther fanfiction #black panther smut #black panther

225 notes · View notes

polarishpd · 6 years

Text

All Of The Stars Chapter 1: The Greatest Show

The Figure Skating Plance AU that I hope a lot of you wanted and didn’t know you needed ;-)

Summary: Katie Holt loves to skate. Simple as that. So when her brother Matt leaves their legendary ice dancing duo to pursue his studies, she doesn't let that stop her from becoming one of the world's top ladies' figure skaters.Castle Rink has always been her home, home to her ice, her best friends, and every part of her skating life. So it's more than surprising when a brand new coach turns up, wanting to set in roots and find a home too.It's even more surprising when that new coach turns out to be Lance McClain.

Word Count: 4102

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15378726 (HunterWizard, All Of The Stars)

"And now, we welcome one of the most anticipated skaters in this final group standing at second after a phenomenal short program. Only a few years into his senior debut and already a three time national champion in his hometown of Cuba and a two time Worlds and Grand Prix Finals medalist! Everyone, welcome to the ice...Lance McClain!"

Without missing a beat, Lance glides smoothly on the ice, greeted by an immensely loud cheer and applause. He's dressed in a simple outfit, comparatively gentler to his short program outfit (which, with its low v neck and fiery reds, was the talk of the town). Black pants, a dark blue jacket edged with bright blue on the buttons and sleeves. The audience goes wild, waving posters and banners with his name, his face painted on them, girls screaming, guys screaming. Everybody loves Lance McClain.

He's ready for this. Lance knows he can make up those three points that Lotor has on him from the short with no problem. If one thing is for sure, it's that PCS is his strength. PCS is his strength.

Starting pose. Simple, feet in a V, head looking down, hands behind his back. The crowd goes quiet, excited, anticipating the performance to come.

And the music begins.

Soft, quiet notes quickly evolve to a sharp, controlled tango.

Adios Nonino. He did always love the piece. Another warhorse, but no matter.

"McClain comes from a very small fed, so it's remarkable, what he's done. And such maturity for his age...you can see how even the first few transitions of the program have so much thought put into them. Remarkable."

He smoothly glides across, his crossovers perfectly matching the ascending music. Three turn, three turn...up in the air, land with bent knee, swing knee back, up in the air again.

"A splendid quadruple toe-triple toe!"

Without missing a beat, Lance skates faster again to pick up with the music, using a complicated entry into his favorite quadruple salchow.

Lance launches into a flying camel spin, the cheers from his jump barely finished. Instead, they grow, as he does his signature sit spin position, pulling up into an upright spin and exiting with a pivot.

Lance lets a little smile show, for his second-favourite portion of the program is about to begin. For sake of points, he kept majority of his jumps in the second half, bridging the gap with his infamous step sequence.

"McClain is famous and very much loved for his expressive step sequences-"

A rocker, timed with the music. His arms dip along with his choctaw-mohawk-counter, eyes raising to the sky while he kicks up his leg and moves into a smooth-as-silk twizzle.

"-He always achieves his Level 4, and honestly would get a Level 5 if such a thing would exist, haha...-"

The music builds, and Lance ends his step sequence with an illusion, rocker-counter-loop turn combo right at the side of the rink.

Onto the jumps again...

"That's a very high quad sal-triple toe, just inside the second half!"

Lance allows himself to let out a sigh of relief.Thank god. He always was weak at that combo.

"His final quad, the quad toe coming up..."

Difficult entry. With an irrepressible grin, he impulsively throws his hands up, clasping them together as he turns in the air. His last quad needs to be beautiful. And he lands it, as solidly as the first, the crowd going wild with his little surprise.

"Quad toe with the hands above the head! Beautiful!"

Lance smirks.

Lotor wouldn't stop him. So what if he had a quad lutz? So what if he had the best technical content in the world? It doesn't matter. Because Lance lives, breathes, loves skating, with all his heart. It would take something big to stop him-

Thud,

Suddenly, his head spins, shutting down. Lance's limbs stop co-operating, turning to jelly, his brain spinning incomprehensible thoughts, none of which were focused on skating.

What's happening? Why can't I move? Why can't I feel anything? Come on! Wake up! Lance, wake up, not now-

His feet slip out from under him.

Thud,

Lance's head hits the ice.

Thud.

Everyone goes silent, the music quieting.

Adios Nonino has never sounded more ominous than now. The commentators don't even say anything, too stunned, too shocked.

Lance lies pitifully in the center of the rink, slumped on his side, blood trickling down the side of his face. Paramedics shout, flooding the rink, the whole crowd suddenly breaking into screams and yells and shouts, howling in pain for their favourite Lance McClain, screaming in anger, the ruckus creating a cacophony of sound in the echo-filled stadium.

The only part of Lance left on the ice is a trail of blood.

~2 YEARS LATER~

"Pidge!"

Castle Rink bustles with the usual crowd of kids, teenagers, a few kids practicing for their upcoming tests. But among the childish amateurs was a girl, back arched gracefully, just spinning, and spinning...and spinning....

"PIDGE!"

The voice startles her, Pidge tripping out of her spin and nearly landing on her face. She can hear Keith snickering on the side.

"What the hell is it, Allura?!"

"I've got news! A new coach!" Allura, standing at the edge, yells from across. Pidge skates over quickly, relaxing beside her on the edge.

"A new coach coming?" Pidge echoes, leaning on the side of the rink, sipping from her sports bottle. "He any good?"

"One of the best, apparently," Allura chirps, gracefully loop-turning around her. "I watched him while he was still competitive. Very artistic. You could use some of that!"

Pidge glares at her, pouting childishly, rubbing her eyes and slipping her glasses back on.

Meditatively, Pidge drinks in the ASMR-esque scratching, the slightly-wet-but-not-too-wet ice that became her favorite, the little sandwich place that Hunk works part-time at, the mix of rock and pop music always blaring, everything has been there for years. Castle Rink is the most homely place for any kind of skater, whether a first-timer or an international class figure/hockey skater. So a new coach? That would shake things up considerably.

There was always Shiro, hockey and figure skating coach. He also used to coach Pidge more often until Allura came. Allura, ex-competitive figure skater who was extremely successful in her time, and one of Pidge's favourite coaches. Coran, retired speed skater who loves to teach children and beginners, and is amazingly good at getting people started. Hunk and Keith, who (together) were two of the best young hockey coaches for the little league that she had ever seen. And there's Pidge herself! Ever since she was legally old enough, she'd started coaching along with her competitive skating. She wasn't amazing, but she was good for her age. So having a new coach would be...strange. New. Pidge's train of detailed thought is mercilessly interrupted by-

"-Why the fucking hell is Hunk wearing a tutu?" Keith yells, loud enough for Hunk to hear him from the other side.

"Keith! Mind your fucking language!"

Pidge snorts.

"Shiro? The hell bruv?" Hunk makes a face of horror, clasping his hands over a small child's ears. "And by the way, it's called, "I'm not restricted by notions of toxic masculinity", and one of the little boys felt sad because no one else was wearing a tutu!" Hunk yells from the side, turning back to his class. Pidge giggles.

"Keith, maybe you should throw one of those shits on. Maybe then you'd actually look cute. How about a tiara?"

"Oooh, burn..." Keith rolls his eyes. Suddenly, he plops on the ice, spreading his arms out and snow angeling, his hand snatching out and pulling Pidge down beside him. "I need ice so badly for it!"

Cue two giggling teenagers lying on the very-cold ice, a bemused tutu-touting coach, two face-palming coaches, and a host of judgmental skaters looking at the crew with raised eyebrows.

How the holy hell she's a coach, Pidge still doesn't know.

Speaking of coaching, the more-buff-than-average-skater Shiro swoops from Allura over to Pidge on the ice, smiling down at her with a mockingly patronizing look. Ugh. Pidge can hear the swoons of a bunch of teenage girls and the sound of one of them falling on their ass.

Wait.

Oh crap.

Class.

Jump class.

"You ready for class? Hope your flip is good today."

Pidge slouches over, skating a quick lap and ending in the center.

"...sure."

~~~

Pidge thanks whatever gods are out there that the doors of Castle Rink are automated. Somehow, Shiro had managed to even make her arms ache.

Ahh...

The air's cooler now, as per the months changing to the fall season. No problem. Pidge's spring green tights, leather jacket, wool-knit sweater and boots are admittedly more than necessary for the weather.

As always, the walk home is boring. Lonesome. None of the gang live anywhere near her, so she's lived alone for so long, just to train at Castle Rink. Her only friend is her trusty skate bag, clanging at her side. That reminds her, she's really got to buy a Zuca bag at some point for the sake of her shoulders.

If only Matt had stayed...

Curses. Pidge shakes the thought out of her head angrily, stomping into the apartment. It's anything but bare, since Pidge has lived here for so long; Hoarder Pidge had collected all kinds of knick-knacks, a lot of which were posters of her favorite shows, some of her old inventions, and gifts from fans at competitions. Ever since that one time she mentioned a love for power rangers and anime, that was all she was getting.

Whoosh.

Off goes her jacket, off goes her sweater. She's left in tights and a tank top.

Pidge falls back on the bed with considerable force, her hair tickling her rough pillow. Carelessly, her phone flops out of her hand and on the small nightstand, glasses following soon after. Quiet night air seeps in through the window, tickling her face. Dammit, Pidge is too goddamn lazy to go close it. Besides, the cold never bothered her anyway, right?

She just wants her eyelids to fall shut, for her brain to go right into the dreamworld. After all, she does really need it.

"Not enough knee bend!"

"GODDDAMN IT, SHIRO, YOU CAN'T MAKE ME TRIPLE LUTZ LIKE TEN TIMES IN A ROW!"

"Now, now, who says I can't?"

That goddamn sunshine smile hides so, so much ruthlessness. Pidge scowls.

She's not able to sleep.

Why can't she sleep?

Ding!

New Message From: Allura

Groaning, Pidge rolls up and puts on her glasses again, her back sliding up to the backboard of the bed, tank top riding up. Grumpily, she reads the message.

Allura: I've just locked up, but new coach is in the rink trying it out! He's cute ;)

Pidge rolls her eyes, laughing a little. Allura did try to set her up a couple times, but picky, analytical, practical Pidge had never really considered any of them a possibility.

Pidge: Can't possibly be cuter than you, Allura.

Allura: You flatter me. You might like this one!

Pidge thinks:

1) She can't sleep.

2) She's restless

3) New coach. New coach. New coach!

Maybe she'll ask for some lessons. Or maybe she'll learn some things from him to coach. Or maybe he'll be a completely inextricable douchebag. So many possiblities, and Pidge didn't know what to expect. Allura was definitely withholding his name on purpose.

Pidge doesn't like knowing. She's used to knowing. And Pidge is undeniably, undeniably excited

Well...it wouldn't hurt to walk back to the rink now, would it?

Pidge can almost see Allura laughing at her already.

~~~

Hmm...

So this is Castle Rink, huh?

Nice sign. Hmm...unlock the door...wow, automated doors! Very clean, light blue and teal themed, minimalist decor...not bad. Holy shit, is that an in-house burger bar?!

Upon reading the signs and Allura's multiple apologetic text messages about not being able to come, Lance figures out where everything is with ease. It would be nice to settle in.

It's been so long since he's had a rink to call home. There was always something wrong with each rink, and they'd always found something wrong with him.

"You're not worth the trouble!" said the head coach in a rink in Cuba. Actually, multiple coaches in Cuba had said so. His students were sad to see him leave, but the coaches certainly weren't. Being casual was apparently bad, who knew?

"All you are is a skater. You'll never be a great coach." said Iverson, the first head coach he'd come to know (and hate. A lot) in America after moving, pulled in by his few memories from Skate America, the burgers, the pizza, and the new atmosphere. Maybe he'd be liked more here, he had thought.

Lol.

Many coaches were old, and traditional, and stuffy, and very prideful. Lance was literally everything but; so his "Wassup, amigo!" greetings and suggestions of new techniques had not gone over well. Heh. They sure were jealous of his talent, right! Talent for actually making the kids like him, for getting to kids to understand and listen.

Maybe here would be different. Lance sure has higher hopes for Castle Rink. Especially...especially because of a certain skater. She's athletic, has great spins and a quirky style on the ice...one Katie Holt. Not exactly America's sweetheart, but more of a dark horse in the ladies' field, winning a few surprise international medals. She's a unique story too, what with being American Junior Champion in ice dance with her brother Matt, breakout stars, and suddenly switching to singles the season after.

He plops his bag down, sitting down on one of the benches, quickly lacing up his skates with his strong, learned and lean fingers, tightening them enough to squeeze every little bit of life out of his feet, much like himself as a whole.

Even in the darkness, the rink looks abundantly beautiful, the light shimmer just reflecting flecks of ice on the edges of the rink. Fresh ice! Great!

Lance hops over to where the music controller is...supposed to be? He's not great at this. He peeks down at his phone again.

Allura: Careful, the music system is easy to damage if you're not careful. And it's on the right, don't forget!

Shit, okay then...Lance plugs in his phone, scrolling through his music list with a fast-moving thumb. What to play, what to play...

Oh.

He stops scrolling.

Hmm.

Click.

Lance has tried not to listen to this song as much as possible since...the accident. But something about Castle Rink makes him want to revisit this, to try it again. The poetic irony of the lyrics nearly makes him break out into painful laughter. Maybe his song choice doomed him! Who knows!

Lance slips on his gloves, pulls off his legendary light-up blade guards (that the kids had loved, the media had...questioned, and his fans had adored) and skates onto the rink. A great sensation.

A new rink, a new beginning...

A new program.

The first notes of the song begin, and Lance lets himself be whirled away.

~~~

This is the worst idea Pidge has ever had. The fucking worst. And she's had her fair share of bad ideas.

1) She didn't bring food, and she's suddenly starving, and there's an unfortunate lack of convenience stores near the rink,

2) She only threw on her sweater and abandoned the jacket, and it suddenly decided to turn colder than the fucking ice. What the hell?!

3) For all she knows, this coach could be a pedo, an idiot, a creep...and she's about to meet with him alone! Shit!

No no no no. Pidge eliminates the last one. Allura handpicked him. Coran met with him, right?

What if he's actually cute?

Slightly out of breath, she stumbles through the automatic doors, annoyed that he'd left it unlocked and unsafe, but somehow also grateful that he'd left them unlocked so she could stumble in with the gracefulness of a freaking elephant. Fuck, the cold really is getting to her...

Warm.

Who knew that would be a word to describe an ice rink?

It's quiet at first, but as Pidge walks through the front, passing the counter and rentals, gentle notes of nearly ominous sounding music echo, become striking as the song progresses.

Pidge walks forward.

Step.

Scratches of skates. Amazingly deep edges that Pidge can even hear. And they're smooth as day, the flow never truly stopping.

Pidge starts to run, pressing herself to the edge of the rink.

There he is.

Is it...no....way...

Lance McClain?!

With the grace of an angel, speed of a Maglev bullet train, he glides across the ice. Crossover, turns, all executed with perfection, arm movements just hitting every little beat in the music.

I was the one who had it all I was the master of my fate

He looks so serene. How is he still skating? Wasn't he injured? What happened to Lance McClain, why is he only a coach?!

I'll never shake away the pain I close my eyes but she's still there I let her steal into my melancholy heart It's more than I can bear

In all of her competitive years, she only ever got to see Lance McClain skate live once, once only...and she never forgot it. His arms swing above his head dramatically, opening slowly as he does multiple three turns.

Now I know she'll never leave me

He turns right into a perfect triple loop. Amazing. Landed right on time. Height, distance, flow...a little less than what she's seen, but fucking gorgeous still, especially considering everything.

And be with me for evermore

A camel spin. His signature sit spin. Gorgeous position, pulling into a haircutter and exiting. One of the only men in the field to do layback positions. One of the things the people loved him for. Pidge would never admit it, but she had copied that very spin combination a lot when she was younger.

It's not idolatry, Jesus!

I rage against the trials of love

I curse the fading of the light

Though she's already flown so far beyond my reach

She's never out of sight

Step sequence. Who the hell choreographed this program? He never skated this in his career, not that she can remember. His unfortunately short career. He skips a couple jumps, replacing them with a little toe tap to landing position which Pidge guesses should have been quads. No non-competitive skater maintains quads or the stamina to skate a full program like this.

Now I know she'll never leave me

Even as she fades from view

She will still inspire me

Be a part of everything I do

His skating is too honest, too expressive to be faked. The pain on his face is not an act. It is so raw that Pidge can nearly feel the longing, the adoration...the regret. Lance never liked serious, deep programs...Pidge's eyes can only widen with wonder. What does this mean? He is so beautiful...wait, what the fuck?

Wasting in my lonely tower

Waiting by an open door

I'll fool myself, she'll walk right in

Another spin, even faster than the last. The music builds, and builds, and so does Lance's speed with back crossovers. No way. He's not done with the jumps? So late in the program, and he wants to jump?! Shitting hell, what's wrong with this guy?! And as the long, long nights begin, Three turn... I'll think of all that might have been,

His knee bends...

Waiting here for evermore! ...one...two...three...

He doesn't land.

...four?!

Pidge thinks he's going to make it, he's so close to making it...but suddenly, he loosens his body after the four rotations as if losing concentration, crashing to the ground with an awfully, painfully loud thud.

The skater slumps on the ice, resembling a dead corpse. Bad analogy.

No. No. No.

He doesn't move for a moment.

Pidge waits. And waits.

Still no sound.

Shit.

Pidge drops her phone and dashes onto the ice as fast as she humanly can.

"Hey, Lance? Lance?!" she grabs his shoulder, shaking hard. "Lance! Hey, come on, wake up! We kind of hired you as a coach, pretty bad form to faint before your first day!"

Quiet.

Still no sound.

"Dammit!"

Pidge turns away, almost ready to speed off the ice and to her phone, when out of nowhere a hand grabs her wrist and pulls her with unexpected strength.

"What the-"

Lance McClain is sitting up, smiling, those captivating blue eyes staring right into her own. Pidge gapes for a second, and another, and another. There's barely any distance between them, Pidge kneeling and still shorter, her face tilted upwards slightly. She can almost count every freckle...

"Katie Holt, isn't it? Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Pidge doesn't answer. This isn't exactly the meeting she'd hoped for.

Wait!

Suddenly, her eyebrows knit, eyes narrowing and mouth pinching in. She breaks her hand out of his grip and moves away, his face falling slightly.

"Were you faking it back there? Falling? Injury?!"

The moment dissipates in a flash. Lance chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck and looking down, before fixing Pidge with a charming, mischievous smirk.

"I'm not only a figure skater, I'm also an amazing actor, didn't you know?"

"You-you saw me?! Watching you?!"

"Yes, I've got eyes..." Lance studies her face, teasingly flicking her glasses. "Probably better ones than you, judging by these. And I think you liked my skating, no? I know I'm charming, but I didn't know I was so good-"

"Oh, shut up."

Pidge gets up, turning away in a far-fetched effort to hide her deepening blush. This...is definitely not what she expected. Pidge runs off the rink, grabbing her phone and starting to run out. Lance skates off, faster, not even bothering to throw on his bladeguards.

"Hey, wait!"

Lance pants.

"Wait!"

Pidge doesn't stop, nearly managing to hurtle out of the doors when she feels a familiar grip encircling her wrist again.

"Ugh, stop that, seriously!" she berates. "Ever heard of personal space?"

Lance doesn't apologise, flashing another smile.

"It's kind of late, you look like you haven't eaten-"

"-how the hell did you know?"

"-I'm magical, that's how. How about I treat you to supper? You pick the place, I'm new to here."

Pidge shakes her head, much to Lance's surprise. That usually works. Of course, how could expect the same things to work on Katie Holt that would work on normal girls?

"You just scared the shit out of me there. Not exactly the best first impression, McClain," she scolds, one eyebrow raised judgmentally.

"Uh, well, sorry, thought it would be a fun way to...break the ice?"

"Not funny."

"Aww, not appreciating my puns?"

"I'm leaving-"

"-Hey, come on, I'm sorry! I need someone to take me around, I only know my apartment and this rink in this area. I need a tour. Pleaseee Katie?"

Pidge pauses, staring at Lance, thinking. He wants a tour at midnight? Weird guy. But she was hungry. And he is treating. And this would be the perfect opportunity to get in with this guy before Hunk and Keith, as well as ask all the questions she's been burning to ask. Why did he retire so early? Why is he coaching here of all places? Why was he a dick and faked a serious injury just to tease her?!

He puts on puppy eyes, pouting like a little kid.

What the hell.

"Fine."

He breaks into a grin, bounding up and running to the changing room, changing out of his skates faster than Pidge has ever seen anyone do, zipping back right in front of her with his bag slung on his shoulder.

"Oh wow, we have the same bag."

"Really? That's nice."

"I hate my bag."

"...oh."

As they walk out the doors, Pidge stops and turn to face Lance, who's too tall for comfort.

"Hey, for the record, don't call me Katie."

"The hell am I supposed to call you then?"

She smiles, jolting Lance. She sticks out her hand, which he takes, shaking it firmly.

"Call me Pidge."

I hope you enjoyed! Check my blog for the next chapter soon :)

#plance #lance #pidge #pidgegunderson #katieholt #voltron #vld #lidge #flirtyrobot #pidgance #seasalt #lancemcclain #fanfiction #voltronlegendarydefender #figureskating #figureskatingau

34 notes · View notes