#my last salary has been more of an insult than anything else but still

[sun-dari]

so the russian edition of mdzs is finally finally getting a reprint and apparently it is a very good edition and so it is insanely expensive but i heard there are not so many copies so i have to decide quickly if i want to spend this much money and i learned about it five minutes ago and it gives me anxiety but at least there is international delivery (which is probably also insanely expensive) so at least i won't have to ask my sister to pick up and re-send my books for me again and subject myself to the mortifying ordeal of being known

[planetsano]

push and pull.

prompt: bakugou has been neglecting the reader because of work. she can't handle that because all she wants is love and attention.

warning(s): ceo!au, major sugar daddy vibes, aged up, hurt/comfort, f!reader, softie baku at the end.

pairing(s): bakugou katsuki x reader

You definitely felt like a spoiled brat. Walking around the Gucci store with a pout displayed on your glossed lips and nose held high like nothing in the vicinity was even close to being decent enough for you. Heels clicking lightly against the marbled flooring as you wandered around. This was such a drag. Your manicured finger lazily traced a handbag on a display table, it was probably worth someone's salary but you weren't interested. Your eyes were locked on the handsome blonde man pacing back and forth outside the big glass windows of the store. He was angrily speaking into the phone stopping ever so often to insult whoever was on the receiving end.

That— that stupid jerk is Bakugou Katsuki, your boyfriend, and he pinky promised to spend the day with you uninterrupted. Meaning no work calls, no emails, no boring paperwork— just you and him spending time together. He even promised to buy you that new handbag and the matching shoes you’ve been absolutely dying for but here you were in your current situation.

Recently, Bakugou has been incredibly busy with work but you couldn't exactly blame him. He was the CEO of a very successful multi-billion dollar company. But these  past few weeks felt like you could never catch him not answering a business call or typing some boring email. Attempting to get one kiss from him always led you to be met with a dismissive wave of the hand as he answered the call. You knew it wasn't wise to bother him any further because he did have a temper. You’ve seen countless people on the receiving end of his rage and you didn't want to be met with it. Though it was sexy at times, you never liked upsetting him so you just left him alone. Always feeling deflated and discouraged as you opened up a tub of your favorite ice cream. Stress eating. This happened on multiple instances over the course of nearly a month. Quite frankly, you felt unwanted and it was driving you mad.

Walking around this store, there were so many beautiful and luxurious things, but your heart wasn't in it. Shopping wasn't much fun without his hand in yours giving you his opinions about how a dress or shoes would look on you, helping you zip up your dresses and sneaking naughty makeout sessions in the dressing room. Don't worry, you knew you looked pathetic. All pouty and woe as me. My rich boyfriend isn't giving me attention, life is so tough… you could laugh at yourself right now.

You missed him a lot but you were understanding… as understanding as you could be. You wondered if it was selfish to feel this nasty feeling pooling in your chest and stomach. Was it selfish to feel.. neglected? Was it selfish to want to have him all to yourself for just a day?

Was he.. losing interest in you? Was there someone else? Surely work couldn't take up that much of his time.. Did you upset him recently and didn't realize? Feelings of anxiety and nausea started to bubble up within you.. You didn't feel well at all and started to get sick to your stomach the more you got caught up in your thoughts. You wanted to leave. Now.

You hastily exited the store to find Bakugou. It looked like he was just about to come back in to find you, but you stopped him in his tracks. Almost immediately he noticed how drained you looked. Like there was something bothering you. He thought maybe some had said something rude to you but before he could react you spoke.

“Baby, can we go home? I don't feel good..” You looked up at him with a frown, your dainty hand resting on his chest.

The car ride back was quiet. Bakugou noticed your sudden change in demeanor causing him to take more than a couple glances at you in the passenger seat. Usually you'd be so bright and talkative, ushering him to sing along to whatever shitty song you had playing but you were radio silent. Maybe you actually didn't feel good? He would make ure to have his assistant buy you some medicine.

Men are so clueless..

“You ready?”

Your eyes averted their attention from your reflection to the handsome blonde casually adjusting his cufflinks behind you. He looked absolutely stunning standing there in an all black suit accompanied with a red tie. It not only complimented his eyes beautifully, but it matched your sparkly red gown as well. It almost pissed you off how he could be doing the bare minimum and still manage to look that good. But now wasn't the time to oogle. You came up with the conclusion that if he wanted to neglect you then you’d give him a dose of his own medicine. You ignored his presence and picked up your favorite highlighter and a brush, dusting your collarbones lightly to make them pop.

Bakugou walked a few steps closer and you continued to focus on your reflection in the mirror. He leaned over to plant a single kiss on the end of your shoulder, then made a trail of light and soft kisses along your shoulder blade, to the base of your neck and finally to that sensitive part of skin just below your earlobe. It took everything in you, plus more not to give in to his affections, but you desperately wanted to melt under him. You were so incredibly touch starved, especially these days. You missed him, but at the same time you were so upset with him. You couldn't just give in the moment he realizes you exist again. Fuck him. You were supposed to be angry. Not needy.

“You look fuckin’ amazing..” His voice was deep as he whispered into your ear. You closed your eyes tightly and sighed deeply, quickly getting up from your vanity stool and brushed past him, not even looking in his direction. You didn't get far before Bakugou grabbed your wrist and pulled back towards him fully closing the gap between you two and secured an arm around your waist making sure you weren't going anywhere.

God, you could feel him staring a hole into your head as you looked off to the side avoiding eye contact at all costs. You just couldn't bring yourself to look him in the eyes. You’d break.

Bakugou grabbed your face with his free hand forcing you to look at him, temporarily squishing your cheeks and making your lips go into a kissable pout.  His harsh crimson gaze was locked onto your doe like eyes making you feel incredibly vulnerable and shy. You hated the power he had over you. Something as simple as eye contact making your ears and cheeks flare up in the color red. The thoughts and emotions from earlier coming back all at once threatening to make you sick all over again.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He asked bluntly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and irritation from your behavior. He could see something was bothering you and it was pissing him off that you weren't talking to him.

“Nothing.. I promise..” You replied. “I'm happy! See?” You forced a smile on your face as Bakugou watched your bottom lip quiver and eyes water as you tried to pathetically convince him you were fine all while looking like a kicked puppy.

“You’re a shit liar. You're about to fucking cry.” Bakugou’s hand shifted to cup the side of your face. You leaned into the warmth of his hand

“Tell me what's wrong.” His voice was still blunt and expression still stern. He never wants to see you like this. Sure, you got upset or even bratty from time to time but he's never seen you in this state and it worried the fuck out of him.

“I-I.. I just-!” You struggled to find proper words to convey how you felt. His thumb rubbed your cheek gently somewhat calming you down and keeping you from hyperventilating.

“Breathe.” His voice and expression softened upon seeing you teary and vulnerable.

“I just miss you!” You blurted out. Bakugou looked down at you with his brows furrowed in confusion.

“You're so busy with work you seem to forget I exist, I don't say anything because I-I’m proud of you and I want you to be successful! I understand you're very busy but.. but is it too much to ask for thirty minutes of your time? Katsuki, I miss spending time with you-” Bakugou watched you pour out all your emotions and thoughts like word vomit.

Guilt hit him all at once like a fucking train seeing you crying because of him. He was the reason you felt like this and he wanted to punch himself in the face for not noticing how unhappy you were sooner. He did admit that work seemed to be the only thing he’s been about lately. Neglecting his love life, his friends, his family, maybe even his own health. Even holding you this close made him realize that he hasn't been.. this close in proximity to you in a while. He fucked up.

“I-Is there someone else? Is that it? My hair.. I can change it if you'd like. Do you still love me? I-” That was the final straw for him. He cut you off with a swift kiss to the lips. It surprised you but you almost immediately moved your lips into sync with his. The kiss was sloppy and too many emotions fueled it, but the most prevalent one was want.

Bakugou’s heart ached hearing your words. Of course he still loved you. Everything about you was perfect in every way, there was no way on Earth he would lose you over some random extra that probably only wanted him for his money and last name. The fact that you were so.. willing to change for him to make him happy because you were so in love seemed so... wrong. He thought that if anything he should be the one trying to make you happy. He couldn't give a fuck whether your hair was long or short, curly or straight, he loved you regardless. Your appearance was never a factor in his feelings for you. Only a bonus.

He pulled away from your lips suddenly and looked at you. Your eyes were puffy, mascara was running and your lipstick was smeared but you still looked beautiful. It was a look he particularly liked but, it was not under these circumstances. You were usually on your knees.

“Don't say stupid things like that.” Bakugou started.

“..I'm so shit at relationships..” He struggled with his words and you could see it in his face. He wasn't ever one to express how he felt.

“‘m sorry for treating you like a fucking stranger.. you know I love you. No one else could even hold a fucking candle to you, that shouldn't even be a thought in this pretty fucking head of yours.” He sighed.

“I don't fucking care about how your hair looks.. I only care about you.” He finished.

Your crying stopped at some point when he was speaking and you were only met with soft hiccups. Bakugou wiped the final few tears from your cheeks and left a kiss on your forehead.

“Stop crying over me. I'm not worth it.” He whispered against your skin. For some reason his words shocked you. Not worth it? You thought was worth all your tears plus more, what was he on about? Did he really think he wasn't good enough for you?

“You don't say stupid things like that either. You're worth all the good things in the world.” You said softly. Bakugou’s heart fluttered at your words and he almost felt himself blush. There was a comfortable silence before you spoke up again.

“Oh no,” You looked at the time. “We're going to be late to the event and I look atrocious” You looked up at him with a pout.

“Fuck it. They'll be fine without us. Those bastards are annoying as hell anyway.. Let's get dinner, yeah? You can pick where we go.” Bakugou proposed and you smiled.

“Let's go.” You stood on your tippy toes and planted a kiss on his lips.

a/n: I hope you guys enjoyed this! For only 2k+ words I feel like I took forever to write this. I just wanted it to be up to standard.. feedback would be amazing. Also, my requests are open! Thank you for 100 followers! ❤️

[darkacademicfrom2021]

The Dark Team (part 11)

<<Previous part Masterlist   Next part>>

Warnings: Cookies and idiots. You might get diabetes.

N/A: I'm on a family trip right now so I'm being a little unactive but I'll do my best to be still updating on here. Thank you so much to everyone who reads and comments, you truly make me want to write twice as much.

The Dark Team: (Taglist: @lucywrites02, @louieboo87, @the-departed-potato, @jesuswasnotawhiteman, @idontknow296, @beksib, @spythoschei, @geekwritersworld, @whatafuckingdumbass, @mysticunicorn7 @shadowolf993 @toe-vind-ek-jou @joscelyn02, @t00-pi )

“Are you sure that’s how you should be sending those?”. His nosy ass telling you how to do your job in your midgardian electronics was just amazing, truly. “It would be faster for them if you send it with that link instead of…”.

“Listen, Mischief”, you interrupted his unnecessary corrections “I don’t tell you how to levitate, what about you don’t tell me how to do this?”.

“I don’t levitate”.

“Not the point. This is my deal. Besides, since when and how do you know how to handle midgardian tech?”.

“I… I’m bored”.

“Do I look like an entertainment to you right now?”.

“What do you mean right now? Are you planning on entertaining me later?”.

“I will choke you if you keep doing that”.

“Do you promise?”.

"Yes, my dear".

"Can't wait, then", he smirked. You rolled your eyes, about to answer something snappy, but the work was more important at the moment.

Your phone beeped, pulling you out of the very one sided discussion. You went back to your work in silence, getting your full focus and concentration on it. If it weren’t for Loki, you would’ve already done a thousand more other things. But, as a bug on the lenses, he was stuck to your side. It seemed like you were babysitting him.

Peter was staring at the roof from the couch. A pile of homework laid by his side, untouched, and his unlocked phone seemed to be waiting for him to make a call he didn’t want to. Loki observed him, unsure if it was a good idea to ask. You looked at his uncertainty from over your shoulder, and watched him finally give up on the idea of socially interacting with the kid, sitting down by your side on the big, big (and, exaggeratingly pointing out, big; yet he sat in the nearest chair from you) table.

The compound certainly was a boring place when uninhabited, and the sun was already teasing with coming down, making the common room’s lights turn brighter and warmer. Maybe it was automatic, maybe it was Friday. You couldn’t care less, for you were too distracted by Loki’s gaze on your work.

“Loki, for fuck’s sake, would you stop staring, my dearest?”, you asked, imitating his tone of voice, hoping it’d make it less aggressive and a bit more fun. He rolled his eyes and smirked, understanding your intentions. You sounded as tired of him as you were.

“I’m...”.

“Bored, I know. What about you go entertain Pete? He looks equally, if not more, bored as you. And you’re interfering with my work, which I do not appreciate very much”.

“How am I supposed to entertain him? I’m not a clown”, he argued, slightly offended but just wanting to make time and conversation. You sighed.

“Then why do you act like one?”.

“What is that supposed to mean? Is that a midgardian insult I’m not aware of, pancake?”.

“Stop calling me that, it’s not derogative”.

“It wasn’t intended to be deroga…”.

“I’d kill for some pancakes”, interrupted Peter, trying to pull you two out of your quarrels. “Or something sweet”.

“Oh, the kid got peckish. This is perfect; you can go get him something sweet and leave my workspace alone”, you said, patting his back with an exhausted grin.

He rolled his eyes, but walked down to the kitchen looking for whatever could satiate Peter. There wasn’t anything. One would think that a billionaire would have the fridge full of chocolates, wouldn’t you?, he thought, exhausted by the idea of having to actually leave the compound to get him something. Last time he tried to buy something in Midgard, he accidentally paid three salaries to the workers in the name of Stark. He was so embarrassed, he said it was on purpose and called it an act of mischief. But it was, in fact, pure and raw unawareness of midgardian’s use of money.

“What about we bake something, Mr. Loki?”, proposed Peter, with a flaming interest in seeing what those magic hands could do with food. You chuckled, pretty sure they could do nothing; he had been a prince for over a thousand years, when could he have learnt to bake by himself?

Loki lowered his gaze, confronted with both thoughts of his companions, and their respective expectations. Truth was, you were right. But he couldn't disappoint the kid like that, he had to at least try. Peter's eyes shone brighter than ever, and you wondered if Loki was actually enjoying his company. They looked fine. And, finally, you had some space to work without distractions.

“In normal circumstances I’d reject you, spider boy, but since y/n seems to be about to hang me by the neck on the tip of the tower, might as well do this”, he said, stealing a glance at you and smirking.

“It’s an honor you decide to spend your last moments baking with me, Mr. Loki”.

“Sure, let’s go, child”.

“I’m not a child”.

“Alright”.

And just like that, they left the working area and moved to the kitchen. Both rooms were connected by a huge glassless window and a counter, so you were able to peep in and make sure they didn’t actually burn down the compound (which was the only rule Tony had) and work peacefully at the same time.

After what seemed like an eternity, they still couldn’t accept they were failing miserably, and kept stirring the mix in a bowl. Flour formed clouds around them as Peter sneezed it away, and Loki’s hair had some cream on his (now not so) impeccable hair. Peter laughed at Loki’s commentary and poor baking skills, and Loki playfully mocked how his stickiness wasn’t helpful at all.

“Have you ever baked before, Mr. Loki?”.

“I haven’t but I’ve seen people bake, I figured I could imitate them”.

“Your mum, right? I used to bake with my aunt May a lot, but just now I realize maybe she was doing everything and I was eating the dough by her side”.

“That sounds more like it”, he chuckled. The mixing bowl trembled in his hand as he got distracted by the flying eggs coming at him, and it slipped out of him, smashing near half the mix onto the floor. “Oh, fuck”.

“It’s fine, we can use the one that’s left!”.

“Your positiveness astonishes me, spider boy”.

“Spider man”.

“Right, apologies”.

“We have already put in the flour, the sugar, the eggs, the milk… What else is in the recipe?”.

“I’m trying to remember, let me see”, he closed his eyes and muttered to himself “they used cinnamon, I think. And maybe butter? Yes, and chocolate chips”.

“Who?”.

“Ah, this recipe isn’t my mum’s. She didn’t bake either, you know, Queens don’t get their hands dirty” he laughed. “It was my companion’s”, he spat and suddenly realized what he had said. He lowered his head and sighed.

“Your companion?”, asked Peter. “As in partner? A spouse?”.

“Not spouse, just… you know, I’m just realizing I shouldn’t be talking to you about it”, he brushed it off, absolutely regretting it. Because Peter, unlike any other person, lacked filters.

So he would ask and ask and not realize where to stop. And at that point you could say Peter had become some sort of a weakness in Loki’s roughness. Peter was the softest, purest and better intentioned person he had ever met (or at least that’s how he saw him; of course, Loki had never seen him in action, fighting crime), and Loki was incapable of actually denying things to him. It didn’t matter how much Peter insisted on not being seen as a child, Loki was a thousand years older.

“No, please do. Now you’ve caught my attention”, he insisted, trying to clean some of the dough from the floor. Loki sighed, watching how the kid begged him to tell him more from his feet. “Please, Mr. Loki, I swear I won’t tell”.

“Well, my lover was the one who used to cook for us”, he explained as if he was telling someone else’s story. He clearly was trying to disengage his own emotions in order to tell them out loud. “And they’d usually bake some kick-ass cinnamon cookies”.

Peter had to grab the counter to steady himself from laughter, and you couldn’t help to snort at the conversation you were indiscreetly eavesdropping. Loki smiled.

“Then we have to replicate them, if they’re so kick-ass to make you say a midgardian expression”.

“We must, but I can’t remember quite well the next steps. It’s all sort of a blur now”.

“Can’t we ask them?”.

“No”, he said quickly. The air tensed, and untensed as fast as he realized. He especified again, trying to sound less affected by it “we can’t”.

“Oh”, Peter sounded so disappointed, Loki’s heart broke a little. “Are they dead?”.

“Oh my God, Pete, you can’t just ask…”, you intervened, trying to save Loki from further discomfort.

“It’s okay, they’re… well, they’re gone”, he said with a soft voice, raising his eyebrows as who tries to explain to a little kid why their fish is upside down, leaving to the imagination the typical trace of sadness that would follow. His eyes focused on the mixing bowl, reminiscing another time, another way. Eyes of someone who tries his best to never forget the little details from someone who’s not here anymore, because memories are all he has left. He immediately snapped out of his thoughts and tried to play it cool. “But guess who’s not gone? This dough on the floor. Let’s clean it up, kid”.

“Gone as in dead?”, insisted Peter, who had a very poor self control. You would’ve grabbed your face with eight hands if you could.

“Peter, don’t…”.

“Yes, they’re dead. Inside a coffin, rotting, getting eaten by worms. You know”, said Loki, this time jokingly, trying to scare off Peter. But it didn’t work, since Peter just kept asking about it. Loki was already too tired of having to take his brain yet again to places he didn’t want them to be.

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Loki. Must be very painful”. The empathy in his eyes gave Loki the hint that he was not only being sincere, but curious about Loki's life. Interested, engaged. Not just morbidly curious, but wanting to get to know him better. Unfortunately, Loki couldn’t allow that. He would have to get the mission done, not make any friends, and go back to Asgard as alone as he came. It was the deal, the price he had to pay, the invisible handcuffs, the imaginary rope tying around his neck. Tightly, tightly, tighter.

“It’s alright, it was long ago”.

“Was they Asgardian, like you?”.

“I’m not actually Asgardian. I was raised there, but I’m from Jotunheim”.

Loki managed to move the conversation further than his lover (which he regretted highly to have brought the subject in the first place), and Peter got more and more interested in confirming how many of his mythology stories were true or not. The kitchen was the warmest place in the whole compound, and something started to smell like burnt sugar.

“So you did actually make Sif, Thor’s wife, bald? And did he make you go get her a wig in Svárthelfeim?”, he asked at the speed of light, and Loki laughed.

“Lady Sif’s not actually Thor’s betrothed. And no, I didn’t make her bald”, he said, and then muttered “she just happened to have a very low quality shampoo”.

“Ah, the cookies!”, Peter turned off the stove and took them out carefully, as to not get burned (again).

Loki peeped through the window to check on you. Your head, laying tiredly over your hands, seemed to be about to give up on you out of exhaustion. You haven’t slept properly since the mission started, and you couldn’t get your head off work for a moment. He approached you from behind and left a fresh cup of coffee and a couple of warm cookies by your side. You smiled at him gently and thanked him. If it wasn’t him you were talking about, you could’ve swore he blushed.

You have gotten so tranquil after one simple gesture, you hoped to get all your nerves down before going to sleep. Maybe it wasn’t that bad to have been stuck with them in the compound. They seemed to be having a good time, and Loki had nothing on his mind more than to have a rest after such hectic days.

“How long until you finish there?”, he asked with a low voice, a raspy, almost groany voice, that made you want to shut your computer down and throw it out of the window. You didn’t, instead, you checked your clock.

“Very soon, I’ll join you guys in a bit”.

[aelin-queen-of-terrasen]

chapter - one | beautiful disaster

Full Masterlist

Beautiful Disaster Masterlist

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I watch the door, awaiting his arrival.

Cardan struts into the building with his eyes fixed on his phone. He looks as unimpressed with everything around him as the last time I saw him. His clothes are ironed to perfection, the crisp collar of the black shirt barely covering most of his tattoo, save for the serpent's head that peeks out from beneath it. I'm convinced his outfit alone is worth more than the annual salary I receive from Balekin.

He looks up at me and the force of my hatred hits me like a brick to the face, all my plans feeling impossible now.

"Shouldn't you be somewhere else, licking Balekin's boots, pleasing him and all, Jude?" he sneers. There's so much disdain between us, it feels impossible that it would ever be otherwise.

I will myself to ignore his barb. I'm used to much worse insults, and to retort might increase my chances at failure. But I'm drunk on my resentment at his position; he has everything I ever wanted, and yet he laments about it. His presence makes me reckless, makes me want to do things I shouldn't do.

"At least I'm capable of pleasing him." I tell him with a small smirk.

His rage is prominent on his face now, the mask of boredom gone. He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful even when he's angry, it seems unfair. I try to dredge up some pity for him. He has a brother who is hell-bent on making him a copy of himself, another brother who hates him, an indifferent father and a scheming harlot for a mother.

Yet, did Madoc not raise me to become a mirror of himself? Surely, he can't resent me for something I do not have.

But he does. I see it in his eyes everytime he looks at me, how unworthy he thinks me of everything. The feeling is mutual, the hatred between us as intense as it is unreasonable. It's for Dain, and for the gang I belong to, that I bother to look at him, to earn his trust.

I step forward, deliberately putting pressure on the heel of my left foot. The near broken sandal gives out, and I fall into Cardan's arms.

His coal black eyes burn into mine with an intensity I do not expect. I am so sure that he'll drop me, but his grip remains firm as ever. His phone falls onto the ground with a loud thud but he pays it no mind. For a moment, all his attention is directed on me.

It feels as wonderful as it's scary.

When I pull away, my heart pounds loudly against my chest. "Balekin wants you to see him as soon as you arrive."

"Of course he does," he mumbles something else, then walks off.

Cardan's phone lies on the floor, right where it fell earlier. I allow myself a small, triumphant smile. I am quick to retrieve it, limping away with one show broken and remind myself to find an extra pair to change into before I arrive at Dain's mansion.

I find Lilliver the first thing when I enter. "Unlock this one for me, then bring it over; you have thirty minutes."

Dain is neck deep in paperwork when I knock on the open door.

"Ah, Jude," he looks up with a grin, "one of these days, you should listen when I tell you to walk right in, don't knock."

His eyes move over my body, expression morphing into concern as he assesses me. To save him the question, I say, "I'm fine, he didn't suspect a thing. Should I be offended you don't trust your own second-in-command's abilities?"

I slide into the chair across from him. He still looks unsure, so I add: "He may loathe me, but he is no murderer."

Dain's expression darkens a little, the goofy grin vanishing from his face. "He was still raised to be ruthless and cruel. Forgive me if I worry about you, Jude," The words sound like a lament, and his voice is softer when he continues, "It's such an inconvenience to be worried you might get hurt because of me."

"I appreciate that," I tell him, lips twitching up in amusement, "but if it came down to it, I could kick his ass."

"I know you can." Dain talks with so much conviction, it's impossible not to feel as if I'm invincible, though I'm not.

He clears the space in front of him of all files, then looks at me expectantly. Rolling my eyes, I climb atop the desk, legs resting on either side of his chair. He stands between my legs, leaning forward. He presses his lips to my jaw, leaving a trail of kisses down my throat.

"We need to, ah, talk about the—" he nips at a particularly tender spot on my neck. My body archs into his touch, giving him better access. I can't supress my moan, more grateful for the soundproof walls than ever—"Oh, Dain—aboutthe shipment we're..." The rest of my words dissolve into a loud moan when he nips at the spot with his teeth, his hands sliding up my thighs, hovering over my jeans' waistband.

"I'd rather not talk about it," he simply tells me, hands roaming everywhere but at the spot where I want them.

"What do you, ahhh, want to talk about then?" I ask him, knowing the answer.

His lips hover inches away from mine, curled into a fiendish grin. "I don't want to talk at—" he is interrupted by the sound of something crashing on the ground and a muffled curse.

I pull away immediately, feeling as embarassed as Van looks, if not more. "I'm sorry, I thought you'd want to—ah, it was urgent, I didn't think you'd, ahem, I don't..." His words grow more garbled with each moment that passes.

Taking pity on him, Liliver interrupts, "Bad timing? We can come back later."

"No, we'll have a look now—unless Jude wants otherwise?" All eyes turn on me, still on the desk with my legs parted, hair mussed and a flushed look on my face. I'm sure there's a hickey on my neck, adding to my embarassment.

Dain looks amused at my condition and I know he did it on purpose. I want to slap him on the face for it. His eyes shine with mirth when he looks at me. "Jude, love, will you mind terribly if I ask you to sit on a chair for a few? Though of course, my lap is available—"

I scramble off the desk and slide a chair towards him, taking a seat before he can continue. Liliver gives us a knowing look, and I have no doubt my face has turned scarlet. It's one thing to have everyone know you have a 'friends with benefits' thing going with your boss; it's another to be caught doing it.

Van slides the phone I stole towards Dain, who passes it to me. "Take whatever information you can find, and have someone drop you off—"

"That's not necessary," I assure him and take my leave, rifling through the contents in his phone.

As predicted, Cardan isn't as given to secrecy. I transfer all the files with ease, have the phone locked and ready to be returned and still a half hour to spare. I'm not surprised by how much Balekin keeps his brother in the loop, or by Cardan's disinterest in all of it. What does surprise me is the business acumen he seems to have. He is clever with his words, creative with his ideas and efficient in their execution. If I wasn't dead set against him, I'd have been impressed.

I wait until I know he'll be outside his office to come with his phone, and I am surprised to find Madoc with him. I hesitate for a moment, but decide to charge through. I can't wait too long to return it, lest I draw suspicion.

He looks surprised to see me outside, but then he blinks and the expression is replaced with one of casual boredom.

Madoc regards me with suspicion, eyes narrowed and a small crease between his eyebrows. He says, "Jude, what are you doing here? It's an off day—"

"—I know," I tell him, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "But if he had his way, I'd have an off day for the whole year. I wanted to see if there's something around here I could do."

Madoc throws a cautious look towards Cardan, as if to make sure he's not displeased my casual censure of his brother. I could care less what Balekin thinks of me, he has never liked me much after all. I have no idea what I did to deserve his scorn but it's always been that way, and if I wasn't his loyal second-in-command's daughter, he won't have me here at all. He doesn't trust me very much.

And with good reason, I suppose. I've been spying on him almost ever since I joined, after all.

Cardan only raises a groomed eyebrow at me, as if to ask why I'm here. He must be in better spirits, because his expression is lacking the usual bite to it, though he looks impatient to leave. That might be more because of Madoc than me. Madoc has made no secret of his dislike towards the youngest of the Greenbriar brothers.

"Your phone," I extend it towards him. "It fell down this morning, when I tripped." I ignore Madoc's questioning look.

Cardan accepts his phone with a little shrug, but then there's a furrow between his eyebrows and I'm scared he has figured out that I stole information from it. I hold my breath, willing my hands not to tremble as he turns his assessing gaze on me. When he looks up at me, I feel like he can see every terrible thing I did, and it makes me more vulnerable than anything else.

He steps closer, forcing me to take a step back and repeats the process until I'm backed up against the glass wall of the building.

His hand comes to rest around my throat—a threat and a warning. "I know what you did, Jude. And there will be consequences for it." I can feel his breath in my ear, and blood rushes up to my face. There's nothing human in his expression. I'm afraid of his grip on my throat, the vile creature reflected in his black eyes but most of all, I'm afraid of the warmth I feel where his skin brushes against mine.

"I-I don't know what you're-what you're talking about," I stammer out.

"Don't you, Jude?" It seems impossible that he could be any closer, but he presses in anyway, and his grip tightens. His body presses against mine and all thoughts fly out of my head.

I shut my eyes close, and when I open them again, I realise it was imagination.

Cardan is looking at his phone still, but Madoc gives me a strange look. His eyes fix on the lovebite on my neck. I curse myself for not hiding it before.

My father's gaze travels from me to Cardan and back; it takes everything in me not to shout that it's not what he thinks at all. I bristle under his disapproving glare, choosing to ignore it too. Let him believe what he does. His assumptions are a thousand times less explosive than the truth. What would Madoc do if he found out where I spend my off days, which gang I work for? I shiver at the thought, distracted enough that I don't notice Cardan's gaze until he clears his throat.

"Thank you," he tells me, but somehow, he manages to make it sound like an insult. Before I can reply, he stalks off.

I hate how intoxicating his presence is, how he makes me writhe and tremble and crave for his attention, but hate it when he gives it. I have to remind myself I'm the predator, not him. This is my game, and I'm the one pulling all the reins. I hold all the power here. The repeated thoughts do nothing to erase the vision in my head, of his eyes, cruel and gleaming with hatred, and his grip on my throat, warm and painful and restricting my lungs and that tone; god, the mere thought of that chilling, ice cold gaze sends shivers down my body.

But this is my game, and by the time I'm done with him, the tables will turn.

═════════⚠═════════

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[isitandwonder]

I’ve seen so much shit go down these past few days and I really don’t need stuff  like that at the end of this fucked year. I’ve been talking back and forth with mutuals over the last several days, I’ve seen the mess unfold on Twitter, people came to my inbox to ask what was happening.

Yet I didn’t want to give this unsubstantiated, rather silly and exaggerated accusations room on my blog. I hoped it would die down. I’m also only lurking on Twitter and IG and would never get involved with fandom there cause those sites stress me out.

This whole mess also made me enormously angry so I needed time to calm down.

Now I only like to say a few things and then I hope I can be done with this.

I think this whole shit show is a perfect example for the dark side of social media, how things get inflated, facts messed up and allegations thrown around. It shows that for a lot of people it’s all about performative behavior. I doubt these accusations would’ve been aired if it had been John Smith from next door who behaved badly. I’m also shocked by a culture that completely disregards facts and proof and judges entirely emotional. Where’s your brain, people?

Of course, you never know with celebs, but the balance of probability still applies to them as well. Someone against no other complains have ever surfaced, who loves his mum and sis, talks very respectful of female colleagues and even donated his salary to an anti-sexual violence charity must truly be rather cunning to be a secret abuser.

When there are allegations of sexual misconduct, you should believe the ‘victim’. Okay, I’m totally with that. But that ‘victim’ doesn’t have to give you any proof for anything they accuse another person off, probably destroying their livelyhood with just a few words? Not even a coherent account of what they’re accusing someone off? Like, what the fuck??? Are people out of their minds?

If you choose to go public with heavy allegations, of course you have to give some facts of what happened to you. Not sordid details but facts that can confirm and explain what you’re hinting at. Like a date, proof you were where you said you were, or a general outline of what happened so other people can comprehed and consider if your allegations are believable. Because we’re all aware of false allegations esp against celebs. We’re also all aware that this is usually no fun for the alleged ‘victim’. So it’s for their own safety and integrity that they have to share some facts. Esp in a case where the allegations started vague with ‘bad experience’, then morphed into ‘sexual assault’, to end up as ‘harassment’ or ‘attempted sexual misconduct’. If you accuse someone of these offences you have to give at least some facts as to what transpired. Otherwise those big words are baseless which doesn’t mean they won’t do harm to both the accuser and the accused.

I believe a ‘victim’ if they have some sort of proof for what they say they were subjected to or can at least give a consistent account of what happened. To describe yourself as a ‘victim’, something objectively harming has had to have happened to you. Sorry, but otherwise it all frays out into a subjective feeling of discomfort, which then is on you and on no one else.

Without some details, simply nothing happened and all this is a storm in a tea cup.

No one forced the people who brought these allegations up to post on social media. They said nothing physical happened and they don’t want to press charges. Why did they even post it then? To warn other women? But to warn someone you have to tell them what you’re warning them about. Did they want to cut Tim down a nodge? Did they want attention and clout? Were they still angry and just wanted to vent? Whatever, social media is not the best place to work through trauma. Get a therapist or a councelor or a lawyer. But just putting unsubstantiated accusations out there is the worst way for everyone involved.

There is no proof this person ever even met Tim. There is no proof anything happened between them. Not that I don’t believe them that he acted like a douche, but if it’s just their word and no proof for anything or details are needed even I could claim the same this woman does (and I have proof I ‘met’ him twice). So you see where this ‘believe the victim’ leads us. Nowhere. The ‘victim’ has at least to proof that there was possible victimisation.

I get it, the girl who met Tim presumably at a party during HSN filming had experienced some form of sexual abuse in high school (her post from 2018 was not about any celebrity afaik but about a guy she went to high school with. I’ve also never seen proof that she accused any other celeb. This was Twitter running amok imo). As nothing physical happened between her and Tim, I assume he said something to her that made her uncomfortable.

He was 19, maybe drunk/high. She was a bit older. He chatted her up, she said no. He backed off but might have said something nasty.

I’m not denying this could’ve happened. But that is life, not assault. It can make you angry and you might post about this incident to show he’s a douche. But label this sexual assault or sexual misconduct? We don’t live in a perfect world. She didn’t feel threatened or violated, just uncomfortable. But of course sexual assault gives you more clout than telling the story of a 19yo wannabe Hollywood star hitting on you and then getting pissy when you turned him down. I mean, water is wet, right? But assault? Misconduct? Harassment? Now you’re talking...

Maybe the incident was more traumatizing to her than it would have been to other people because of her previous experience in high school. We don’t know. As she doesn’t say what happened, we can’t make up our minds. Which doesn’t stop people from throwing all kinds of shit around.

But, please, a guy saying some shit to you isn’t the same as a guy raping you. Is there no awareness of nuance anymore? Have you all gone mad? Yes, trauma differs for everyone, but come on. Men shouldn’t behave vile against women, but there’s still a difference between verbal insults and physical assault. Nobody is perfect and those without sin cast the first stone.

I’m sure this wasn’t Tim’s finest hour. If she’d just said what happened we could all have handled this better.

But Tim’s not a Kevin Spacey ffs.

I know we’re all bored out of our minds. But can we please keep a sense of proportion here? Stop leveling everything to look woke. It’s insulting to real survivors.

Tim is not a predatory rapist and that woman is not a pathological liar out to destroy celebs. The truth lies in between and for sure is much more pathetic, petty and boring.

[weasleyslag]

i’m not coming home | p.w

summary: A collection of letters between Percy and his girlfriend Penelope Clearwater following his estrangement from his family.

pairing(s): Percy Weasley/Penelope Clearwater

wc: 6.2k (lol I’m sorry)

warning(s): heavy cursing, hella toxic relationship, no happy ending

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30644294

Dear Percy,

See, I told you I would write! I really am so proud of you and your new job. I hope you’ll allow me to come visit your new apartment soon. I know you’re very busy, but maybe not too busy for me? My dad told me he’d pay for my stay in London if you invited me, but I think it’d be more fun for me to stay with you and go to a show or something. I heard there’s some good muggle performances down there, I’d be interested to see that sort of thing. It’d be an good change, I’m up to my head with wizards that think they’re so talented. 

Please tell me all you can about your job when you write back! I know it must be super under wraps, being the Junior Assistant to Fudge himself, but I would be interested in knowing the most mundane of things you can tell me, it would most certainly be more enthralling than the highlight of any of my days. I was hoping I’d be promoted to something more dignified by now, but they’ve still got me watching over some of the Ministry workers’ children. You know I like kids, but I’d rather not be a glorified babysitter. There’s not even many learning activities I can do with them, I’m pretty much instructed to do puppet shows and other silly tasks for them all day. Hopefully someone recognizes my potential soon. Maybe since you work with Fudge now, you can say something to him??? 

I hate to turn this letter sour but Fred and George have gotten into contact with me this week. They’re really worried about you. They said that they’ve all written to you and the letters are always sent back, unopened. You must know this hurts them, why don’t you at least read the letters? You know they love you and I know that you really are kind at heart; you must still have love for them. I know it must have been hard for you to hear that after all your efforts, your dad doesn’t believe you’re capable of receiving such a prestigious job on your own merits. But of course they are all paranoid, what with all that happened last Spring. I hope you can find it within yourself to be the bigger person and reconcile with your family. Maybe they’ve even apologized in their letters, you’ll never know unless you read them. Don’t read Fred’s though, he’s more mad than the rest of them. I’m sure he’s thrown every name in the book at you.

I hope my next letter will be in better spirits. I hope Hermes is doing well and I hope even more so that you will adjust to life in London well.

With Love, 

Penelope 

Dear Penelope,

I cannot express with words how excited I was to receive your owl. I hope you don’t mind that I kept her for a few days, Hermes adores her and she reminds me of you. However, I also had to keep her back because it took quite some time to give you an adequate response to everything you said in your letter.

Hermes and I are well. He hasn’t adjusted as well as I have, but I understand. The air is polluted and there’s not much room for him to roam. There’s no forests in sight, only a bunch of buildings. If I wasn’t taking your letters, I would send him back to the Burrow. He was happier there and besides, the ministry has provided me a new owl for business letters.

I, on the other hand, am doing the best I ever have been. I am extremely efficient with my work and I appear to be pleasing my superiors. In my off time, I watch live shows and read. I have been getting into some Muggle classics, like War and Peace. Their culture is quite interesting, although ours is clearly superior. I am glad I am nourishing my mind as much as I can, I only wish there wasn’t so much noise outside my apartment. Jackhammers and traffic is all l I hear all day. It gets old fast. I’m not sure if you would like it here, but I would be happy to have you if you wish to visit. Although, I thought about your proposal to stay with me and I must decline. I would love to and I am sure my hormones would have a field day, but your father wants you to stay somewhere else and merely visit me during the day, trying to trick him would be wrong. I am sorry, but rules are rules, even when it comes to you.

I will speak with Fudge about your employment. I am a bit nervous to do so but I think he likes me, so I will certainly try. You’re a very smart girl and I believe if they just took notice of how you applied yourself, they’d move you up the ranks swiftly. It would be a shame to let such an academic be reduced to a daycare worker. That seems like something my mum would do if she worked. And you certainly surpass her when it comes to brains and ambition. 

Dismayed is an understatement for how I feel knowing that my family has taken advantage of our relationship to try to shake me. I do not wish to speak to them now, I will only speak to them when they realize that I am right, which I hope won’t be much longer. You’re right, of course, I do have love for them, even Fred and George, but I can not continue a relationship with people that discount my accomplishments and constantly laugh at my expense. Reading their letters is pointless. I read the first letter I received from Charlie and although he tried to be eloquent, he still wasn’t seeing things my way. He was basically just regurgitating everything my dad had said, just in a kinder way. He and Bill have always been the most sensible so I see no point in attempting to read the other letters, they will only be worse versions of Charlie’s. I will admit that curiosity got the better of me, however. A letter from Fred came in the same day as yours. You were right, it was awful. I shouldn’t have expected anything more, however, that boy is barely literate. Here is a snippet of his abomination of a letter (I have fixed the spelling mistakes, there’s no reason to subject you to that):

“You are a massive cunt, you know that? After all mum and dad have done for you. Seriously?  I can’t even call you a prat anymore, that’s just an insult to prat’s. You’re a slag for Fudge and we all know it. If you wanted to give him a good rimming, you could have just said so instead of causing us all this grief. Well not me, I don’t give one fuck about you. You could be in a ditch tomorrow for all I care. And maybe you will be, Fudge and his friends would just as well see you there as in an office. How could you choose him over your own mother? I hope you’re happy that you make her cry every night. I hear that you get paid three times dad’s salary and you have sent home not one knut. But twats like you don’t care about their family, huh? Enjoy your cushy apartment, I hope when you open the windows, a pigeon flies in and takes a shit on your head.”

Isn’t it just terrible? And it’s all one huge paragraph too, with unbearably non-flowy sentences. He is a right idiot if he thinks I’d ever want to respond to that. And why would I want to send money to people who treat me like that, anyway? I can’t put myself into his pea brain so I guess I will never know. Please make me take your advice next time so that I won’t have to subject myself to that kind of torture.

As for what happened this Spring, I’d rather not talk about it. The Ministry says that you-know-who is not back, so I’m afraid Harry must have been lying. Perhaps he had a fever and hallucinated the whole thing. I don’t hate him, by the way. I know my family must be trying to convince you of that but it is just not true. I think he is foolish and many adults are using him as a pawn. It’s sad, really. My family has gotten so desperate that they made Hermione and Harry write me letters too. I had already been informed by Fudge himself to turn over any correspondence from Harry, so of course I did that. I do wish I had the forethought to read the letter first, I’m very curious about it now, but oh well.

I care for you very much and hope we can arrange a visit soon.

With Even More Love,

 Percy

Dear Percy, 

I was hoping this letter would be more positive than the ones we have exchanged lately and that perhaps we could even arrange my trips to London, but I have gotten some terrible news. And I will not believe it until you confirm it.

There is a nasty rumour going around that you are to be court scribe for the Wizengamot in Harry’s trial. Say it isn’t true, Percy! I know it’s such an honor to work so closely with the Wizengamot, you’d be the youngest person in all of history to work as a scribe for them. But at what cost? Harry is your friend. I’ve been spending more and more time with your family and I consider Harry to be a friend now, too. I know the details of the case, and I’m sure you must since you’re apparently working it. Even if you don’t care for him, you must understand that objectively, Harry is in the right, at least morally. He was saving his cousin. The cousin that he grew up with and besides the kid being an absolute terror, he was basically his brother. Wouldn’t you cast magic to save your brothers or sister? How can you work for a case like that when you know you’d do the same as Harry?

I love you, I really do, and that’s why this breaks my heart so much. You’re turning into something that you aren’t for the sake of ambition. Please don’t do this. Come home and if Fudge truly does value you as much as you think, he will continue working with you even after you are on good terms with your family again. You must be missing them, aren’t you?

I will have to postpone the trip to London until you get all this figured out. I hope you understand. I am always open for you to come back here to visit me. We could all meet for dinner at the Burrow, where you belong.

I don’t have much else to say. I’m scared about what’s happening in the world and I’m nervous for you. I miss you, but I’m not sure if the you I miss is still you.

P.S: Tell Hermes I love him.

xxxx,

Penelope 

Dear Penelope, 

You have heard right, at least about the Wizengamot. I beg of you not to let my family poison your mind. Clearly, they want everyone to think I’m a terrible person. If they had it their way, we wouldn’t even be together right now. It’s not their fault, really, they suffer from cognitive dissonance, but they only think with their heart. That’s not sustainable and most certainly not how the world works. The court specifically wants me to be scribe and like you acknowledged, that is a huge honor. This is really going to help me get ahead even further. You know I have big dreams. I’d like to be the Minister one day and having all this under my belt would be a big help.

I really am not allowed to be discussing the case with the public, but I suppose I will make a tiny exception for you. I can’t help but have a soft spot for you; I musn’t make bending the rules for you a habit. You’re lucky I’m even physically able to say anything. The Ministry is heavily monitoring all the mail that comes in and out from high ranking members, but they haven’t done that with me yet (as far as I know, at least). I guess it must be because I’ve been so loyal and I won’t even receive my family’s letters, so they trust me. Little do they know that I have a weakness for you. 

As of right now, I’m not too worried about Harry (of course, they might change when court is in session and I get all the details). I think his case makes sense. I’ve poured through court cases similar to this one, although the defendants were never as much of a public figurehead as Harry (but that shouldn’t matter, the Wizengamot is totally unbiased and will not take Harry’s fame into account when deciding a verdict), and every court case similar to this ended in a not guilty verdict. I am not sitting as a court scribe to try to lock Harry away, it’s just my job. I don’t approve of him, but let’s not pretend like I never want him to see the light of day again. Anyway, I was surprised that someone that possesses your caliber of intelligence relied so hard on pathos to convince me that being a court scribe is wrong. Everyone knows emotion is a flimsy argument and certainly has no place in the courtroom. The fact that he saved a muggle’s life will definitely be brought up in court, but it won’t be because it’s someone he cares for. It’ll be because we have all sorts of laws about self defense and protecting each other, even a few about protecting muggles. I fear you might not have a place high up in the ministry if you continue preferring pathos to logos. And anyway, you trying to my emotion by bringing up my family makes no sense. My family are wizards, so if it came down to it, I could protect them and it wouldn’t be against the law. It’s not my fault that my family is better than those Dursley’s. 

I really must beg of you to stay away from my family and especially from Harry. That will probably not end well for you. Do not mistake that for a threat, I’d never hurt you, but I’m being realistic. Harry is off the rails and my family blindly believes him. In my opinion, Harry needs to be in a mental hospital, not roaming around as a public figure where everyone hangs on to his every word. He clearly suffers from PTSD after all he went through as a child between his parents being murdered in front him, a very powerful dark wizard trying to to murder him, and the muggle abuse he endured. And that’s not even mentioning all the pressure the world, especially Dumbledore, has put on him. He’s not a bad guy, he’s just insane. If the adults around him cared as much as they say they do, they’d put him away for a while until he can heal. But they won’t, that’s the problem. And now I hear that little Ginny is in love with him. I have never in my life been so in despair. I can’t help but think how bleak her future will be. Maybe I should write a letter to her. I doubt she’ll listen, but I do need to try. 

I really do hope you decide to come visit me. Maybe I can speak with your father and come to an honest agreement about you living with me soon enough. I am really lonely here and I’ve been thinking a lot about the future. It seems my family and I will never get along again and I have no one else besides you. I have all this extra income so I think it might be practical for me to marry you. Then, you wouldn’t have to hear all this rubbish from my family in order to feel close with me. I will speak with him about it soon. It’s not really all that bad here and even if you’re not good enough to have a real job in the Ministry, that’s okay. I make enough money and I do want a lot of kids anyway. It wouldn’t be practical for you to have a demanding long term job.

Love, 

Percy

Percy, 

Maybe I am a sensitive fool but I found much of your letter to be highly offensive. You essentially called me unintelligent throughout the letter, then didn’t ask but rather told me that you would be marrying me (only caring about what my father would say, not me). And to top it all off, you told me I was to be your personal incubator while you get to have an actual job. It’s insulting, really. What if I don’t want to do that, did you even consider that? I care for you and I believe I always will but I am not in a place right now where I fancy marrying you. I think I’d rather tie the knot with one of twins or Charlie. Besides, I felt unsettling how you alluded to muggles being lesser beings. They most certainly are not, they’re just different than us. I don’t know how I can be with someone that sees a whole group of people as lesser than them.

I must not have too much respect for myself. After all, I felt all those things that I wrote in the first paragraph, yet I’m still writing to you. What terrible damage love can have to the brain. I think I know how this whole thing will turn out, yet I still hope against my better judgement that we will end up together. I will try to put this past me if you can promise to not be so cruel.

Things are the same as always in my life. Spending most of the time with Mother and Father and the rest tending to children. I think I might die of boredom. I have been thinking about becoming a Hogwarts teacher, at least it would be less degrading than playing babysitter for a bunch of toddlers. Curiously enough, I received a letter from Snape about receiving a position, not Flitwick. He liked me well enough back in school, but I definitely didn’t think he would ever think about contacting me for a teaching role. I didn’t think he ever thought much about any student that wasn’t a Slytherin. I think maybe he sees himself in me. You know I was treated pretty horribly throughout school and something tells me he might have gone through a similar experience. That aside, however, he wrote me a letter requesting my presence to a meeting in a few weeks. It’s a meeting with all the current teachers, so I’m quite nervous about it. They want to speak with me about a new class, I think, it wasn’t any sort of curriculum I was familiar with. Still, I’m heavily considering it. It would be a big step up. I am a little worried about moving out there, but I think I’ll be alright. 

I know you act like you don’t care about how your family is doing, but that’s all it is, an act. So I will at least tell you the good parts. I’m sure you’ve seen by the addresses of the letters that they’re still sending you (because they care), they have moved. The Order has been restored, we’d all love to have you there, although I don’t have much hope that you would consider joining. Even Charlie and Bill have come back and joined. They miss you and I think they’re more than a little disappointed. Ginny is dating a kid named Michael Corner, not Harry. I’m sure you’re over the moon about that. Ron and Hermione have become prefects. That’s really good news, yeah? I’m not quite sure how Ron snagged it, but he did.

I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about any more conflict with you, so I won’t even bring up what you said at Harry’s trial. Just know I’m disappointed. What, I will say, however, is that it was so cruel that you didn’t even speak with your own father once court ended. I know you knew he was there. Look, I have a really bad feeling about the future and I can’t help but fear that something bad is going to happen and you’re going to regret being such an ass to them. 

This letter was all over the place, I apologize. I just have all these emotions and you don’t seem to understand. Or if you do understand, you don’t care. I don’t know which is worse.

Take care,

Penelope

Dear Penelope, 

I apologize for my behavior in my last letter. You’re right, I was only thinking of myself. I’ve just been by myself so much that I guess I find it hard to think about what other people want. I hope you can forgive me. Truly though, I think we could reconcile easier if you met me out in London. Of course only corresponding through letters has led to a strain. 

Please brace yourself, because I know if you do not prepare for what I’m about to tell you, you will be very mad at me. I consulted with Fudge and we have decided that you shouldn’t become a teacher at Hogwarts. It’s not a good look for me and it’s safe for you. Dumbledore is off his rocker, I’m not going to allow you to be put in harm's way. Fudge has sent a letter to Hogwarts, strongly suggesting that they find a new candidate for their position. I agree that the role is important, kids need to learn, and you would have been a great teacher. But it’s not the right time for you. I know you will probably be royally pissed for a while, but you’ll get over it. I did it for your own good. I hope you will be happy to hear that I have talked to Fudge about you having a proper job in the Ministry and he agrees. He will be writing to you with an offer soon enough. All’s well that ends well, you get a safer, higher paying job. And you can be near me!

Yes, I knew that my family had moved. I hope they move back soon, it’s not safe for them there. You’re right, someone is going to get hurt. I can feel it in my bones. And of course I will be utterly inconsolable, but it will not be my fault if something happens. It will be Dumbledore’s and inadvertently, Harry’s. I would love to give my family advice, but I know they will not listen. Therefore, there’s no point in writing letters. Besides, even if I did want to write to them, I think Fudge would catch on and have someone start monitoring my mail. I trust the Ministry completely, but I still find it’s in my family’s best interests if the Ministry doesn’t know their exact going on’s.

I heard Ron became prefect. I’m very proud. I wrote him a letter, which the Ministry read (and unfortunately a few unkind edits to, but I’m sure it was for good reason), congratulating him. Unfortunately, I don’t think he’s received it. He hasn’t written back. Maybe Dumbledore has started screening letters? I’m proud of Hermione too, although I didn’t write her a letter. You seem to speak with the lot of them often, so please send her my congratulations. She’s such a smart and sweet girl, she’s a good match for Ron (I can tell he likes her). I would have preferred a Pureblood but oh well, she’s better than most muggles. Oh and speaking of people dating, yes I am very pleased that Ginny has found a nice guy that’s not Harry. 

Love, 

Percy

Percy, 

Before I write anything else, I must address your hilarious claim that Dumbledore is monitoring letters. Ron got your letter, read it, then proceeded to burn it. He found it very offensive. He’s not happy with you, so maybe don’t send him more letters.

Fred and George are still mad, more than everyone else. George invited me out last week, I think only because he knew it would get a rise out of you. Fred’s the maddest of them all, as you know so well from his letters, but he’s with Angelina Johnson, so he couldn’t take me on the “jealousy date”. I don’t really fancy George, don’t worry, and I don’t think he fancies me. I must admit, however, that it was a nice time. It was a welcome change to listen to someone talk to me about their interests instead of being obsessed with a job. It was even more welcome that he asked me questions back and seemed to actually care about my responses. My favorite thing, though, was going out with someone that cared so much for their family. Someone that not only understood romantic love, but also platonic and familial love. I’d been missing that part of you for a while. But like I said, I don’t fancy him. I didn’t even let him kiss me. I feel guilty about it all, of course, I’d like to come down to London and try to get things in our relationship to run smoothly again. 

Also, yes, I am very upset that you had that letter written to Hogwarts. You totally crossed a line and if I had any balls, I would have broken up with you over it. But alas, I really do want to make it work. This is another thing that I think we need to work on together. In London. Please tell me your thoughts.

With care,

 Penelope

Dear Penelope,

Literally, what the fuck? I saw red when I read your letter. You. Went. Out. On. A. Date. With. My. Brother? And the little traitor tried to kiss you? I had half a mind to challenge him to a duel. But you’re right, he’s just trying to get me to act out and he will not get that out of me. There are so many problems with our relationship right now and I cannot bear to let you go, so we must meet and work things out immediately. And I’m not coming home, so you must come here. I’ve taken a week off at the Ministry, please arrive here as soon as you receive this letter. I will not be bested by the likes of George Weasley and a few other misunderstandings I may have thrown your way. 

No need to write back,

Percy

Dear Percy, 

I am so glad we had that meeting in London! I really do feel like we’ve fixed things. It makes me so happy that you have agreed not to be so unkind with your words in the future. And as promised, I have decreased contact with your family and all the other members of the Order. George has written me about a dozen letters since then, checking up on me and filling me in on what’s going on with your family. But as promised, I have not written back. If I expect you to uphold your part of the agreement, I must hold myself to the same standard.

I think I will take that secretary job Fudge offered me. It’s not all that you made it out to be, but at least I can be near you. I’m still too wary to marry you, after all it hasn’t been too long since we were falling apart, but I think it would be nice to be physically closer to you. I’ll see what I can do in terms of flats, since you’re too prudish to lend me room in yours.

Love you lots,

Penelope

Dear Penelope,

I don’t have much time to write at the moment, I’m very busy, so please excuse the short letter. I, too, am glad we are doing better. It was impacting my efficiency at work and I could not have that. I’m just glad there’s no more Fred and George, they were trying to hijack your mind and make it theirs. Besides, I have heard from more than one female that has come into contact with them, that they are basically a pair of incubi. I know you think I’m dramatic when I say that, but those two boys have turned evil, I know it. I should have seen the clear signs. It was so obvious from the time that they were little boys, chasing poor Ron with spiders.

Thank Godric that you are coming to join me at the Ministry! I can keep a close eye on you there, make sure you’re safe. I know the job isn’t glorious, but not everyone is as fortunate as me. You have to work your way up. I know you’ll have a very important job in no time. And I never said I wouldn’t let you live with me by the way, I said that I didn’t want your father to become cross with me. You really shouldn’t call me a prude, or do you not remember what all went in London when you came to visit? I didn’t think it was quite that forgettable, but I’ll just have to remind you when you move here.

Love, 

Percy

Dear Percy,

I’m sorry for the distance between letters. I meant to write, I really did, but everything went to shit here. I know I said I would distance myself from your family, but George wrote to me and said that your father is in the hospital. So now I’m back to semi-living with them. Did you not read your mother’s letter about it, Percy? She marked it “urgent” on the envelope. Your father was utterly distressed that you didn’t even write, much less visit him. It made his recovery harder and longer. Don’t you still care even a little bit? What if he had passed, wouldn’t you have felt so guilty?

Also, your mother collapsed and fell into a fit of tears when you sent your Christmas jumper back. Why didn’t you just keep it? It would have spared her feelings, even if you think you’re too good for the sweaters now. She made me a sweater, I loved it. But oh well, please think about the repercussions of your actions on others. You’re making it very hard on all of us. Also, Fred wants me to let you know that he wants to bring back drawing and quartering just for you. George is more straight to the point, vowing to castrate you if you two ever cross paths again (by the way, they both thought your incubus comment was very funny, I think it inflated their ego).

I know you are on the Ministry’s side, saying that Voldemort is NOT back, which is horseshit and you know it. But you do know who attacked your father, yes? Surely that should be enough proof for you. You’re very smart, why are you letting an institution think for you?

With peace and love,

Penelope

Dear Penelope, 

I am slightly dismayed that you didn’t keep up with your end of our agreement, going back to speak with my family. I do understand, though, my father’s attack was a shock and could have ended tragically. I know he’s better now, though, so please cease contact again. 

On a similar note, yes, I did read Mum’s letter and know that he was in the hospital. I sent flowers anonymously, if that means anything to you. And I kept tabs on him from the Ministry. If I felt that things were going downhill and he wasn’t going to make it, I would have visited. But he was fine, so it’s not a big deal. Maybe he will learn to not poke his head where it doesn’t need poking from now on.

As for the sweater, it’s not that I didn’t want to keep it. I love her sweaters, I wear some of the old one sometimes. But keeping the sweater would have sent a completely wrong message and given her false hope. So really, sending it back was a selfless act.

I know you want me to say that You-Know-Who is back. But you just don’t understand. I represent the Ministry now. What they say goes. That doesn’t mean I don’t have my own thoughts, it simply means that I stand with them.

Just wanted to remind you that you’re very beautiful and I miss your kind heart. I can’t wait for you to move here.

Love,

Percy

Percy,

I am most certainly NOT moving to be with you in London after the stunt you pulled. Betraying Dumbledore and holding Harry in place whilst being questioned by Fudge? What a dick move. I don’t know what I expected, you provided me all the warning signs. I guess that when it mattered, you’d do the right thing. Now I see how wrong I was. I need some time to myself, and you need to think over in your heart why you thought it was okay to do what you did. You just better be glad that Fudge sent you out before you got smacked the fuck up by Dumbledore.

From the top of my head to the bottom of my toes, fuck you

Penelope

Dear Penelope, 

This is the fifth letter I’ve sent to you in a row with no response, please answer. I know I shouldn’t have done what I did and I’m sorry. I’m embarrassed, really I am, but I’ve dug myself too deep. I miss you, I miss Ginny, I miss Charlie, I miss Bill, I miss Ron, I miss Mum and Dad. I even miss Fred and George. But it’s too late. I wish I had seen it before. They were right, you were right. I can’t let them know that. I feel so ashamed. I want to help them, but I also want to never bother them again. I saw You-Know-Who in the Ministry. I know all along that he was back, but I kept denying it for my job. But now I don’t have my family and I don’t have you, so my job is all I have. Please know that anything you see from me from this moment forward doesn’t represent my heart. You’re right, I don’t remember how many letters ago it was, but you said I wasn’t the person you fell in love with. You couldn’t have hit the nail on the head any better. There’s barely any left of that Percy, just his shell. So really, I shouldn’t be talking to you at all. I’m not the person you committed to. But I still love you. It’s total wishful thinking that I can have you back, but hoping is the only thing that keeps me from going insane. Bill wrote me a letter saying that he was engaged. I don’t want to face my family but I’ll go if I can see you.

Love, Percy

Percy, 

I felt like I should write you one last letter because despite myself, I still care. I want to give you closure. It’s clear to me that you’re never coming home, which is clear symbolism that you are never going to do the right thing. You said it yourself in your letters, you’re digging your heels in and standing by the ministry. You’re a filthy coward. 

Yes, Bill is getting married in a few months. We’re all very busy with preparations, it seems like that’s the only good thing that’s happening around here. You have an invitation, of course, but you shouldn’t come if you just want to see me. If I see you, I will make a scene and there will be more than just mashed parsnips being thrown at you (yes, Fred and George told me about how you visited just for the benefit of the Ministry. It’s pathetic, really). Your mum is convinced you will show up to the wedding and everything will be magically better. I know you better than that. I wish I was in blissful ignorance and thought you still loved us all, but you don’t. You’re not going to be able to get your head out of your ass until it’s one of us that’s laying lifeless somewhere because of the monsters of people that the Ministry have allowed to roam for so long. I know where you stand and you know where I stand. So there’s nothing else to say.

I’m sending back all the things of yours that I have. You should receive them all with this letter. Please write back if I missed anything.

Sincerely, 

Penelope Clearwater

[blackssuunn-mandoandyodito]

Big dreams, expensive taste

Part two: you can't light a fire without a spark

Read part one here

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x f!reader

Rating: M

Words: 3.3k

A/N: this is still setting ground to the story but I hope you like it. Everything mentioned about NY is written by research alone, I've never been there but I love the city. Also, I need to clarify this is a Modern!AU. Enjoy!

Warnings: SMUT, nervousness, brief f masturbation, slight power kink. Let me know if I should add something.

Summary: What happens after you first met Mr. Lord? How will it go?

(humor me and imagine this is him but blonde please)

The thing about New York is, simply, you either multitask and adapt or die.

Midtown Manhattan is one of the blessings that found your way when you arrived in the city, despite how crazy it mostly is. Filled with tourists that walk through Times Square, cry at the price tags in the Fifth Avenue and stare in awe up the Empire State, so many cultures and languages mixing in the same zone can be quite overwhelming. But that's exactly what New York is about.

 After renting with an asshole for three years in a shoebox and saving every single penny you didn't need to spend, you finally had reunited enough money to pay the initial rent that most apartments asked for and enough left of that to fix whatever may need to be fixed.

Back then, your roommate had been taking a girl every night to the apartment you shared, and you could hear the moans and screams that were most likely fake through the wall separating your rooms that resembled more of paper than an actual wall. You were so fed up with it that one day you just decided to go apartment hunting, alone and angry.

You had to go through hours of walking and walking. Anything over 3,000 was too much and even that was pushing it. Most of the ones you could afford were even smaller than the one you were living in, and the ones you liked were way out of your budget.

By some kind of miracle and while you were walking down 53th Street on the verge of tears and with a slice of pizza in your hand, a studio apartment came into your life.

And you didn't even stop to think about it.

It had been three years of 12-hour shifts 6 days a week, and you can't find a good enough apartment for 2,000 dollars every day, much less in New York. So when you saw the opportunity, you took it.

The Third Avenue lets you see the usual office buildings that are often associated with Midtown Manhattan, while the side of the Second Avenue resembles more of a residential neighborhood, with jazz clubs and cafés in sight wherever you look to.

While Midtown's prices tend to be through the roof, you could afford to pay for that one without too much trouble and without sweating it a lot. Sure, it wasn't as big as you wanted to but not a shoebox either. A perfect in-between.

Living on the last floor of the building also had the luxury of being near the roof and letting you see out the window to marvel at the skyscrapers of one side and the more calm neighborhoods of the other. It was a weird resemblance of living at the coast, where two worlds crash together. Letting you be far enough of the chaos to be able to breathe and relax but not such that made you forget where you were living at.

Extremely convenient, considering that the entrance for the Subway was just a few steps away. There were also lots of bars near the area, and one of the most important rules of New York is to have a go-to place, just to be safe. Thankfully, the zone provided plenty of that.

It needed some fixing up, a little paint, and slight trouble with stuff in the kitchen. But after some weeks of Diane and other friends helping you, it slowly became the place you had always dreamed of.

Which is why, at the end of your shift, when you go to Maxwell Lord's office and the old lady from before lets you in with a warm smile, the fact that his office is bigger than your place is, to put it simply, infuriating.

Your mandatory heels click as you walk inside his office, forcing your back to stay upright once his heavy glance hits you full force. His eyebrow arches just as you stop a few steps away from his desk, not showing any sign of being intimidated by the way he's sitting with his legs open and leaning back on his chair.

Not at all intimidated.

Propping his elbow on the armrest of his chair, he rests his chin on his open palm and grins. The visual is one that reminds you of the kings and queens sitting at their thrones on the series you often binge watch when you're not too tired to do so.

You clean your throat, mustering up all seriousness that you can.

"Did you ask to see me, sir?"

Surprisingly, your voice doesn't waver for even a second as you talk, satisfying the part inside of you that resists on giving to Maxwell Lord's power.

He sighs, shaking his head slightly. With one hand, he waves at you to sit at the chair in front of his desk. The rings that garnish his fingers glint to the last glimpses of sunlight that his office takes in. The back walls are complete crystal, from the floor to the ceiling.

The ones that give to the building are Oxford grey, with a cabinet full of the best liquor you've ever seen to the left side and a white boardroom table to the right. It's arranged in a way that if he sits at the edge, everyone else is facing him with their backs to the landscape. You guess that sitting there feels like hanging at the edge of a cliff when you either accept whatever the man in front of you asks or you fall.

It starts to feel like that when you take a sit in front of him and he leans towards you, studying every movement you dare to do and the ones you stop yourself from doing.

"Are you satisfied with the position you're currently in?"

It takes you a second to realize that he's talking about work, not other things that your mind kindly provides. You squirm slightly under his eyes, without looking away.

"Yes sir," you answer, "it is one I am good at that has a good salary and flexible schedule"

He hums, lowering his eyes to the files spread over his desk that you hadn't realized were there. 

You squint your eyes to get a good look at what he's reading.

All the blood leaves your face when you realize those are your files.

"Wouldn't you like a promotion?" He asks, not bothering to look at you as he moves the papers. 

You frown at him, confused. A promotion? 

"And what would it be, sir?" You say, hesitant to voice your question. He smiles at you and closes the folder, moving it aside as he leans towards you with his fingers interlaced.

"A few days ago my assistant quit" he answers, smirking knowingly of something you're unaware of. "I've been searching for someone to take their place, and I think you might be just perfect for it"

You clear your throat, amazed at how straight forward he is. No wonder why he's one of the most respected, if not feared millionaires.

"And why would you think that, sir?"

There's a clicking sound as he spreads his palms on his glass desk and rests his back on his chair, looking you up and down. 

"You are very good at setting limits," he answers, "your files also say that you have experience in accountancy and management. You've been an assistant previously, which means you also know how this works" 

You nod, looking at him straight in the eye.

You gulp as his eyes harden and his voice gets colder, deeper. "What I need right now is someone who can support my work and have a good effect on the success of my company. I need someone who tells me the truth and not what they think I want to hear"

He takes a deep breath and tilts his head, waiting for your answer.

Of course, you were fully capable of doing a good job, but that was not why you were hesitating on giving him a yes right away. The reputation of being a total asshole with his close workers was most likely not unfounded.

At your hesitation, he frowns at you.

"Is there a problem miss?"

You grip the chair with your fingers, torn between saying something and keeping quiet. 

Ultimately, you take the decision to see for yourself if the rumors are true.

"When will I start?"

The big smile that spreads through his face sends shivers down your spine, gulping but repressing the desire to run away and hide.

"8 AM sharp tomorrow, don't be late. You can get my schedule from Amanda outside"

You nod as his look on you lingers for more than it's deemed appropriate, rolling one of his rings between his fingers with an arched eyebrow.

"You can leave now," he says, dismissive. 

You quickly stand up and smooth your clothes, tilting your head at him.

"Thank you, sir"

He doesn't say anything else as you walk away, but he calls you just as you're about to step outside his office, stopping you abruptly. You turn around, tense.

"I sincerely hope you live up to my standards," he says, with a strong voice without a trace of the amusement you had heard before. 

You're not sure if that's supposed to be a compliment or an insult. Your eyes harden, and you clench your hands at your sides, straightening.

"With all due respect sir, if you doubt of my capacity for the job you shouldn't have considered me in the first place"

Your answer startles him, and for a moment you think he'll fire you on the spot at the flame that seems to light in his eyes when he clenches his jaw. 

But he only sits straight and nods at you, lips pursed in a thin line.

"Good night," you say, walking away with shaking hands once again. He only blinks, so you step outside the office with strong steps and not looking back, missing his smirk as he hears you talk to Amanda, arranging things for your first day as his executive assistant tomorrow.

He hopes you survive, he's become quite fond of you.

When you arrive home, every muscle feels sore already from the tension you had felt every second close to Maxwell Lord. You sigh as the sound of the keys resonate through the apartment once you step inside and leave them at the table. The heels feel even more burdening than other days, and you can't help but wonder how it will be from tomorrow on.

You shake your head and decide to take your mind off of it. Stripping off your clothes, you go take a shower. 

The hot water feels amazing as it runs down your body, easing out all stress of the day from your muscles. With your eyes closed, you wash your body delicately, almost like a caress. 

Before you know it, your mind starts to drift to your boss, at how powerful he looked sitting at his chair inside his office on top of New York, how he had looked at you with such hunger it made you shiver and burn with something you had never experienced before.

The man in your imagination starts to walk towards you, smirking and with his hands inside his pockets as you have your back to the crystal. He's cornering you, not letting you any option to get away even if you wanted to.

But the point is, you don't. 

You squeeze your eyes shut inside the shower as your hand moves down to your clit, circling slowly and sending pleasure up your spine.

The man in your fantasies grins at you once you're too close to the glass, afraid of fully leaning into it. 

He tilts his head, eyes blown and dark with a glint of mischief in them.

"Aren't you afraid to fall?" The illusion asks, extending his hand to your neck and caressing it with a ghost touch. Goosebumps spread through your skin when his thumb traces a line up to your lips, outlining them and making you open your mouth.

You shakily nod, letting him manhandle you to turn around and put your palms flat against the window. 

You gasp at the sudden change, and he kicks open your legs so you're slightly bent over in front of him, facing the city.

His breath hits hard against your neck as he stands flush against you, moving his hand behind you and pulling your skirt up, leaving you exposed to him. One of his fingers hook at your underwear and pulls down, grazing your wetness and making you jump.

"Stay still." He whispers next to your ear, pushing his body against yours to pin you to the clear surface.

The real you jumps when you let yourself lean to the wall, breaking you out of your daydream when your skin touches the cold tiles.

Guilt creeps into your mind and replaces the red hot fantasy that your brain decided to create and torture you with.

You shake your head, thinking about other things. The fantasy must have been a result of the tension and tiredness, you chose to accept. After all, not every day you meet the owner of the company you work in and he decides to make you his closest co-worker.

You finish showering quickly after that, not letting your mind slip away from your actions as you dry yourself and then go to bed.

Your phone dings with a received message, but your mind is too far away from consciousness to do anything about it.

The first thing you do in the morning is call Diane and let her know your change of job, and the way she screams at your ear makes you flinch.

"How the fuck did that happen!?" She asks, as you climb down the stairs and then walk down the block to the entrance of the Subway with the MetroCard tightly held in your hand.

"I still don't know," you answer, "he simply asked if I wanted to and I just said yes"

Diane giggles and you roll your eyes at what she must be thinking. She seems to sing "Money, Money, Money" by ABBA under her breath, and it makes you laugh a little.

"And are you sure?" She asks.

"Too late to think about it, "you say. "But judging by what I saw on his schedule, the man doesn't even sleep"

"Which means you probably won't either" she finishes just as the background noise of people comes with her voice. Living in Queens and arriving by the up ground stations must grant her of service, but no one inside the subway appreciates someone talking on the phone, so you decide to end the call.

"I guess." you say, "I'll call you later, I'm about to enter the subway"

Diane wishes you luck, says goodbye, and hangs up. The rest of your trip goes with the usual maniac activity of the New York Subway, a void at the bottom of your stomach as you get closer and closer to your stop. You must have a terrified expression on your face because at least 5 different people look at you with concern in their eyes, and no one ever pays attention to someone else in the morning. You sincerely hope their concern turns out to be unfounded.

The sound of your heels clicking as you go inside the building and go straight to the elevator is a big contrast to just arriving at the lobby and starting to work right away. Your hands feel sweaty when they grip your briefcase, not used to carrying one around. There's even some cold sweat in your forehead, but you quickly wipe it off. 

The ding of the elevator makes you jump when it arrives at Maxwell Lord's office floor, and you straighten again when you go out and walk towards it. Your cheeks feel hot when you remember the night before, but your mind quickly brushes it away. You're nervous enough as it is.

His voice hits your ears the closer you get to the door and Amanda is already there, looking at you with what you guess is supposed to be an encouraging smile. She must have a lot of experience dealing with him. 

"He's waiting for you," she says, "his first meeting is at nine o'clock, and he wants you to manage it"

Not trusting your voice, you nod and smile at her, going inside the room. 

His gaze immediately rises from what appears to be a contract and looks at you with the beginning of a smirk tugging at his lips, and he waves you to come closer. You oblige, keeping all emotion that may be going through you by showing a stoic face. 

"Give me a moment," he says to the phone, then covers the speaker and turns to you. "I need you to work here with me, so your own office will be there"

He points to a smaller office at the corner of the room that you had failed to see previously, with a dark crystal barrier that most likely will let you see to his office but not let him see to yours. 

You nod and walk to the door, opening without expecting much. 

What greets you is quite the opposite.

There's a big desk with white orchids at the edge, with one side against the wall and a computer ready to be used in the middle, a fancy coffee maker in a kitchenette at the other side of the room and a small cupboard stuck to the wall on top of the sink. There are even some shelves with books about finances and management next to your desk. Another door is behind your chair, two steps away if you stand up.

You walk to open it and discover you've also got your own bathroom, with white tiles and a golden faucet. It looks so neat you're afraid of getting inside, so you close the door.

Having your own space to work feels slightly overwhelming. From spending all day dealing with people to having a room for yourself feels like a huge change done in just a day.

But out of everything that apparently comes with working for the CEO of Lord Enterprises directly, what takes the breath out of you is the sight you have of the city. 

The city shines in front of your eyes, with yellow dots navigating the streets and hordes of people running from one point to another. You can see everything from there, almost all of Central Park filled with trees that soon will turn brown and yellow in the fall, windows that let you see how a lot of people start waking up and continue living, businesses that open to provide people with food, coffee or even just a place for people to take his mind away, sit down and breathe for a second.

The view brings tears to your eyes. This is the city that became your home when you arrived, full of wild activity and even wilder people. New York, after all. 

You smile, realizing that this is closer to what you were searching for. There’s a new sense of excitement in your chest, full of expectation and desire to conquer. You feel ready for anything. 

But his voice breaks you out of the moment when he calls your name.

"Please come here," you hear muffled through the crystal, and you can see how his chair is completely turned towards you with one leg up the other one and his fingers interlaced on top of his lap, looking at your door without really seeing anything, frowning. 

So you take a deep breath and walk out again, with renewed energy. You know that, no matter how hard it may be, you're now on top of the world.

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added):

@evidenceofzoe @the-feckless-wonder @aeryntheofficial @cryptkeepersoul @cable-kenobi @fruitsaladtree

[handthigh]

Soooo I may or may not have gone crazy and gone stupid and wrote a whole ass one shot fanfic of Tianshan in the office AU

ETA: this is now also available at AO3! (ETA 2: This is now a multichapter fic!)

Big thanks to the people over at Tianshan discord for taking a read and giving me the feedback. The fic follows right after this paragraph, with notes at the end of the fic.

He Tian (Work):

Little Mo, pass me a stapler (6:35pm)

Frowning at the message notification, Mo Guan Shan wordlessly takes the stapler lying on his desk and wheels his chair out of his cubicle to pass to his next door neighbour who grins upon receiving the stationery from the redhead. The reciprocity is not returned however, as Guan Shan wheels back into his cubicle to complete a report the supervisor had dumped onto him 15 minutes before the time he ends work. It is already bad enough that he is working overtime on a Friday while being the only one stuck with He Tian, the last thing he needs is for the annoying colleague to interrupt his progress.

The report turns out even more taxing than expected, further souring Guan Shan’s mood. He glanced at the time displayed on the laptop, “6:55pm”. Great, the report’s barely done and closing time sale at the nearby sandwich shop is already over. So much for a “quick task”, he scoffs bitterly at his supervisor’s words.

As if He Tian can read his mind, comes another text:

He Tian (Work):

Little Mo, are you cursing out the boss in your head again? (6:57pm)

Damn it, not another interruption. Glancing at the new message, Guan Shan cringes at the accuracy of the guess. Guilt quickly turns into irritation however, as he glares at the cubicle separating him and the culprit of these messages. This has been going on for about 3 months now, ever since he was assigned to be seated with He Tian at the corner of the office. The reason? The supervisor claims that only the short tempered Guan Shan is immune to the raven haired’s hunky looks while workers of all genders in their department are too busy admiring He Tian to work productively. Guan Shan tries to suppress his gag upon the memory.

First of all, Guan Shan does not appreciate being called short tempered. He just has little patience and a lot of irritation for mindless small talks and forced formalities, that’s all. Second of all, seriously? Of all words, hunky? While Guan Shan admits that He Tian is a looker because after all, he has eyes; but that is certainly an exaggeration. Sure, He Tian has the physique and face for the magazine covers, but he’s not that good looking. Especially not when he assigns Guan Shan that stupid nickname and constantly texts him for no justifiable reasons despite already repeating many times that he only wants to reserve the texting to a minimum and keep it strictly to work matters.

Wait, what the fuck? Why is he thinking about him again? Ugh, this is why he emphasises on keeping social interactions to a minimum! The report and the constant texting must have really gotten to him, because the next thing he knew, Guan Shan picks up his phone and types at his source of annoyance.

Me:

Yes, genius. Since you’re so smart and volunteered to OT with me, why don’t you make yourself useful and help me out with the report then you chicken dick! (7:05pm)

Normally Guan Shan tries to keep his temper in check, wanting to believe he is no longer the moody middle school boy that he was. Besides, this is the first job he managed to get right after graduating university 6 months ago, just in time before the recession. Thus, he is not trying to screw up an opportunity just because he got involved in some petty office drama. However, the combination of working overtime, growing hunger and unnecessary buzzing of his phone followed by He Tian’s unnecessary messages is making Guan Shan throw both caution and formalities out the window. 

He is not the only one surprised by his own outburst however, as He Tian guffaws and rolls his chair out of the cubicle to meet the redhead, currently glaring at him and asking what’s so funny.

“Chicken dick? What kind of insult is that? Also, I dunno, I just thought you’d never asked me for help.” He Tian replies with a shrug and his signature grin.

He Tian is not wrong - Guan Shan seldom asks for help, believing that it’s better to be self-sufficient than to rely on someone else. Furthermore, it allows him to avoid having to keep up with forced interactions with others. But it’s getting late and the report doesn’t seem to be finishing soon, and there is someone in the office right now, might as well right?

“So are you going to help me or not?”

“Sure, anything for you Little Mo~”

“Stop calling me that! Give me your email, I’ll share the document with you on the cloud.”

So, here they are at 7:30pm, working in a shared online document together - cubicle to cubicle. Guan Shan mainly typing out the content of the report while He Tian formats, elaborates and adds any figures and charts where appropriate; explaining his rationale to the other while he works.

As Guan Shan sees the report transform before his very own eyes, he is now confronted with the thought he’s been trying to will away for 3 days, ever since he overheard the company executives discuss whether to promote He Tian. 

As much as he hates admitting it, He Tian is talented and hardworking when situations call for it. Not only is he able to easily handle the tedious formatting that is typically required of such reports, he also goes the extra mile of further perfecting any tasks assigned to him. It also helps that he has great social networking skills to accompany his equally great looks, not only charming the other coworkers around them, but also clients and other company staff alike in network events. 

Attempting to ignore the ache of admiration growing in his chest, Guan Shan wonders why is someone as good as He Tian working at an entry level job like him in a medium sized company when the latter can easily negotiate for a much higher salary in a conglomerate. What he heard about his raven haired coworker isn’t helping much with his curiosity either.

While Guan Shan prefers minding his own business, he also doesn’t live under a rock. He has heard the rumours - that He Tian had interned for various big names while he attended an Ivy League business school and graduated a valedictorian. He was also rumoured to be taking over his family’s multinational company branch in China while his older brother gets based overseas to look over their international branches. Yet somehow, here he is, working overtime in a too small cubicle with an aloof coworker who has nothing to boast for. After all, Guan Shan’s resume mainly consists of mediocre grades in a local university that is far from being a C9 League, one proper internship experience and multiple part time odd jobs to help him pay his student loans. 

He Tian has everything going for him, and yet, why? Guan Shan is so lost in his own thoughts that he does not notice an arm reaching out to his laptop and folding it down, clasping his fingers that are resting motionlessly on the keyboard.

“Ouch! What the fuck?!” Guan Shan stands up and yelps in shock, spinning around to glare at the culprit. This proves to be a mistake as he realises he is face to face with He Tian, barely an inch away. 

Suddenly, the room feels hot and all Guan Shan can hear is his heart rapidly beating in his ears as he sees a totally different expression from the latter: lips twitching up, high cheekbones raised making them even more pronounced, coupled with a pair of grey eyes sparkling and curving in childish amusement. Even though he knows that He Tian is laughing at his expense, somehow, Guan Shan could not bring himself to break eye contact, wanting to look as long as possible until he commits He Tian’s genuine smile to memory.

“Earth to Little Mo, I said I was done with the report and had emailed our supervisor, and was thinking of treating you to a sandwich as a thanks for your effort.” He Tian replies, amusement laced in his voice as he breaks the silence.

“...How do you know I like…” Guan Shan dumbly replies, still feeling overwhelmed by the close contact to even retort He Tian as he feels his face getting even hotter.

Breaking eye contact, He Tian steps to the side and fishes out his car key, hooking the key ring to his finger. As much as he finds his flustered colleague both amusing and endearing, he makes sure to give Guan Shan some space in case the other gets too stunned and passes out. “Well, who else in this office eats those except for you? So what do you say, it'll be my treat and I can drive us there.” He Tian says as he leans back on the cubicle wall, spinning the car key around.

“.... Uh… mm” Guan Shan nodded, feeling too light headed to speak properly.

“Let’s go then.” He Tian steps out of the cubicle, making his way out as he turns off the office lights.

Guan Shan’s mind is reeling as he follows He Tian from behind. Why is he suddenly reacting like this? Why did he agree to have dinner with him? Most importantly, WHY IS HE SUDDENLY HAVING SUCH THOUGHTS OF THAT ANNOYING CHICKEN DICK?

God, he hates working overtime.

Notes:

If you made it here, thanks for reading! I’ve been wanting to write a fluffier, slice of life office romance with Tianshan for quite awhile now - an AU with no mafia drama, no She Li being a creep, just coworkers dicking around and relatively normal problems here and there. I only committed after getting reminded of this official Tianshan art by Old Xian on the discord. Aside from 19 days, I also draw inspiration from a webcomic called Senpai ga Uzai, Kouhai no Hanashi. I’m a huge sucker of slow burn fluffy Tianshan where Guan Shan is initially annoyed at He Tian and slowly and reluctantly falls for him. Hehehehehehehehe *continues to laugh in fujoshi*

Not going to lie, I do feel nervous posting it. However, after seeing many Tianshan fics (they are good! don’t get me wrong) that doesn’t have a workplace AU, I thought I’d manifest it onto the internet space! Do let me know what you think, as I am considering expanding this into a multi-fic once I stop being lazy. 

[aquaminwrites]

Fake Love | Jung Hoseok (M)

PAIRING: Jung Hoseok x F!Reader, mentions of Namjin

GENRE: Fake dating AU, enemies to lovers, fluff, smut, minor angst

WARNINGS: Explicit sexual content, dirty talk, slight dom!Hoseok

WORD COUNT: 16.2k

DESCRIPTION: Every year, your family spends the holidays at your parents’ cottage in the country. Freshly single and not wanting to be picked apart by your family for being alone, you decide to recruit one of your friends to pretend to be your boyfriend. The only available volunteer? Your brother Namjoon’s roommate, Hoseok. Only problem? He absolutely hates your guts.

I should get up, you think to yourself. Daylight is precious in the dead of winter, and you’ve probably already wasted at least half of it wallowing in self-pity. You’re lying in bed, duvet pulled high over your head, wondering exactly how and when your life took such a left turn.

Breakups have never been easy for you. You’d always had trouble when it came to dating—you’d always described yourself as the girl that no one would fall in love with, but who had a lot of friends. You were social, flitting around with ease between one group of friends to another, but you had always wondered if your absence would be noted if you were to just stop showing up to parties or work functions.

But then you met Jackson.

The office you worked in had a Christmas party three years ago, back when you’d just been an intern and were keep on rising through the ranks to a full-time position. You were well liked, always offering a helping hand to anyone who asked and generally did your best not to make waves. You didn’t know what to expect when you showed up at the bar, which had been totally rented out for you and your colleagues. You also didn’t really know anyone at the party—the one other intern that you’d befriended having gone home for the holidays—so you’d just lingered by the bar on your own, silently surveying the crowd.

Jackson had come to join you, muttering something about how he hated office Christmas parties. You weren’t sure if he’d been speaking to you, or just muttering to himself, but the smooth, dulcet tones of his voice had you turning to look at him.

He was handsome. More than handsome—he looked like he just strolled out of a men’s fashion magazine, wearing a black turtleneck, a dark grey blazer, and a pair of ironed dress pants. He held a glass that held two thimblefuls of amber liquid that he casually sipped as he leaned against the dark oak of the bar. He tilted his chiseled jaw in your direction with an eyebrow raised, and you hoped he hadn’t caught you openly staring.

“I don’t know if I’ve seen you around the office before,” he noted with a curious glint to his eyes.

“I’m just an intern,” you admitted, breaking eye contact to fiddle with the sleeve of your dark green crushed velvet dress.

“Not just an intern,” the man corrected, leaning his elbow against the bar so that he could turn to fully face you. You offered up the same courtesy, though, you felt heat rushing to your cheeks as you realized just how close he’d been standing. He held out his hand, a warm smile on his face. “I’m Jackson, by the way.”

“Y/N,” you replied, feeling the warmth of his palm pressing against yours. “Nice to meet you.”

And that’s how your relationship with him began. It was a whirlwind, the two of you falling in love hard and fast. Within the first three months, you’d moved into his penthouse apartment, and you’d both met each other’s parents. Jackson had been a blessing in your life, teaching you what it meant to be in love and how to love another person. Your happiest memories were of his smiling face, of him telling you for the first time that he loved you, and the nights that you two explored one another’s bodies until the sun came up.

There was so much good in your relationship that it felt easy to slip into a false sense of security. You’d been hired on as a full-time employee at the company, taking on additional responsibilities and getting your own cubicle on a different floor. Jackson had been working hard as well, his eye on a big promotion that would have bumped him up to a six-figure salary if he landed it.

Of course, he did. And it was when he did that things started to fall apart.

He was never home. He always promised that he would make it in time for dinner, than he would spend the weekend with you and work wouldn’t be involved. He made reservations at restaurants, and wouldn’t show up. He’d take you to the movies, but have to leave halfway through to make an important phone call. On your third anniversary, as he was balls deep inside of you in an expensive hotel room, his cell phone rang and he actually had the audacity to stop and answer.

The breakup had been mutual, though it had been you who initiated the conversation. You loved Jackson, and part of you still does. But he was married to his job, loved it more than anything. It was his priority, not you. And to his credit, he’d admitted his faults and that he’d been a neglectful partner. You knew that you hadn’t been the best girlfriend either, not wanting to try to communicate with him because you were scared he would just leave you for someone better.

It’s been about two months since the two of you ended your relationship. You hear he’s dating someone else. Someone as handsome as him never stays single for long.

With his promotion, Jackson had also become your boss. And after your mutual split, working under him proved to be too difficult. So after a week of severe anxiety about even setting foot into the building and living in a hotel, you quit your job and had to find a new apartment.

The only saving grace had been that your older brother, Namjoon, knew that there was an empty apartment in his building, on his floor. You’d moved in without much thought, glad to have family nearby. Namjoon was only a year older than you, so the two of you were extremely close. You were the first person he’d told when he started dating his boyfriend, knowing that all you cared about was his happiness. Namjoon had started seeing Seokjin about a year ago, and the two are still going strong.

As for the job part, you’re still figuring that one out. Thankfully you have enough savings to last you for a while, but finding employment was definitely something at the top of your list. Right underneath ‘Get out of bed’.

Having your brother as your down-the-hall neighbour has its pros and cons. One pro is that you sometimes buy groceries for him and vice versa, the two of you always looking out for one another and making sure your pantries are always full.

One con is that Namjoon has a key to your place. And he likes to use it.

“Sis, where are you?” Namjoon calls from your front hallway. “I thought you were coming over for lunch today. Jin’s already here.”

You tug the blanket higher over your head, releasing a whine. You hear Namjoon’s socked feet padding towards you, and the sigh of disapproval at your current state.

“You have to get out of bed sometime, you know?” He says, and you can hear his frown before you see it. “It’s been two months, Y/N. You can’t just stay in bed all day. You’ve barely unpacked your apartment.”

You grumble, though you know he’s right. You don’t have that many belongings, nor is the apartment even that big. But you still have boxes in stacks in the corner of your living room, the bare minimum having been unpacked before you began to sink into the pool of self-pity that you find yourself in now.

You feel a light tug at the duvet before it’s yanked halfway down our body, exposing you to what remains of the afternoon sun. You’re in your typical pyjamas, an oversized shirt and shorts, and with how quickly Namjoon had ripped the sheets off, you begin to shiver and pout.

“Fuck you, fine, give me fifteen minutes to shower and freshen up,” you groan, blindly grabbing your pillow and swinging it in Namjoon’s direction.

Your brother dodges the blow and hops backwards, opening all your curtains and flicking on every light switch he can find. You haven’t moved yet, but you shout an affirmative when you hear him asking if you’re awake yet by the front door. He leaves you to your own devices, and not wanting to keep him and Seokjin waiting, you stumble out of bed and towards your bathroom.

The shower does you good and you examine your reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under your eyes haven’t gone away, no matter how many daytime naps you’ve taken over the past few weeks. You swipe some concealer under your eyes so you don’t look like a total corpse, slip on some leggings and a sweater, and tie up your wet hair in a bun.

With whatever remaining energy you have, you trudge down the hall to Namjoon’s apartment, rapping lightly on the door. You hear shuffling inside, and the unmistakable sound of Seokjin’s windshield wiper laughter. The door finally swings open, revealing the last person in the world you ever want to see.

“Wow, Y/N, you look like shit,” Hoseok says with a smirk, as if his insult is in any way charming. You shoulder your way past him into the apartment.

Jung Hoseok has been the bane of your existence since your junior year of high school. He was a transfer student, same age as your brother. Namjoon had been the one to take Hoseok under his wing when he’d first arrived, and the two of them quickly became best friends. But for some reason, he absolutely hated you. Whenever you were around, he would only ever tease you and try to get a reaction out of you, and you could never figure out what you had done to make him treat you this way. It’s infuriating, to say the least.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were going home for the holidays,” you grunt, not expecting your brother’s best friend and roommate to still be home so close to Christmas. Usually, Hoseok spends the holidays with his parents and his sister, and you don’t have to deal with him being a total pain in the ass whenever you come to visit Namjoon.

“My parents decided to go to Europe on vacation, and my sister is with her boyfriend’s family for Christmas,” Hoseok shrugs. “So I’m stuck here. Aren’t you lucky?”

You roll your eyes, heading towards the kitchen where you hear Seokjin trying to keep Namjoon away. “Lucky as a heart attack.”

“Y/N!” Seokjin cries when he sees you, his arms opening so you can shuffle into his grasp for a hug. “There you are. Namjoon and I were taking bets on how much longer it would take for you to get here. I beat him by one minute, so now he owes me a shoulder massage.”

“You cheated!” Namjoon pouts as he sets the table. You notice that he places down four sets of cutlery, and you inwardly groan knowing Hoseok will be joining you. “You just guessed one minute sooner than what I guessed, then she happened to walk through the door.”

Seokjin tuts. “Strategy, love.” Though he saunters over to where Namjoon stands, pressing a sweet kiss to his forehead before hip-checking him back into action.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Namjoon pipes up as everyone takes their seats. Hoseok decides to sit across from you, in a move that you can only assume is to aggravate you further. “Don’t forget that we’re all driving down to Mom and Dad’s cottage on Friday for Christmas.”

You give a solemn nod, and pick at the green beans on your plate. Every year, you and Namjoon join your parents for a weekend at your family’s cottage for the holidays. It’s a long-held tradition, one that you were more than happy to share with Jackson when the two of you had been dating. He’d always been the perfect buffer between you and your parents—not that you don’t love them, but they have a tendency to be a bit overbearing. They’d toned it down when you and Jackson had gotten together, and now that you’re single, you’re dreading the flood of questions and pitying looks from your mother in particular.

“Why the long face?” Hoseok questions, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork. “I thought you loved going to the cottage for the holidays.”

“She’s glum because her and Jackson broke up, so she has to carpool with us,” Seokjin supplies unhelpfully. You kick his shin under the table, earning a loud, indignant yelp.

Hoseok’s eyes widen. “You and Jackson broke up?”

“Don’t act as if Namjoon didn’t already tell you,” you scoff. “I didn’t move down the hall just for the fun of it.”

He shrugs, speaking between mouthfuls of food. “I thought maybe you two were downsizing. No need to get snippy with me, I don’t know or care about every minute detail of your life.”

You’re rolling your eyes before you even realize that it’s happening. “Maybe if you actually used your brain, or the power of observation, you’d realize that Jackson and I haven’t been together in almost two months.”

“Again,” Hoseok repeats, slower this time, as if you’re a child who can’t understand his words. “I don’t care about your life.”

“Hey,” Namjoon warns. “That’s my sister, bro.”

“Okay, let me rephrase,” Hoseok declares, tapping his long index finger against his chin. “How’s this: I don’t care, period.”

“Seokjin, babe,” Namjoon asks softly, back straight, cutting into his chicken with far too much calmness. “Where do I keep my rubber flip flops?”

“In the front hall closet,” Seokjin replies around a mouthful of food. “Why?”

Namjoon immediately focuses on Hoseok, eyes narrowing significantly. “My roommate is about to have an accident.”

You clear your throat loudly, muttering to yourself about how annoying it is that men can’t just figure their shit out with words. “I’m not upset that I have to carpool with Joonie and Seokjin, if you must know. It’s just…” Your voice gets quiet, and you can’t believe you’re voicing these fears out loud, but it’s too late to stop it now. “It’s my first Christmas in years without Jackson, you know? Even though we broke up, I really miss him. And I haven’t told my parents about it either, so now I not only have to break it to them, but also have to field all their questions about my love life, and my mother will inevitably try to set me up with one of her friend’s sons.”

Namjoon can’t help but snort. “Yeah. Remember that time she made you go on a date with her coworker’s nephew?”

“Of course I remember,” you grumble. “He took me to dinner and then tried to get me to invest in his pyramid scheme.”

Hoseok cackles, shaking his head.

You prop your elbow up on the table and place your chin in your palm, blowing few loose strands of hair from your face. “Maybe I could bribe a friend to come to the cottage and just pretend to be my boyfriend for the weekend. Mom and Dad will be shocked that Jackson isn’t there, but at least they won’t try to set me up with anyone and I can go back to wallowing in self-pity once the holidays are over.”

Namjoon considers it, his head titling from side to side. “Not the worst idea in the world, if you’re really that stressed about going alone.”

You give a nod. “You think Jungkook would want to come? He’s a little young, but at least he’s easy on the eyes.”

Seokjin shakes his head. “Jungkook and his brother are with their parents on a cruise or something. They’re not due back til after this cottage debacle is done.”

You frown. “What about Taehyung? Or Yoongi?”

“Taehyung’s got plans, and Yoongi went back home for a few days,” Namjoon responds apologetically. “I could maybe ask Jimin if he’s free.”

You shake your head. “I spoke to Jimin the other day, he’s going back home for the holidays to be with his family, too.”

Hoseok raises an eyebrow, looking around at everyone at the table. You’re purposely not making eye contact, but when he speaks, he voices the one thing you desperately do not want.

“I’ll go.”

You regard him wearily, your heart hammering in your chest. No. He did not just offer to come. “What? Why?”

Hoseok shrugs, listing off the reasons on his fingers. “My family’s not around this year, and your parents already know me. I’ve got nothing better to do, and if I’m being honest, I’m curious as to how this train wreck of a weekend is going to go.”

You frown, wanting nothing more than to faceplate into the spring mix on your plate. “I have no other option, do I?”

Hoseok smirks. “Get ready, babe. You’re in for a hell of a weekend.”

It’s just for a few days, you can survive a few days. Besides, if this is going to happen, you are absolutely writing down a list of rules for Hoseok to follow. Groaning, you decide to just accept your fate after weighing the pros and cons. When you finally agree, Hoseok blows you an exaggerated kiss, causing you to gag.

From his seat across the table, Namjoon watches the two of you with cautious eyes. He glances over at Seokjin, who just subtly shrugs his shoulders.

A hell of a weekend, indeed.

—

You end up driving down with Namjoon and Seokjin to the cottage, Hoseok having to work last minute. He had promised he would still be in time for dinner, he just needed to wrap up some stuff at his dance studio before the weekend began.

You’re about ten minutes away, the three of you driving in comfortable silence, when Namjoon turns in the passenger seat to look at you. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Y/N?”

You shrug, tucking your phone into your coat pocket. Nothing interesting is happening on social media away. “What other option do I have?”

Namjoon mimics you, his shoulders lifting nonchalantly. “Just seems like a lot of trouble just to get Mom and Dad to get off your back about being a single Pringle.”

“First off, you and Jin have been spending way too much time together,” you state with a frown. “Second, you have no idea what it’s like dealing with Mom and Dad when it comes to this stuff. They honestly worshipped the ground Jackson walked on. At least with Hoseok there, I have some sort of buffer.”

Seokjin eyes you from the rearview mirror. “Still surprises me that Hoseok was down to do it in the first place, to be honest. Are you paying him or something?”

“I offered,” you say, leaning back in your seat and watching the snow-covered trees pass by. “He said he didn’t want my money.”

Namjoon glances at Seokjin with a weary expression, but you don’t see it as you lean your head against the window.

You arrive at the cottage, which is really more like a second house. Your parents had always wanted a vacation property, working hard and making sacrifices to turn their dream into a reality. And the house was beautiful—you and Namjoon had spent many summers there as children, running through the woods behind the house until you reached the lake, splashing about without a care in the world. You spend every Christmas there as well, a long-held tradition that carries on to this day.

The cottage itself is a two-storey home with tan bricks and a wrap-around porch. White Christmas lights line the edges of the dark-shingled roof, wrapping around the porch banister and creating a pathway to the front door. There had been a decent amount of snowfall earlier that day, so some of the lights are diffused under the powdery blanket that covers the house.

Seokjin parks the car and you all file out, collecting your bags. You’re just about to ring the doorbell when the door flies open, revealing your mother, washed in the golden light emanating from inside. She’s wearing one of those god-awful patterned Christmas sweaters that Seokjin got her last year (he’s sporting a matching one, to your chagrin), with a Santa Claus hat perched atop her head.

“My babies!” She coos, dragging all three of you inside. The house smells like home, a combination of spiced scented candles and home cooking, and stepping across the threshold feels like a warm hug. Or perhaps it’s your mother’s arms locking around you, cutting off your circulation. It’s hard to tell.

“Hi Mom,” you smile, looking around. “Where’s Dad?”

She waves a hand flippantly. “Your father got a new barbecue for himself as a Christmas gift. He’s out in the backyard, bundled like a fool, cooking up more meat than we could possibly eat.”

As you, Namjoon and Seokjin file inside, you notice as your mother does a mental head count, and see the look of realization dawn on her face as she catches that there is one less ball of testosterone than she is expecting.

“Where’s Jackson?”

“Oh,” you begin sheepishly. “We, uh…you see, he’s…”

“They broke up,” Namjoon offers, taking everyone’s coats and dutifully placing them on hangers in the hall closet. “A few months ago.”

Your mother’s eyes widen and that look of pity that you hate filters into her irises. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” she sighs, tugging you close as you allow your body to go limp in her hold. Tears start to well in your eyes, which you don’t expect. But it’s also the first time you’re telling her about your break-up, and sometimes you just need to be held by your mom. “You know, if you’re looking, I have a coworker who has this son—”

Ah, there it is. You peel yourself away, going so far as to take a step back. “Actually, Mom, I—”

You’re cut off by the sound of the doorbell, and your mother cocks an eyebrow. She peers out of the window, and suddenly looks taken aback. She swings the door open to reveal a rosy-cheeked Hoseok, overnight bag slung over his shoulder, holding a bouquet of red roses and what looks like a pie.

“Hoseok!” Your mom says his name with a slight inflection at the end, both a statement and a question.

“Hi, Mrs. Kim,” he beams at her, and she allows him inside. “Sorry I’m late. I hope I didn’t interrupt if you guys already started dinner.”

“Oh, no, the kids just got in,” she waves off. “But…and pardon my rudeness, but what are you doing here?”

“Mom,” you interject, taking a step towards Hoseok. “That’s what I was going to tell you just now. Hoseok is…uh, he’s…”

Oh god, I’m so awkward, you chastise inwardly. Why can’t I just say it?

“We’re dating,” Hoseok offers. “Y/N didn’t tell you because she wanted it to be a surprise.”

Your mother tilts her head before she nods, a smile breaking across her face. “That’s so great! I always thought that you two disliked each other, but I suppose love always finds a way.”

“Uh, yeah,” you say unconvincingly. It’s then that you take notice of the giant bouquet of roses he’s carrying, and you point at it dumbly. “What are those for?”

Hoseok smirks, breaking character for a split second before his face transforms once again into that of an angel. “For you, Mrs. Kim,” he responds, giving a slight bow and offering the flowers to your mother. She gushes, because of course she does. She’s always considered Hoseok to be one of her favourites amongst Namjoon’s friends, and she loves roses.

“How sweet! Thank you so much!”

Hoseok’s smile grows wider at her acceptance of the gift. He then, however, plucks one rose from the bunch. “You’re welcome. Except for this one,” he says before he turns in your direction. “This one is for you.”

When you take it from his grasp, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to the apple of your cheek. It takes all your willpower to not jump back, but to keep your feet planted where they are. You’re meant to be posing as a couple, of course he’s supposed to kiss you. So how come your heart won’t stop racing in your chest?

You decide to ignore it and just accept the rose with a bashful smile, one that has your mother in an absolute joyous fit.

“You’re too kind, Hoseok. Here, let me take that into the kitchen, and Y/N will help you with your coat. We still have some preparations to do with dinner, and Seokjin’s already offered to assist. Y/N, why don’t you bring yours and Hoseok’s bags up to your room and give him a tour? It’s been ages since he was last here.”

You mutely agree before taking Hoseok’s coat to put in the hall closet. As he sheds his layers, you can’t help but notice how nice he looks when he cleans up. His hair is styled so that it’s parted close to the middle in loose waves away from his face, and he’s sporting a thin, dark green knit sweater over a pinstriped dress shirt. It looks like he even ironed his dress pants.

“Okay, babe,” Hoseok grabs your bag as well, emphasizing the pet name. You want to gag. “Let’s go to our room.”

That was one thing that you’d somehow forgotten in this whole mess. You and Jackson had always shared your bed, which obviously was never an issue. But sharing a bed with Hoseok means…well, sharing a bed with Hoseok. And you’re pretty certain you would rather cut off both legs and serve them with Christmas dinner than have to share a bed with him.

You curse yourself for not fully thinking every detail of this arrangement through, but begrudgingly lead him upstairs nevertheless. It’s too late now. Your room at the cottage is at the end of the hall, beside Namjoon’s. You’d decorated the room as a teenager, and your parents left it largely untouched, never bothering to change it. The same went for Namjoon’s as well, except they knew not to touch anything because your brother was—and still is—so particular.

The room itself is pretty simple. It’s painted an off-white with a combination of framed art and little polaroids and other photos pinned to the walls. String lights frame the window, and there’s a dresser, and a vanity with more pictures of you and your friends throughout the years taped to the sides. It’s cozy and warm, and being here reminds you of all the happy memories of your childhood. Hoseok looks around the room with an expression that you can’t quite place before dumping his bag on the bed. He saunters over to your vanity to look at the pictures you’ve kept up there all these years.

You watch him with both curiosity and apprehension as his eyes skim over the pictures of you and Namjoon as kids, you and your best friends in high school, and you almost miss the imperceptible clench of his jaw at a strip of photo booth pictures of you and Jackson. You see where his eyes are trained and immediately stride over, placing the rose he’d gifted you earlier on the tabletop, and pulling the photo down.

He watches as you regard it with a heavy heart, noticing how you breathe out heavily through your nostrils. You look as if you want to tear up the pictures and throw them in the trash, but instead you just open one of the empty drawers of the vanity and place it gingerly inside.

“Not over him yet?” Hoseok asks, his voice quieter than you’re expecting.

You look up at him, expecting to see either mirth or pity, but surprisingly, when you look into his eyes, you see gentle understanding.

“I…” you begin, unable to maintain eye contact. You run your hand through your hair and fold your arms over your chest. “I miss him,” you admit. “But our relationship was over way before we broke up.”

Hoseok gives a nod, but doesn’t prompt you to explain any further. He just shoves his hands in his pockets and moves away from the photos, understanding that maybe he’d overstepped his bounds.

It’s then that Namjoon pops his head in the doorway.

“Hey, lovebirds,” he grins, obviously having a hard time maintaining the façade. You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Dinner’s ready.”

“We’ll be down in a second,” Hoseok states, and Namjoon just shrugs before disappearing.

You turn and give Hoseok a wry smile. “Gonna try to kiss me again or something?”

Your brain nearly short circuits the minute the words leave your mouth. Am I…flirting with Hoseok?

He snorts in reply, hands still in his pockets. “No one’s around, so nah, probably not. This weekend is just for show, remember? I know I clean up nice, but try not to fall in love with me, yeah?”

“Ah, there he is,” you say with just the slightest hint of irritation. “For a second, I thought aliens had kidnapped you and replaced you with someone who was actually tolerable.”

Hoseok holds his hands over his heart and makes a fake pained noise. “My lady, you wound me! How doth I go on in a manner such as this?”

You blink at him. “Doth?”

He just shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. Look, I just, uh…I wanted to let you know that…”

You wait for his response, unsure of what he’s about to say. Your eyes meet his, and you can see the conflict plain as day on his face. With a sigh, he shakes his head.

“Never mind. I just wanted to say that I hope this weekend goes well.”

You regard him curiously, but give a slight nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

The two of you head downstairs to find everyone else in the dining room, Namjoon and Seokjin sitting and sipping wine while chatting animatedly with your father.

Your socked feet pad along towards the delicious smell of a home cooked meal, Hoseok following close behind. You’re not used to being so physically close to him, and you can feel the warmth radiating off of his body. You try not to think about how you can smell his cologne, a delicious, perfect smell that has you biting the inside of your cheek.

You sneak a glance at him. Has his jawline always been so sharp? Admittedly, Hoseok has always been good-looking, but you’d never bothered to notice until now. You mentally slap yourself for thinking these things—this is Hoseok. Asshole extraordinaire, your brother’s best friend and roommate, and the bane of your existence since you were sixteen.

“Hoseok! Y/N!” Your mother calls as she lowers the hot dishes down onto the placemats. You turn away from Hoseok momentarily to eye her, a frown forming at the obvious giddiness filtering into her voice. She nods skyward, causing the two of you to look up as well. And then she says the one word you’d been dreading since you set foot into the cottage: “Mistletoe!”

She’s right. Pinned to the entryway into the dining room is a sprig of mistletoe, dangling over your heads. She’s evil, you concur. My mother is the devil.

Hoseok turns to you, and your eyes widen at his proximity. He smirks, that insolent, infuriating half-grin that both has your blood boiling and your heart racing. “Well, baby,” he purrs, wiggling his eyebrows. “Shall we give them a show?”

Before you have the chance to vehemently protest, One of Hoseok’s hands is on your lower back, and the other is cupping the back of your neck. He dips you down, catching you off guard. Your arms instinctively loop around his neck so you don’t fall, and in that split-second of shock, he kisses you.

Like, really kisses you.

This isn’t the peck on the cheek that he’d given you when you’d first lied to your mother about the two of you dating. The way he’s kissing you now feels different, like it’s grounded in something you can’t quite place. And, perhaps in a moment of temporary insanity, you kiss him back.

As soon as Hoseok feels your lips moving along with his, a deep groan rumbles in his chest. Your fingers curl into his hair as he presses you so close, and you swear you feel the wetness of his tongue gliding across the seam of your mouth.

Namjoon wolf-whistles and the two of you break apart before it can get too heated. A good thing, since you were starting to lose yourself in the feeling of Hoseok’s lips against yours, the gentle way in which his thumb rubs circles against your lower back. Hoseok lifts you back to standing and you immediately hide your face against his shoulder, your back to the rest of your family as he holds you close. You’d never been overly affectionate with any of your exes in front of your parents, even Jackson. So having practically made out with someone who you consider your nemesis in front of them is mortifying.

You feel his lips against your crown, almost imperceptible. You peel yourself away from him to look into his eyes, his expression unreadable. You hear someone at the table clear their throat, and it breaks the spell, causing you to take a step back, trying to hide the deep blush on your face behind your hair.

“If you’re done,” your father states in a teasing tone, “the rest of us would like to start eating.”

You bite the inside of your cheek as you and Hoseok take your seats opposite Namjoon and Seokjin. Your parents are sitting on either end of the table, Hoseok closest to your mother and you closest to your father. The spread of food on the table looks delicious, and you all start to dig in. Seokjin won’t stop piling sweet potatoes and turkey slices onto his plate, and when Namjoon scolds him for it, he proceeds to lick every item just to lay his claim.

You wonder what it’s like for your brother and his boyfriend to share one brain cell.

“So,” your father finally pipes up once everyone’s plates are full and the sounds of forks and knives clinking has filled the room. He gestures to you and Hoseok, an eyebrow raised. “When did this happen?”

You turn to look at Hoseok, realizing in your stupidity that you hadn’t come up with a backstory. Hoseok sees the apprehension in your eyes and decides to be the one to speak up.

“It was a few weeks after her and Jackson had broken up and she moved into our building,” Hoseok comments, addressing both of your parents. “I hadn’t seen Y/N in a while, since she was always working. But then one day she came over to visit Namjoon, and…” He then turns to look at you, making sure your eyes don’t stray from his. “I just thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and that I was an idiot for not noticing sooner.”

Your jaw can’t help but drop just slightly at the confession, but then you remember that this is all an act. This is just so your parents will leave you alone about what happened with Jackson, and Hoseok is just a better actor than you’d ever given him credit for. It sets a sharp bitterness in your mouth, forcing you to remember that you hate Hoseok, and that he hates you too.

For some reason, though it’s been fact for the majority of your adult life, the harsh reality has your heart clenching in your chest.

“How romantic!” Your mother’s cooing interrupts your thoughts. Hoseok is smiling gently at you, and you can’t help but blush and turn away to pick at your food as you gather your thoughts.

“Yeah,” you agree, clearing your throat. “We both thought that maybe it would be a little too soon after everything that happened, but…”

“It just feels right,” Hoseok finishes for you.

You can’t help but wonder if an alien really did abduct the real Hoseok and left an imposter as a replacement, but you play along, nodding slightly.

“Yeah. It does.”

—

Dinner passes with the expected amount of painful questioning, mostly from your mom. Your dad has always stated that he trusts your judgment when it comes to the guys you date, and since he already knows Hoseok, his questions are thankfully minimal. When you’d first brought Jackson home for dinner, you were worried that he and your father wouldn’t get along. But as was in your then-boyfriend’s nature, he won them both over with his sharp wit and bold sense of humour.

You sink into your chair as the memories long since past swirl around in your mind and have you staring off into space. Hoseok seems to notice immediately and he nudges you under the table as Seokjin and your father engage in a dad-joke competition that has your mother and Namjoon each refilling their glasses of wine.

“You okay?”

Your fingers drum along the stem of your own wine glass before pushing it away. “Had too much to drink maybe. I think I have a bit of a headache.”

Hoseok frowns, glancing at the others. “Do you want to get some fresh air?”

You offer up a small smile. “Actually, yeah. That’s a great idea.”

Hoseok beams at you before pressing a kiss to your forehead, catching you off guard, and rising to his feet. “Y/N and I are going to go for a quick walk. Too much wine, you know?” You hear him joke, though the ringing in your ears that began when his lips touched your skin hasn’t stopped just yet. You take a second to gather yourself, ignoring Namjoon’s apprehensive eyes, and follow Hoseok to the front foyer to collect your coats.

Winter has never been one of your favourite seasons—in fact, if you were forced to rank them, it would most likely place dead last, with summer being at the very top. But you have to admit, as you and Hoseok walk one of the trails that leads down to the lake, winter truly can be beautiful.

The sound of your snow boots crunching against the snowy ground fill your ears as you take in the sight of evergreens coated in snow, of other cottages in the distance glowing in the frigid night, and the decorative lights that break through the dark blue of the night sky. It’s quiet, save for the satisfying noise of snow being displaced under the rubber soles of your boots. Beside you, Hoseok is silent, chin tilted upward as he quietly observes everything around him.

Hoseok has been to your cottage before, just once, in the summer when you were teenagers. It had been the year he’d first moved to the city, and Namjoon had wanted him to feel welcome. That was the summer he’d wound up on your shit list, pushing you off the dock and into the lake where your foot had caught on some seaweed and you’d nearly drowned. After you’d been rescued and it was confirmed that you were alright, he’d laughed in that loud, maniacal way that you would grow to detest, dramatically making fun of how you’d fallen when he’d shoved you. After that, you had urged your parents to ban him from ever visiting the cottage again, having humiliated and nearly killed you that summer.

The path to the lake winds through the woods, though it’s a path that has been trodden by so many that you could walk it with your eyes closed. Neither you or Hoseok say anything—there’s no need to, you find, as the silence doesn’t feel as awkward as you’d expect. If anything, it feels comfortable and familiar. You chalk it up to just having known Hoseok for a long time, that his presence at your side isn’t as unfamiliar as that of a total stranger.

Eventually, the trees part and the sound of the lake lapping against the shore fills your ears. You’d always loved your cottage for this reason—being by the lake, hearing the steady rhythm of the water, always fills your mind with calm. There are a few fallen logs that serve as seating, and you dust off the snow to make room for you and Hoseok to sit down.

Your hands are shoved into the pockets of your coat and you sigh, glancing out at the horizon. It’s dark, but you can see dots of warm light on the other side of the water, and you smile to yourself at the thought of other families getting together and enjoying the holidays.

You wonder if Jackson is with his new girlfriend.

Prying your eyes away from the waves, you stare down at your boots, suddenly hyper focused on pushing a small pile of snow from the outside of your foot to the inside, and back again. Hoseok notices, his voice soft when he speaks.

“You know, it’s okay to miss him.”

Your head snaps in his direction as you peer up into the warm chocolate of his eyes. “What?”

“It’s okay to miss him,” Hoseok repeats with a shrug. “I can tell that you’re not totally over your breakup.”

You frown, turning back to fixate on the snow. “Is it that obvious?”

Hoseok snorts. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m doing the majority of the heavy lifting with your parents, right now. If Namjoon ‘secretly’ rolls his eyes one more time, I think they might actually fall out of his face.”

You nod absentmindedly, remembering once again that none of this is real. Hoseok isn’t your boyfriend, and neither is Jackson. You’re alone, single and horribly lonely, and the weight of that reality starts to really sink in.

You don’t want to cry, but you feel tears escaping as you take in a shaky breath. “It’s just hard to get out of bed sometimes, you know?” You admit feebly, ashamed of how small your voice sounds. “I just can’t help but think that if maybe I had done more, or been more, then maybe we might still be together. I wish…I just wish I was enough for him. He was always enough for me.”

Hoseok seems to hesitate, but then he apprehensively lifts his arm and places it around your shoulders. It’s a little awkward as his hand gives you a good natured pat, not trying to pull you into his body heat, just sitting beside you and trying to offer you comfort. You can’t help but notice the distinct difference between this Hoseok and the one that was trying to charm your family. In there, he was cool, funny, and warm. Out here, he’s awkward, contemplative, and nervous.

You can’t help but think that you kind of prefer this version of Hoseok.

“You know,” he begins, his voice cutting through the chill in the air. “You can’t live your life thinking about shit like that. You’re always going to look back at moments in your past and think that if you had done something differently, that the outcome would be more favourable. But honestly, dwelling on it is only going to make it worse, since you can’t change it now. What’s done is done. You gotta move on.”

Deep down, you know Hoseok is right. But still, as your breath hitches in your throat, it doesn’t stop you from asking, “Do you think it’ll ever stop hurting this much?”

It’s then that Hoseok scoots a little closer, pulling you into the warmth of his embrace. You let yourself melt against him, your head resting upon his shoulder, as he rubs your arm and places his cheek against your crown. You close your eyes, the scent of sandalwood and spice filling your nostrils. And for the first time in what feels like ages, you don’t see Jackson’s face when you’re met with the darkness behind your eyelids.

No.

This time, you picture Hoseok.

And when he speaks, you nearly forget about Jackson altogether.

“Yeah, sweetheart. I know it will.”

You arrive back at the cottage, not feeling nearly as horrible as you had when you’d left. You apologize to your parents about not sticking around to help clean up or clear the table, but your mother just winks and says it’s alright, that it’s only natural to want some alone time with your new boyfriend.

You hate that you’re lying to her, but you also can’t stop the way your breath catches in your throat at the insinuation.

Alone time with your new boyfriend.

You pretend that those words aren’t circling in your brain as you sink into the covers, squishing yourself on one side of the double bed. Hoseok is on the other side, doing something that you can only describe as touching himself.

Not in a sexual way. But he’s lying down, arms shot straight up in the air as he runs his fingertips along his inner forearms, alternating every few seconds. His eyes are closed, and he looks absolutely insane.

“What are you doing?” You have to ask, turning your head on your pillow to face him. He’s moved on now to gently caressing his own chest, looking just as  odd as before.

“My mom used to do this to me when I was a kid,” he explains, his eyes still shut. “It helps me fall asleep.”

You blink owlishly at him, unable to help the small giggle that escapes your lips. He cracks an eye open, glaring at you.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you respond, fully turning your body to face him now. “You just look crazy, is all.”

Hoseok drops his arms against the sheets in a minor huff. “Well, princess, sorry if it bothers you. You gonna volunteer to do it for me, then? Because if not, it’s going to be a long night.”

You gape at him for just a moment, though it morphs into an amused smile. “You really can’t get to sleep without someone touching you?”

Hoseok grumbles, annoyed that you know at least one of his secrets. “Unfortunately not.”

In a moment of boldness, you scoot towards him and gesture for him to face you. He does so with an unsure look, and you can’t help but notice his eyes widen as you start to run your fingers through his hair.

You don’t know what possesses you to do so, but all you know is that the strands are silky between your fingers, and your ministrations has Hoseok’s eyes starting to flutter shut. As your nails gently scrape along his scalp, he lets out a low moan, one that has him immediately darting awake and pulling away from you.

“I’m good,” he stutters out, creating distance between your bodies. “Th-thanks for that. But I’m okay.”

“Oh,” you respond, surprised and just slightly disappointed. “Well…goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” he replies gruffly, turning his back to you and tugging the duvet up to his chin. You sigh and do the same, attempting to get comfortable. You wind up staring at the wall as the minutes tick by on the clock, sleep deciding to evade you on this night.

From the other side of the bed, Hoseok also remains wide awake, his hands twitching as if he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch you.

But he doesn’t, because you’re his brother’s best friend, and you hate him. You’ve made that clear. So instead, he forces his eyes shut, and counts sheep until slumber decides to consume him in all-encompassing darkness.

—

The rest of the weekend passes by in a blur. There’s a new, underlying tension between you and Hoseok that you’re trying your best to ignore, although you know that at least Namjoon can sense that something is off.

You don’t tell anyone that when you’d awoken on Christmas morning, that Hoseok had been clinging to you like a koala, arms looped around your middle and a leg slung over yours. You’d carefully extradited yourself from his grasp without waking him, heading downstairs to help your father prepare breakfast for everyone.

But over the course of the entire weekend, Hoseok had been nothing but a total gentleman, always offering to help out with the dishes and setting the table, indulging your dad in talks of sports he knew nothing about, and even going so far as to help your mother with cooking. It made you look at him differently. He was so domestic, and you couldn’t deny the butterflies in the base of your stomach whenever he smiled in your direction. It had been confusing, to say the least.

It’s with the utmost relief that you find yourself backing your bags alone in your room, happy that you can finally return to your apartment to wallow in self pity all by your lonesome. You hear a rap against the doorframe, and as you turn, Hoseok steps into view. He’s dressed casually, wearing an oversized sweater and a pair of loose track pants, but you still can’t help but think that he looks effortlessly handsome.

You’re not sure when your brain started to produce these thoughts, but you try your hardest to ignore them.

“Hey,” he greets, almost sheepish. “You packing?”

It takes you a second to find your voice. “Yeah,” you nod, going back to sorting your belongings in the confines of your duffel bag. “You have all your stuff?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, pushing off from the door frame to make his way over to you. You feel his presence before you see how close he is, and his proximity has you standing up to your full height as you face him.

“Did you need something?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

Hoseok smiles with a shake of his head. Has he always looked this radiant?

“No, nothing like that,” he states, scratching at the back of his head. “I just, uh…wanted to say that surprisingly, I had fun this weekend.”

You can’t help but grin. “Yeah, me too. Definitely got my parents off my back, so I definitely owe you my thanks in that department.”

“Oh?” Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “Do I get to choose my token of gratitude?”

You tilt your head in confusion. “I mean, sure, I guess? Do you want money or something? Because that might have to wait until I’m employed again—”

“No,” Hoseok interrupts. “Nothing like that.”

You feel your palms starting to sweat. “Then what?”

You see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows hard. His voice sounds almost husky as he breathes out, “Kiss me.”

You almost take a step back, but force yourself to remain rooted in place, though shock is evident on your features. “W-what?”

“Kiss me,” he repeats, and you feel the warmth of his palm against your hip. “Without anyone watching, without the whole fake-boyfriend pretence.” He looks into your eyes, hopeful and oddly sincere. “Please?”

Your throat feels dry, and you swear the room is starting to spin. But your mouth speaks before your mind can catch up, asking, “Just once?”

The look in his eyes becomes unreadable, almost distant, before he answers, his breath fanning across your face. He’s so close. “Yeah. Just once.”

Your body feels like it’s running on autopilot as you lift your arms to loop around Hoseok’s neck. His grip on your waist tightens as he draws you in, closer and closer. You rise to the tips of your toes and feel his nose grazing against yours. You feel his lips barely grazing against yours, almost touching but not quite. You feel dizzy with want, this inexplicable spark of desire growing within you and warming your body from the inside out. For the very first time, you realize that you want him, that you want Jung Hoseok, and it terrifies you.

You’re just about to finally close the distance when you hear your mother from the doorway.

“Y/N, Hobi, I just wanted to—oh! Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt!”

You practically jump back from Hoseok, the moment shattered as you retract your arms from his body and curl in on yourself, squeezing your eyes shut for a second. You hear Hoseok sigh before he reluctantly moves his hands from your waist.

“That’s okay, Mrs. Kim,” he says in a strained voice. “I should probably finish packing up my car anyway.” He leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek, oddly close to the corner of your mouth. The next question he whispers into your ear, so quiet you almost don’t hear him. “See you back at the apartment?”

Oh. Part of you had hoped that Hoseok would offer to drive you back, but you suppose it makes more sense for Namjoon and Seokjin to take you. You and Hoseok need some distance, a little space to figure out the whirlwind of confusing emotions that have threatened to consume you whole. You just nod dumbly, still not looking at him. If you look at him, you might say or do something you’ll just regret later, with your mother as a witness by the door.

He lingers a moment longer before finally leaving the room. Your mother smiles at him as he goes, and he offers her a small upward quirk of his lips in return. Once the two of you are alone, and you’ve shoved the rest of your things into your duffel, your mom walks over to you and sits on the bed. She pats the spot next to her, and you take a seat, hands folded in your lap.

“How are you doing, sweetie?”

You’re confused by the question. “Uh…fine?”

“No,” she shakes her head, reaching up to play with a strand of your hair. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

You’d known that from the beginning. Your mother had always been your biggest confidant, and she hadn’t had a chance to really talk to you by yourself since getting to the cottage. You’d been expecting this conversation, dreading it even. She continues.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner that you and Jackson had broken up?” She asks gently. You’d known that your mother had loved the boy, taken him in as a second son. She had joked in the past that the two of you should get married, and that had been the direction you thought your life was going in. But life has other plans. It always does.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts before replying. “I was embarrassed,” you admit truthfully. “I…I don’t know, Mom. I guess I always thought that Jackson was going to be it for me. I told so many people how much I loved him, and everyone would always tell me in return that we were the perfect couple. What kind of perfect couple breaks up because he’s married to his job?”

You take in a shaky breath and let it out slowly.

“I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I just needed time to figure out my new normal again.”

She nods, staring off into space. After a beat, she pipes up. “Hoseok is great, though.”

You glance over at her, not realizing the tiny smile that has made its way onto your face. “Yeah. He is.”

“You know,” your mother muses, the distant look in her eyes full of nostalgia. “When you two were in high school, I always suspected that he had a crush on you. Boys always show that they like girls in the stupidest ways when they’re younger, what with all the teasing and such. But I have to say, the two of you together just make sense.”

You bite your lower lip. “We do?”

“Yeah,” she affirms. “I see it in the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention. He really cares about you. And I know this relationship is new, and it’s coming off the heels of a breakup, but don’t let him go. Okay? At least not without a fight.”

In that instant, you almost tell her that the entire thing is fake. That none of it is real, that Hoseok is just a talented actor who had wanted to see how much of a shit show this weekend would truly be. But as your mother beams at you with all the love and warmth that you’d missed being holed up under the covers in your apartment, you just smile in return.

“Okay, Mom. I promise.”

Hoseok is already gone by the time you all pile into Seokjin’s car, saying he needed to get back to the studio to check on something, even though it was the day after Christmas. You don’t say anything, opting to put your headphones on and drown out everything around you as you stare blankly out the window.

“Can she hear us?” Namjoon asks his boyfriend as your eyes start to flutter shut. Seokjin’s hands tighten around the steering wheel as he glances back at you through the rearview mirror.

“I don’t think so. She’s got those giant noise-cancelling things on her head, and I think she’s taking a nap.”

Namjoon sighs, running a hand through his hair. “This is a mess, Jin.”

Seokjin agrees with a grunt. “Honestly, I still can’t believe Hobi actually agreed to come this weekend. Volunteered, even.”

“Yeah, well, you know how he feels about my sister,” Namjoon whispers, just in case you’re secretly awake or between songs. “This isn’t healthy for either of them. One of them is gonna get their heart broken, and it’s gonna be Hoseok.”

Seokjin tries to be optimistic. “But it looked as if she was into it, no?”

He strokes his index finger along his chin, pensive and frustrated. “I don’t know. Y/N has always been pretty good at hiding it in front of people whenever she’s upset or anxious. But whatever happened this weekend didn’t feel fake to me. From either of them.”

“Ah,” Seokjin tuts, driving with one hand as he leans his elbow against the windowsill. “They’re both adults, Joonie. They’ll figure it out, and everything will go back to normal.”

“I don’t know,” Namjoon responds with an air of trepidation. But he doesn’t say anything else.

—

Before you can blink, it’s New Year’s Eve. As soon as you’re back from your parents’ cottage, you pretty much go back to your previous routine—hiding out from the world in your apartment under the covers, only really coming out to eat or go to the bathroom. But this time, you’re not only hiding from the chaos that’s outside, but also from Hoseok.

You’ve never been more confused. You haven’t spoken to him since that weekend, nor have you gone over to his and Namjoon’s apartment. Your brother has reluctantly been giving you space, something that he only ever does when he knows you’re experiencing inner turmoil.

You flop down on your bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering just how you got here. You try to think back on when exactly these feelings had sprung up. Part of you wants to believe that it’s just because you were dying for affection of any kind after your break up, and Hoseok was just the one to provide it for you. You try to reason that if it had been any of your other friends, like Jungkook or Yoongi, you’d probably feel similarly.

But the larger part of your brain knows that that isn’t true.

You shut your eyes, taking in a deep breath. You need to be honest with yourself for once.

Truth be told, you’d always had a bit of a thing for Hoseok. When you’d first met him, you had just come home from varsity soccer practice, still wearing your uniform and dripping with sweat. He was sitting on the couch with Namjoon, joking around and teasing him as he struggled through some video game you didn’t recognize.

You’d immediately been attracted to him, his smile being the first thing that had you mesmerized. But you don’t really know what happened after that. He’d taken to teasing you, purposely pushing your buttons just to get a reaction. He was never particularly cruel, mostly annoying, but you figured that he hated you all the same. And because you refused to be pushed around, whatever he gave, you returned. If he was rude to you, you were rude right back. If he was passive aggressive, you accused him of being a giant baby.

Things only got worse when you started dating Jackson. Hoseok absolutely despised him and you could never figure out why. You figured it was because Jackson was quick-witted and often left Hoseok speechless, and he defended you whenever Hoseok decided to act foolishly. You never thought much of it until now, your mother’s words echoing in your head.

Had Hoseok been jealous all this time?

You try to shove the thought away, along with the butterflies that are still occupying your stomach, but to no avail. Maybe Hoseok really did like you, and maybe you like him too. Why else would he ask you to kiss him at the end of the weekend without anyone there to witness it? Surely that had to mean something.

You groan in frustration as your eyes shoot open.

You’re falling for Jung Hoseok.

In that instant, your phone buzzes. Part of you hopes it’s him, but instead it’s your brother’s name that pops up on your screen.

[Received: 10:07pm] Namjoon: The guys are all here. Are you still coming over for the countdown? We have wine

[Sent: 10:07pm] Y/N: How dare you tempt me with the devil’s juice

[Received: 10:08pm] Namjoon: Bitch

[Received: 10:08pm] Namjoon: You love wine. Come over

[Received: 10:08pm] Namjoon: Put on real people clothes. No ratty PJs allowed.

[Sent: 10:09pm] Y/N: You sound just like Dad. Fine. I’ll be over in 10

[Received: 10:10pm] Namjoon: Love you sooooo much. Jin and I are just doing some last-minute stuff, let yourself in whenever you’re ready

You heave a sigh and sit up, realizing you can’t hide from Hoseok forever. You drag yourself out of bed, quickly changing, making sure you look presentable, and trudging down the hall to Namjoon’s apartment.

You can hear the ruckus that is seven boys from behind the door once you approach. Everyone had come back from visiting their families, gathering at Namjoon and Hoseok’s, as is their tradition. You feel your palms start to sweat as you reach for the doorknob, slowly twisting it open and slipping inside.

No one seems to hear you come in, as there’s no break in conversation between the five boys situated in the living room. Jin and Namjoon are nowhere to be found, so you assume they’re still in the process of getting ready for the evening’s festivities. The television is on, showing one of the many New Year’s Eve countdown specials, some musical group performing their latest hit blaring from the speakers. You’re just about to make your presence known when you hear someone mention your name.

“Hobi, is it true that you actually went to Joon and Y/N’s cottage for the holidays?”

The voice belongs to Jimin. You peer around the corner into the living room, still going unnoticed. Hoseok is there, sitting on the couch nursing a beer.

“Yeah,” he responds gruffly, as if he doesn’t want to talk about it.

A new voice pipes up, this time belonging to Jungkook. He sounds incredulous as he asks, “Is it true that you went there posing as her boyfriend to her parents?”

Another affirmative grunt. You hear a chorus of laughter, and you can’t deny that it stings. Are they laughing at Hoseok having to spend a weekend with the person he hates the most, or are they laughing because your situation is just that pathetic?

“And how was that?” Yoongi asks as he downs the rest of his bottle of beer.

You can really only see the back of Hoseok’s head, but you can tell based on how he grips his beer a little tighter that he’s getting annoyed with his friends and their teasing. You’re about to step out from around the corner to put an end to all of it when he finally speaks up.

“Honestly? A waste of fucking time. She didn’t even put out. I figured she would be easier than that. Not that I want Jackson’s sloppy seconds anyway.”

Time stops.

You can’t breathe.

You can hear the guys speaking, but you can’t process it. You feel like you’re underwater, being dunked in a frozen lake with the ice trapping you below the surface. You don’t realize you’re crying until you hear your name being called.

“Y/N?” Namjoon asks as he pokes his head out from his bedroom. Immediately, all of the eyes in the room fall on you.

Hoseok stares at you, wide-eyed and mouth agape.

You want to throw up.

Namjoon approaches you quickly, hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “Y/N, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You don’t break eye contact with Hoseok as you start to shake your head.

Finally, you spit out, “Fuck you, Jung Hoseok.”

You wrench yourself from your brother’s grasp and head for the door, slamming it shut on your way out.

None of it was real.

None of it was real, and you feel so absolutely fucking stupid for believing that it could have been. Every touch, every kiss, all of it was just Hoseok doing what he does best—pretend. You were right all along. All he wanted was just some sick entertainment, and to maybe lure you into bed so that he could go back to his friends and brag about it behind your back.

You make it back to your place and throw the door open, not looking back when you swing it shut with your foot. But instead of the sound of the door slamming against the wooden frame, you hear it whack against something soft. You turn and immediately become furious at the sight of Hoseok stepping foot into your private space.

You march over and shove him hard, causing him to stumble back.

“Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

You’re almost shocked at how eerily calm your voice is. But you know that the dam is about to break, and if Hoseok doesn’t leave right this minute, you’re going to unleash a tsunami upon him.

“Y/N, wait, I can explain—”

That does it.

“Explain what?” You can’t help but yell. You’re just so tired, so embarrassed, so humiliated that all you want is him to leave so that you can cry your eyes out under the covers in peace. You try to shove him again, but he’s expecting it this time, his feet planted firmly on the ground. “Explain how this whole thing was just so that you could have more ammunition to make fun of me? So that I could be another notch in your bed post? Well, guess what, I don’t want to hear it, so why don’t you just get the fuck out and leave me alone!”

Hoseok vehemently shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You bite your lip to stop from screaming at him, staring up at the ceiling in a feeble attempt to stop the tears from flowing.

“I’m asking you nicely, Hoseok,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Please just leave, I can’t even look at you, I can’t—”

Before you can blink, he’s on you, lips pressed so firmly against yours that the contact makes your teeth click. Hoseok soothes the sting as his movements slow, his mouth coaxing a light moan from your throat. His hand lifts to cup your cheek, and for a delirious moment, you sink into the feeling of the kiss, of him kissing you.

It isn’t until you feel him tugging you against the length of his body that his words come rushing back to you in a flood of shame, anger, and hurt. You plant your hands on his chest and forcefully push him away, a resounding CRACK ringing through your apartment as a red mark in the shape of your handprint blooms across his cheek.

Hoseok is stunned, immediately letting you go. He rubs at where you’d slapped him, his lips downturned in a frown that doesn’t suit his beautiful face. He gapes at you for a few minutes before finally choking out, “What the fuck was that for?”

“Stop toying with me!” You practically wail, tears stinging your eyes. “You don’t get to just…just kiss me like that out of nowhere and pretend like everything is okay! What am I, a joke to you? Someone you can play around with and then go back and brag about to your friends?”

You take in a deep, wavering breath, shaking your head as you force yourself to look him in the eye.

“I can’t believe I trusted you.” You see Hoseok’s face fall, his hands twitching at his sides, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you imagine that it’s because he wants to reach out and touch you. You hate yourself for wanting it to be true. “I can’t believe I confided in you, that I—”

You clamp your mouth shut before the secret you’ve been holding back ever since Namjoon had introduced the two of you all those years ago slips from your tongue. This seems to spark something within Hoseok, and his face sets in determination.

“That you what?” He demands, taking a step forward. “I’m not playing around, Y/N. I wouldn’t do that. Not to you.”

“Then why did you say those things about me to the others?” You cry, hot tears streaking down your face. You helplessly swipe at them with your sleeves, hating that you’ve allowed yourself to get this emotional, that he’s seeing you break down in front of him. You turn away burying your face in your hands. “I’m so stupid, I’m so, so fucking stupid…”

You feel his arms circling you, and you start to cry harder when you feel his lips press against your crown.

“You’re not stupid,” he promises quietly, a large, warm palm rubbing gentle circles against your back. “This is real. The entire weekend with your parents—every touch, every kiss, I meant it.” He lets out a laugh. Not one of humour, but one of weary exhaustion. “You’re really gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

You force yourself to take deep breaths, force yourself to pretend as if his touch isn’t a welcome comfort. You will the tears to cease, shakily asking, “Say what?”

Another laugh, this one followed by a short, hitched breath.

“I’m in love with you.”

You immediately try to wrestle yourself out of his hold, though his hands remain steadfast on your waist. “You what?”

His grip tightens ever so slightly, his gaze soft as he smiles down at you. “I’m in love with you.”

Your eyes search his, breath caught in your throat. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he promises, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”

You’re too stunned to speak. How long had you dreamed of Hoseok saying those exact words to you? For him to want you, only you, for the weekend at your parents’ cottage to have been real instead of just a ruse to get your family off your back? Your eyes are still fixated on his, trying to figure out whether or not he’s telling the truth.

Hoseok must sense the thoughts racing through your mind, so he decides to continue. “When Namjoon introduced us back in high school, the first time I came over and you’d come back from soccer practice, my jaw nearly hit the floor. Namjoon figured out how I felt and warned me to stay away from you, so I kept my distance.”

Namjoon knew? Your brother knew this whole time?

“I was an asshole to you because it was the only way I knew how to get your attention. We were kids at the time, you know? Just stupid teenagers. But by the time we’d all grown up, that was just how we spoke to each other, and it was the only way I knew how to get you to even look in my direction. And then you were dating that asshole Jackson, and you just seemed so happy, and I couldn’t do anything about it.” He scoffs at himself, letting out a deep sigh. “I’m an idiot, right?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your voice is locked up in your throat, refusing to come out. So you just stare at him, stunned.

He continues. “I shouldn’t have said what I did back there. The guys…they don’t know how I feel about you, and they wouldn’t leave me alone. I know that it was wrong, and I regretted it the second I said it. But I don’t regret spending time with you, getting to really know you, or getting to pretend like you were actually mine, if only for a few days. I know I have a lifetime to atone for, and I just need you to know that I’m going to try, if you’ll let me.”

You don’t know what to say.

Hoseok smiles nervously, one hand coming up to rake through his hair. “You know, Y/N, I’m kind of bearing my heart and soul to you here, a little feedback would be appreciated.”

You still can’t will yourself to speak, and you feel Hoseok’s hand on your waist starting to slip.

“Look, I’m really sorry, I should have just kept my fucking mouth shut. Forget I said anything, I’ll just go—”

Before he can turn, you cut him off with your hands on either side of his face and your lips against his.

Words evade you, so you hope that you can convey everything in the kiss. Hoseok melts against you, his hands holding you close, slipping under the hem of your shirt to fan across the skin of your lower back. You reach up to tangle your fingers in his hair, only pulling away for a second to catch your breath.

“Holy shit,” Hoseok pants, his breath fanning across your lips. “You just kissed—”

You kiss him again, effectively shutting him up, because there are more important things the two of you can be doing with your mouths. Hoseok sinks into the kiss, moving you backwards until he’s crowding you against the wall of your front hallway. You moan when his tongue traces along your lower lip, and you open up for him, knees nearly buckling at the sensation of the first touch against yours.

The kiss is everything you’ve dreamed of and more. You can feel the sincerity, the desire, the love as Hoseok’s movements slow, stealing all the air from your lungs. His tongue gently caresses yours as he takes control, and you can feel his eyelashes fluttering light as a feather against the curve your cheek. Your fingers card through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. He moans into your mouth, the same erotic sound that had escaped him the first night at the cottage. Hoseok presses you more firmly against the length of his body, and you can feel his arousal against your lower stomach.

Pulling away with a great amount of reluctance, your eyes search his. All you see is the truth.

Both his, and yours.

“It was real to me too,” you confess, breathless in the best way possible. “I didn’t know I wanted it to be until you kissed me under the mistletoe, but I do. I want you, Hoseok. All of you. Deep down, I think I always have.”

The smile that spreads across his face is so beautiful and radiant that it rivals the sun. Hoseok presses his forehead against yours, and takes in a deep breath as his eyes shut. He doesn’t say anything, and you run your thumb along his cheek, pecking at his mouth.

“What is it?”

“I just…” he begins, his voice so soft and so full of emotion. You press your palms against his shoulders so that you can see him fully, and you’re shocked to see the tears clinging to his lashes. “I love you,” he confesses, and you still feel your breath hitch at the words. “I love you, and I just need a second to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

“You’re not,” you promise, smoothing out the collar of his shirt absentmindedly. You want to say those three words back to him, but you know that you’re not ready yet. There’s still years of hurt to work through, to resolve and fix. But your heart longs for him, marvels in how right it feels to be in his arms, to kiss him, to be as close to him as possible.

Hoseok seems to be able to read your mind, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your hip. “I know I have a lot of apologizing to do,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I’d like to show you just how sorry I am, and how much I love you, if you’ll let me.”

Even after his confession, and though he’s holding you so close that nothing else but the two of you exists, you have to feebly ask, “Promise you won’t use this to make fun of me behind my back with the guys?”

Hoseok’s head hangs in shame for a second before he rises to look at you, the smile gone from his face. It’s replaced by a look of sadness, pain filtering into his gaze. “Please, Y/N. I need you to believe me when I say that I don’t want to hurt you anymore. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, ever. I’m not about to blow my chance with you for some stupid prank.”

You worry your lower lip between your teeth before you raise your hand, holding up your pinky finger. “Promise?”

A tiny smile begins to spread across his face as he holds his up as well, hooking his little finger with yours. “Promise.”

You’re not sure who leans in first after that. All you know is that his hand is cupping your jaw and you’re clinging to his shirt as he kisses you with so much love, passion, and adoration that you swear your heart is going to burst out of your chest.

Hoseok guides you in the direction of your room, and the two of you stumble along, clothes thrown overhead and shed along the way. By the time you feel Hoseok gently push you down on the bed, his shirt is off and you’re only in your bra and panties, a plain, boring white set that you wish was just a little fancier. Hoseok doesn’t seem to mind though, as he climbs over you and looks down at your body as if he wants to devour you whole.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he pants, his mouth scorching hot as he pulls bruises with his teeth along your neck and collarbone. You whine beneath him as he noses your bra strap down your shoulder, sucking and licking down the curve of your breast.

“Hobi, please,” you whimper as he tugs your bra down to expose your nipples, immediately looking you dead in the eye as he elongates his tongue and traces the very tip along the edge of your areola. He lavishes your breast with attention, his thumb grazing over your other nipple before he switches his ministrations. You arch into his mouth, and Hoseok takes the opportunity to slide his hands underneath you to unhook your bra.

He tosses it aside flippantly before pressing open mouthed kisses between the valley of your breasts, and down your stomach.

“I’ve been thinking about you ever since that first night at the cottage,” Hoseok breathes against the band of your panties, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin. He tugs them down slowly, his voice deep and husky as he tries to keep himself under control.

You can tell it’s a losing battle, if his blown out pupils and the tent in his jeans are any indication.

“The things I want to do to you,” he growls, his palms spreading your legs wide so that they’re flat against the bed. You whimper out a moan as he trails kisses from your knee up your inner thigh, stopping just before where you need him most. “With my tongue…with my hands…” Hoseok runs his thumb along your dripping slit, not adding much pressure, but just a ghost of a touch to let you know that he sees what a mess you’ve already made. “Fuck, you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp as you feel his calloused digit swipe lightly over your swollen clit. “Hobi, please, I need more—”

He smirks up at you, and you watch as he, with all the time in the world, bends down while maintaining steady eye contact. His tongue pokes out of his mouth and he flicks the tip of it against your clit, and it’s enough to already having you buck up towards him for something, anything.

“Are you gonna be a good girl and give me what I want?” Hoseok purrs before leaning down to suck on your clit, hard. You yelp at the sensation but then he moves away, looking up at you expectantly.

You card your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the roots. “Yes, Hoseok, please, anything. You already have me. Please, please, I need you.”

“Mmm,” he hums, sucking on it again before backing off. Part of you wants to smack him upside the head. How is he still so infuriating? “Can’t wait to make this pussy mine. Can’t wait to claim you, to ruin you for anyone else.”

You can’t help but grumble. “I don’t know, at this point, I’m starting to believe you’re all talk—”

You’re abruptly cut off my Hoseok latching his mouth to your clit, delivering the perfect amount of pressure as he licks and sucks at your most sensitive area. You moan out something akin to his name, and it only spurs him on further. He growls against your pussy and you feel it vibrating deep in your core, your fingers grasping for purchase against his soft strands.

Your eyes flutter shut as he focuses all his attention on your clit, drawing out more and more obscene moans and whines from your lips. It’s when you feel two of his fingers sliding into your heat that your eyes fly open and you start to squirm in his grasp.

“You’re so wet, baby,” Hoseok growls as he continues to massage your inner walls with his long, deft fingers. He curls them upward until he finds what he’s looking for, the spot deep inside of you that has you keening when he presses on it. You feel him grin against your skin. “Ah, there it is.”

You’re not sure if you can survive this experience, not if he keeps talking like that. But it stirs something within you, something primal and desperate, and you buck your hips as his movements get faster and faster.

The obscene sound of his tongue flicking against your clit stops as he suddenly sits up, and you let out a whine of protest. His fingers remain inside of you but he moves so that he’s draped along your side, slightly hovering over your body. He leans in to kiss you, just as his hand starts to move. The heel of his palm beats against your clit with every thrust of his fingers, and you cry against his lips as he shifts to whisper the filthiest things into your ear.

The wet sound of his fingers fucking you and his palm slapping against your pussy fills the room and has your legs starting to shake.

“Press those legs really wide for me, baby,” Hoseok orders as his hand picks up speed. You do as he says, and to reward you, his hand fucks you a little harder. “Good girl. Fuck. I’ve been thinking of making you come all fucking week. Mmm, how does it feel, baby? How does it feel to have my fingers fuck you open, prepare you for my cock?”

You want to scream, but you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, the release that you’d so desperately been longing for rapidly approaching. Instead you whimper out a barely-there response, Hoseok’s fingers dragging brutally against your g-spot.

“Always dreamed of watching you come, of making you come. It’s all I’ve ever fucking wanted, and now I have you right where I’ve always wanted you. Now I want you to come for me. Can you do that baby? Can you come on my fingers?”

One of your hands fists the sheets while the other holds him close, nudging him with your nose until he gets the hint to kiss you.

“Come for me,” he murmurs into the kiss, and you feel your walls begin to clench down on him.  The fluttering begins, and Hoseok’s tone becomes gentle, almost reverent. “Good girl,” he praises as he feels the beginnings of your orgasm. “Good girl, come on, come on…”

You come with a scream, bucking your pussy against his palm as he helps you ride out the pleasure. Shockwaves tear through you as Hoseok extends your orgasm for as long as possible, peppering your face and neck with kisses as you finally start to come down.

“Mmm, baby, look at you,” Hoseok purrs, sliding his fingers out of your wet heat and holding them up so you can see how they glisten in the dim light. “Open your mouth for me, Y/N.”

You do as you’re told, and you see his nostrils start to flare as he slides his fingers into your mouth and you suck the evidence of your own bliss off his skin. His prominent Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, removing is fingers before he kisses you for all he’s worth. Your fingers tremble as you struggle with his belt, still feeling lightheaded from his earlier ministrations. Hoseok eventually just lifts himself off the bed and shucks off his jeans and boxers in one go, abandoning them in a pile on the floor as he palms his hardened cock.

You sit up on your elbows as he places a knee back on the bed, and you bite your lip at his size. Hoseok is gorgeous, truly having a dancer’s body. He’s streamlined and lean, and his cock is thicker than you expect. He strokes himself steadily while gazing upon you like a wolf about to pounce on a rabbit.

“How do you want it?”

You bite your lip before reaching over to gently grasp his wrist. “I want to see you.”

Hoseok nods as you sit up fully and open the drawer to your bedside table to retrieve a condom from your stash. You open the foil and help slide it down his length, watching with a hint of smugness as his eyes roll back in his head when you squeeze his shaft. Once it’s rolled on all the way to his base, he nudges you to lie back, and you part your thighs for him once more.

He lets out a groan, hooking your legs over his elbows, before he leans forward, the head of his cock brushing against your still-sensitive lips. “I still can’t believe this is finally happening,” he chuckles breathlessly as he effectively folds you in half, leaving you completely open and exposed for him. You reach down to guide him in, your other hand cupping the back of his neck as he rests his forehead against yours.

You feel the head of his cock parting your lips and then the delicious sting of him slowly filling you up. You don’t realize you’re both holding your breath until Hoseok releases a choked moan and you whimper out his name in response. You take him, inch by delicious inch, until you feel his pelvis pressing flush against yours.

He takes a moment to just breathe through the feeling of your tight, wet heat wrapped around him, and it allows for you to adjust to his girth inside of you. Once you feel ready, you peck at his mouth as a signal to move.

More proof that Hoseok is a dancer—his hips, once they start to roll into you, are absolutely fucking deadly. He fucks you like he’ll never get the chance again, like it’s his last day on Earth and he wants you writhing beneath him to be his final memory. Your nails scrape along his back as he starts out slow, his cock filling you so perfectly, going even deeper than his fingers had just moments before.

You also notice that when Hoseok isn’t whispering into your ear with the some of the filthiest shit you’ve ever heard, he cannot stop kissing you. It’s almost as if he can’t believe you’re real, and the feeling of your lips against his grounds him in a way that he just can’t explain.

He starts to pick up the pace, his hips slamming against yours with more vigour. “How does it feel, baby?” He grunts, grinding into you. “How does it feel to have my cock buried deep inside of you?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond as he braces his knees against the bed and starts to fuck you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling your ears. You moan as he nips at your jaw, your nails dragging long, angry red marks along the honeyed skin of his back.

You’ve never seen Hoseok like this before in all the years that you’ve known him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, forehead dotted with sweat. You can tell that he’s trying to hold himself back as he explores every inch of your body, worshipping and revering you like he goddess he knows that you are.

“Your pussy is so fucking wet,” he praises, sucking in harsh breaths as he pounds into you, the bed frame creaking under the force of his thrusts. You’re helpless beneath him, and you see the veins in his neck start to protrude as he starts to lose control.

“Baby, I’m so close,” you keen, pushing his sweaty bangs out of his face.

“Yeah?” He asks, even though he can tell that you’re almost there. He presses the full length of his body against yours and fucks you until there’s nothing left in the entire universe but you and him. “Come with me, baby.”

When you come for the second time, you come harder than you ever have before. You scream out his name as you cling to him for dear life, your back arching clear off the bed as you feel wetness coating you both. Hoseok nearly chokes as he comes, burying himself deep inside of you as he spills into the condom, pinning you to the mattress as your name falls repeatedly from his lips.

Hoseok collapses on top of you, effectively squishing you under the weight of his body. You pout and squirm, nudging at his shoulders, though his spent body makes no effort to move.

“Hobi,” you whine with an air of laughter in your voice, limbs going limp. “Get off.”

“Let me just…bask in this for a second,” he pants, face still buried in the crook of your neck. “I’ve never made a girl squirt before.”

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, shoving at his shoulders. He moves off of you and you roll onto your stomach, burying your face in your pillow. He takes the opportunity to peel off the condom, tying it in a knot and tossing it in the trash. You say something, but it’s muffled by the fabric and Hoseok can’t help but giggle.

“I can’t hear you, dumb-dumb.”

You lift your face, but then cover it with your hands. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never done that before.”

“Sorry?” Hoseok asks, rising slightly before wrapping his arms around you and tugging you flush against him. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and the best sex I’ve ever hand, and you’re trying to apologize?”

You peer at him through the gap in your fingers. “It’s embarrassing.”

Hoseok wrenches your hands away from your face and kisses you before you can protest.

“Believe me when I tell you that it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. You don’t need to be ashamed of yourself, or your body, or anything. I love you. Every part of you.”

You bite your lip and look away, knowing you’re unable to say the three words that you know Hoseok wants to hear more than anything. But again, sensing your discomfort, he lifts his hand to brush your hair away from your face.

“Don’t feel guilty,” he says quietly, stroking his thumb along your cheek. “You don’t have to say it back. I hope that one day you will, but I don’t expect you to reciprocate right away.”

Your eyes bore into his, and you wonder why this version of Hoseok couldn’t have been the one you’d met when you were sixteen. You lean in and kiss him so softly and so shyly that it’s barely there. But when you pull away, he’s smiling at you. That beautiful, radiant smile that makes you glad you’re lying down because it makes you weak in the knees.

“I’m getting there,” you promise, nose brushing against his. And you know it to be true. Even as you’re in his arms now, nestled perfectly like you were always meant to exist in his hold, you’re falling, falling falling. You just need some more time. But you know you’ll get there, if his tiny, hopeful smile is any indication.

You suddenly start to hear a ruckus from the hall, and also loud cheers from street level outside. You rise slightly, trying to peer over at your alarm clock, but Hoseok drags you back down with a pout.

“Clean up later. I’m comfy.”

“What time is it?” You ask, ignoring his petulant frown.

Hoseok caves and rolls over, emitting a small noise of surprise. “11:59.”

Then you hear people starting to count down.

10!

9!

Hoseok turns back to you, his eyes wide and shining as he takes you in, still basking in the after glow.

8!

7!

6!

You smile at him, the tiniest tear clinging to your lashes, and as you blink, Hoseok wipes it away with his thumb before it can tumble down your cheek.

5!

He leans in closer…

4!

Your eyes slowly close as you slide your hand along the back of his neck…

3!

His arms pull you in until there’s no space between you…

2!

You feel his warm breath fanning across your lips…

1!

Happy New Year!

The clock strikes midnight just as Hoseok kisses you, fireworks exploding just outside to ring in the new year. You lose yourself in the feel of him once more, in the taste of his tongue as it glides along the seam of your mouth. You don’t protest as he rolls on top of you, his thigh pressing between yours to spread your legs yet again.

When his questing hand blindly reaches out for the drawer of your bedside table, you detach from him momentarily to pant out, “Shouldn’t we go back and rejoin the others?”

Hoseok merely chuckles, tearing open another condom. “Screw the others,” he grins, and you can’t help but bite your lip in anticipation as you feel his arousal growing stiffer between your thighs. “I have a lot of lost time to make up for. They can wait.”

And as he pushes inside of you again, you can’t help but agree. You’d spent so long feeling so sad and so lost, you’d nearly forgotten what it was like to experience true happiness, and true bliss.

But as Hoseok worships your body and makes you forget about the outside world, you figure that you deserve to cling to whatever small piece of joy that you can. And you do—over and over, until the sun comes up and neither of you have the strength or energy to carry on.

Even after all of that though, Hoseok still bugs you to run your fingers along his arms and chest to help him fall asleep. You snort and call him a brat, to which he taunts you by saying you’re going to need to buy extra sets of sheets for every time he comes over.

You just shake your head as he drifts off, snoring softly, looking more and more like an angel as slumber finally takes him. You press a kiss to his forehead and nuzzle against him, his arms automatically wrapping around you, even in sleep. You sigh with a smile, relaxing in his grasp. You know that you still have a ways to go, but with Hoseok by your side, you finally feel ready to step into the sun.

Happy New Year, indeed.

A/N: It is FINALLY DONE! This is the longest one-shot I’ve ever written. I meant to have this out sooner, but you know how life is sometimes. I hope you enjoyed! And I hope you all had a happy and safe new year. Drop me a line and let me know what you think!  Please share if you liked it!<3

[e11evenseggos]

A Call for Dr. Goodkin

Heyyy Chloe @blush-and-books​! I hope you enjoy your gift, xoxo Santa! @stitcherssecretsanta2019​

Read on AO3 or read below:

It was late. Any enthusiasm for the current case had worn off hours ago as the team puzzled over what Kirsten’s latest stitch could mean and where the clues would lead. Cameron was exhausted to say the least, so when his phone rang and he saw “Mom” pop up on the screen, he let out a long sigh.

I do not have the energy for a fight tonight, Mom. Keep it civil.

Despite himself, Cameron answered the phone, “Hey, Mom.”

“Hi my sweet, Cameron. How are you?” She cooed.

“I’m good. Tired but good.” He answered truthfully. “How are you?”

“Busy.”

“Okay. Listen, I really should go- “

“The research position at MIT has opened up again. I think you should take it.”

“Mom. I already have a job here. And a life.”

“Being stuck in a government lab in a random basement is not a life.”

“I have friends.”

“Have you met someone?”

“Not exactly.”

“Cameron.”

“Mom.”

“I think you should at least consider it. You’ve always loved the east coast, and your salary would increase exponentially. And you’d be at the forefront of neuroscience research and technology. The field would be lucky to have you.”

“Mom I- “

“Don’t let your talents waste away.” Click. Marion hung up without so much as a goodbye. Typical.

The next morning, Cameron sat at a table in the breakroom clutching a cup of coffee and staring off into space. 

Kirsten shuffled in, bleary-eyed from a restless night obsessing over finding Stinger, and made a beeline for the coffeemaker. As she brewed herself a large, extra-strong cup, she muttered, “Good morning” over her shoulder to Cameron who didn’t answer.

She turned to look at him as he sat there lost in space and sat down in front of him with her freshly brewed coffee. She nudged his leg gently with her foot. “Earth to Cameron.”

“Sorry, what?” He asked, coming out of his reverie.

“You okay?” She asked.

“Yeah, no. Yeah.”

“That’s not very convincing.”

“I know.”

“What’s up?”

“I got a call from my mom last night,” Cameron finally answered.

“Oh.” I understand. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. She just called to tell me about a research position that opened up. It’s a dream position for me, really. But I passed it up years ago to join the Stitchers program. And here I am.”

“Here you are. Where’s the position at?”

“MIT.”

“Wow. That’s so impressive.”

“It’s also so far away.”

“You’re not scared are you.” It wasn’t so much a question as a challenge.

“That’s not it.”

“Then what’s stopping you from chasing your dream?”

Cameron gives Kirsten a meaningful look, which she deftly ignored.

Eventually Cameron said, “Nothing…I guess.”

“I think it’s really great Cameron. You should go for it.” Kirsten said, trying to mean it.

“You think so?”

More convincing this time, “Yeah. You should at least think about it.”

“Okay, I will. Thanks,” Cameron said, still a little deflated. Nevertheless, he forced a smile as he stood up and headed to his workstation.

Kirsten remained seated, watching him go, the light gone from her eyes and an unfamiliar pressure in her chest.

****************************

A few weeks passed without mention of the research job. But one morning Cameron practically bounced into the lab. He rushed up to Kirsten and exclaimed, “I got the job!” He enveloped her in a tight bear hug.

“Cameron that’s great. I’m so proud of you,” she said as he released her from his grasp.

“Thanks. I can’t believe it’s actually happening.”

“I can.”

Linus and Camille walked up to them.

“Congrats, bro!”

“Congratulations, Cameron!” They cheered.

“Thanks, guys!”

“Have you told Maggie yet?” Camille asked.

Cameron paled at the thought. “No, not yet,” he muttered quietly.

Just then Maggie entered the lab. “What are you doing? Conference room now,” her voice as sharp and commanding as ever.

“Cameron needs to talk to you,” Camille said, effectively throwing him under the bus.

Cameron glared at Camille, but she just shrugged and said, “You’d never have done it on your own.”

“Very true,” Linus chimed in.

“That’s fair,” Cameron said at the same time.

“Fine. My office. Conference room in five,” Maggie said. Cameron followed her into her office. She closed the door behind him and sat behind her desk.

“Take a seat.”

“I’m okay.”

“Sit.”

Cameron sat.

Maggie said nothing.

“I got the research job at MIT,” he finally squeaked out.

“I know.”

“Right. Of course.” Maggie knows everything.

“When do you leave?”

“A few weeks.”

“Good. Then you’ll find us a replacement.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

“Yes, ma’am.” Cameron nodded a little too enthusiastically.

With that settled, Maggie led Cameron into the conference room.

“How did it go?” Kirsten asked.

“She took it pretty well, I think,” Cameron said.

“No, dude. She’s furious,” Camille chimed in. The three of them looked towards Maggie, whose facial expression was cold and unreadable.

“Definitely furious,” Kirsten agreed.

“Yup. I’m a dead man,” Cameron nodded.

****************************

Another case solved. More mind-mapping. And Kirsten and Cameron had barely talked since he first told her about the job opening. But with a day off and the weekend approaching, they finally had time to breathe and to be.  The rest of the team made their way toward the elevator, but Cameron and Kirsten hung back.

As the elevator doors sealed shut, Kirsten joined Cameron at his desk and said, “Nice work out there.”

“You too, Stretch.”

Kirsten smiled at the nickname. “You know, it’s not going to be the same here without you.”

“Don’t worry. Harry’s excellent. It’ll be like I never left,” Cameron reassured her.

“I’m not worried about the program. I’m just…going…to…miss you,” Kirsten finally forced out, her face unreadable.

“I’ll miss you too.” Cameron reached over, covering her hand with his, and gave it a tight squeeze. Kirsten opened her mouth as if to say something, but before she could get it out, the elevator dinged open and Linus came running back into the lab. Cameron and Kirsten both jerked their hands away, but not before he clocked their connection.

“Oh, hey guys. Don’t mind me. Forgot my replica Star Wars jacket,” Linus explained as he speed-walked across the lab to his workstation.

“We were actually just heading out,” Kirsten said, standing.

“Ahem, yeah,” Cameron echoed.

“Oh cool. Can you give me a ride then?” Linus asked Cameron.

“Sure.”

****************************

On the ride up to ground level, Kirsten turned to Cameron and said, “I’m really happy you’re going and living your dream. This is going to be perfect for you!”

“Pretty much perfect.” Cameron smiled at Kirsten.

Kirsten flashed him a bright grin and said, “Bye Cameron, bye Linus. See you next week.”

On the drive home, Cameron was unusually quiet. He barely reacted when Linus began rambling about Doctor Who. Linus stopped mid-sentence and said, “What’s wrong?”

Cameron let out a long sigh. “Nothing.”

“Well that definitely wasn’t convincing,” Linus said. “Spill it.”

“Everything’s good. Kirsten’s been really supportive of me getting this job,” Cameron said.

“She will miss you. We all will,” Linus said.

“I just thought there was maybe something between us,” Cameron finally admitted.

“We all did.”

“What?” Cameron turned to Linus.

“Nothing.”

“Linus.”

“It’s not like your feelings were a secret. This whole move though did put a wrench in our pool. I lost five hundred dollars,” Linus said.

“You made bets on us getting together?!” Cameron cried.

“It seemed inevitable,” Linus shrugged. “Guess I was wrong. Sorry, Cameron.”

“Me too.” Cameron and Linus fell into a contemplative silence.

“I made the right decision, right?” Cameron asked after a minute.

“Are you excited about the job?” Linus asked.

“Ecstatic.”

“Then, yes. You did.”                                                                                              

****************************

Kirsten climbed into the fish tank. Alex prepared the body in the corpse cassette. Linus double-checked the mind-mapping of the sample. Cameron stood at the helm, showing Harry the ropes.

“You want to call it?” Cameron asked Harry after everyone was ready.

“Sure,” Harry said, taking the earpiece from Cameron.

“Engineering?”

“Go.”

“Life-Sci?”

“Go.”

“Medical?”

“Go.”

“Communications?”

“Go.”

“Kirsten?”

Kirsten’s eyes flashed open at the use of her name rather than a nickname.

“Kirsten?” Harry asked again.

“Go.”

“Commence Stitch Neurosync on my count. Three, two, Stitch!” Harry shouted enthusiastically. Everyone manned their stations as Harry navigated Kirsten through the sample’s memories. “Do you see anything, Kirsten?”

“Of course, I do,” she practically snapped.

“Great! Tell us what you discover whenever you’re ready.”

“I always do.”

 After the stitch, Cameron pulled Kirsten aside. “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing.”

“Harry’s excellent.”

“Yeah, sure.” Kirsten’s sarcasm was obvious.

“He is qualified, kind, and everyone else likes him. So you’re just going to have to get used to him, cupcake.” This time it wasn’t the term of endearment it usually was but an insult. Cameron stormed off, not giving Kirsten time to respond.  

****************************

“I can’t believe we just worked our last case together,” Kirsten said as she helped Cameron finish the paperwork on their latest case, the air still a little tense from their fight earlier in the week.

“I know right?!”

“We need to have a going away party,” Kirsten said.

Just then, Camille walked by and said, “Oh, Linus and I already have that covered. Be here at five tomorrow evening.” Camille turned to Kirsten, “And don’t dress how you normally dress. Dress more like me. In fact, just pull something out of my closet.” Camille continued walking towards the elevator.

“Alright, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at five,” Kirsten said before following Camille. “Hold the door!” She called.

When Cameron walked off the elevator at five the next evening, the entire Stitch lab had been transformed. The emergency lights flashed, and the other lights were dimmed. A hand-painted banner was draped over the corpse cassette, reading “Good Luck Cameron!!!” Streamers hung from the ceiling, and a huge cake lay on the table in the conference room. The team cheered as he entered the lab.

“Congrats Cameron!”

“Thanks, guys!”

Camille popped the champagne and began filling flute glasses and passing them around to everyone. Harry cut the cake and brought slices out to everyone. When he presented one to Kirsten, she said, “No, thanks. I’m not big on chocolate.”

Cameron looked at her but said nothing and took the cake from Harry. “Thanks, man.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry said. He lingered with them, awkwardness building.

“So-“ Kirsten began. 

“I think I’m gonna go,” Harry said at the same time.

“Right,” Kirsten said.

Harry turned abruptly and walked away.

“K-“ Cameron began.

“I know,” Kirsten said before walking away. Cameron walked over to his now empty desk and sat on the edge. Linus and Camille came and sat beside him.

Camille raised her glass and said, “Here’s to new places and new adventures. Here’s to Cameron.”

Linus and Cameron dinked their glasses with Camille, and Linus said, “To Cameron, forever my bro.”  They each took a sip, and moments later Kirsten returned and joined them around his desk. She had a slice of chocolate cake in her hand. Cameron looked from Kirsten’s face down to the cake and back up again. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Kirsten avoided his gaze, knowingly.

“Who wants to do shots?” Kirsten asked, filling the silence.

“Literally always,” Camille cheered, setting down her empty champagne glass.

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Linus cheered.

“Come with me,” Camille said, grabbing Kirsten by the arm and dragging her towards the breakroom. They returned with shot glasses and expensive tequila. Camille poured the tequila into the glasses, grabbed one, and took a shot. Kirsten, Cameron, and Linus all followed suit.

Five, six, seven shots later, they were all sitting down, backs pressed against the concrete wall. “Alright Kirsten. Truth or dare?” Cameron asked.

“Truth.” Kirsten took another shot.

“Do you miss Liam?”

“No.”

Cameron looked away from the group to hide the smile he unsuccessfully tried to suppress.

“Camille?” Kirsten asked.

“Dare. Of course,” Camille answered. 

“Okay, I dare you to kiss someone you’ve never kissed before,” Kirsten said.

“What are we? Twelve?” Camille asked. Kirsten simply raised her eyebrows, waiting. Camille leaned over Linus and gently kissed Cameron on the cheek. “I’m going to miss you, Goodkin.”

Everyone stared at her, surprised and sobered by the reminder of Cameron’s leaving.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be right back,” Kirsten said. She stood and made a beeline to the bathroom.

“I’ll go check on her,” Camille said before following Kirsten.

Kirsten was splashing her face with cold water when Camille entered the bathroom.

“You okay?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Kirsten answered. She grabbed a handful of paper towels and rubbed her face dry.

“Why don’t you just tell him?” Camille asked.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He’s about to leave.”

“That’s exactly why you should tell him.”

“It’s too late.”

“It’s not too late until he’s on that plane.” Camille slung an arm around Kirsten’s shoulders. “Come on. You need one more round of truth or dare.”

Kirsten smiled as she let Camille lead her out of the bathroom, but when they made their way over to where they had been sitting, Cameron and Linus were gone. Camille and Kirsten looked around the lab but couldn’t find either one of them. Camille walked over to Fisher and asked, “Where’s Cameron?”

“He left just a few minutes ago.”

Camille stared at him.

“For the airport.”

Camille still didn’t respond.

“His flight leaves in an hour,” Fisher said. “Camille!”

She finally snapped out of her shock and grabbed Kirsten by the arm, dragging her to the elevator. “Thanks, Fishy!” She called over her shoulder.

****************************

Camille sped down the freeway. Kirsten sat in the passenger seat, the phone pressed to her ear.

“He’s not answering.”

“Try again.”

“What if he doesn’t pick up?”

“We’ll figure it out. Just keep trying.”

****************************

Cameron paced at the gate, waiting to board the plane.

Did I make the right decision?

“I think it’s really great Cameron. You should go for it.”

Yes.

“I’m just…going…to…miss you.”

No.

“You should go for it.”

Yes.

“Going to miss you.”

No.

“Go.”

Yes.

“Miss you.”

No.

The only thing that broke Cameron out of his trance was hearing his name over the loudspeaker. “A call for Dr. Goodkin! A call for Dr. Goodkin!” The gate agent kept repeating.

“That’s me,” Cameron said, rushing up to the counter and flashing his ID. The agent motioned to him, and he stepped around the counter and took the phone from the agent.

“Cameron!” Kirsten practically screamed through the receiver.

“Stretch, is everything okay?” His brow furrowed and the concern was evident in his voice.

“No!” Kirsten practically sobbed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around.” 

Cameron turned and there stood Kirsten, phone pressed to her ear, tears streaming down her face. Cameron rushed over to her and cradled her face in his hands.

“Kirsten, what’s going on-“ Cameron began.

Kirsten cut him off before he could finish, saying all in one breath, “Iloveyou.”

“What?”

“I love you.” Tears continued to flow down Kirsten’s cheeks, and tears sprang to Cameron’s eyes as well.

“I love you too,” he all but whispered before kissing her gently on the lips. When they kissed, everyone at the gate cheered, clapped, and hollered. They broke apart, laughing at the response. Kirsten smiled sheepishly, but Cameron beamed.

“Come on, Stretch. Let’s get out of here,” Cameron took Kirsten’s hand in his and lead her towards the exit.

“You’re really staying here for me?”

“For us,” Cameron kissed Kirsten again and they both smiled as they walked into the crowd.

[tjkiahgb]

Listen, I got so caught up in Tyrus Week, spending hours and hours going through tags and liking posts and queuing reblogs, that I pretty much pushed everything else to the side. (Plus I’ve also been working on the next thing I’ll tell you guys about in the next few days.)

All that is to say, I got a lot of stuff in my inbox this last week, so I’m just going to tackle a bunch of them in... A LIGHTNING ROUND.

Let’s go.

And before you ask, yes, I made a graphic for it.

Looks like this Andi Mack finale party has turned into... a death party.

Would’ve been a strange choice for Terri Minsky to turn the finale of Andi Mack into a murder mystery, but if that’s what she wanted, I’d trust her.

I don’t watch that show but I know some people who do and they’ve told me it’s just light and airy and pleasant, so, yeah, sounds right up Cyrus’s alley.

You guys are shouting Lightning Round! every time the graphic comes up, right?

I, like TJ, am just some guy. I tell everyone who asks to call me Jay. Jay is long for “J”, which is short for another name that I, also like TJ, only let people related to me by blood or my soulmate know about. I will say it’s not Jagger, though. I wish.

That wasn’t my intention while writing TJ and the Gals, but as with all art, or whatever TJ and the Gals was, once it’s out of the creator’s hands, it belongs to the people.

No.

Thelonious Jagger Kippen Is A Hashtag Good Boi.

Shoutout to my FAQ page, where you can find information like this and more. Not blaming you, anon, I’ve gotten this a lot and the FAQ page is hard to find. I mostly just delete the question and let the anon live in mystery because I’m chaotic something. I’m only answering this now because it’s the

You know the shook_bitch? Thank them from me for getting Disney Channel to respond to them, and congratulate them on being the subject of the best comment the Disney Channel Instagram account ever made.

Yeah, I went back and checked and Jonah only says in 3x12 that his dad made a bad investment, not lost a job or anything.

It really seems like he’s been managing the Judy Bartholomew fortune all these years. We don’t know anything else of him other than he was once a background workout video guy and he has at least enough knowledge about baseball to coach little league.

Hopefully the new job is providing him with a solid salary, but if not, I think the world is ready for a Judy Bartholomew comeback.

Judy Bartholomew: Still Trottin’ After All These Years

I’m not entirely sure exactly which girl we’re talking about here. I think this one:

I will say, she does seem into it. She’s like, oh, things are about to get gay in here.

Honestly, there were so many background actors killing it in this scene.

You’ve got this guy...

...who hears the beginning of “Born This Way” and reacts like it’s ruined his evening. I mean, I was a little tired of it, too, when it was being played on the radio over and over and over, but it’s been some years. It’s not overplayed as much anymore and it definitely wouldn’t make me this upset. (He pops up later in the song and is happily dancing, so maybe he thought it was the beginning of a different song?)

Then there’s this girl...

...who is feeling it. She’s like, hell yeah, this is my jam!

And there’s this girl in the goggles...

...who, after TJ and Cyrus sing the “be myself, respect my youth” part, is like, okayyyy. I see you.

Here’s a fun(?) behind-the-scenes thing for this blog. A few months back, I was thinking about ways to replace “Moments” if we had, by some miracle, gotten a season four, since I would’ve run out of moments weeks after the finale. What I came up with was “The Random Andi Mack Extra of the Day.” It would’ve just been screenshots of random extras throughout the show’s run. Upon some reflection, this was a bad idea.

The first problem here is that I get the feeling those posts would’ve gotten, at most, 20-30 notes each, because no one really cares about random, out of context extras and it doesn’t seem like a thing people would want to reblog.

The second problem is, knowing myself, I probably would’ve spent hundreds of hours during the hiatus between s3 and s4 making 1000 of them in the first place, just so I could have them ready to go. I would’ve absolutely done this without testing the waters first to see if there was any interest. (Just like with the “Moments.” I made like 300 of them before I made the first post about them.)

So, the most likely scenario was going to be me, two weeks into “The RAMEotD,” looking at flopping posts, then looking at my folder of 800 screenshots of Andi Mack extras and going, “Well, what am I going to do, not post them? I already did all the work!” And I would keeping queuing them up, and they would keep appearing on this blog every day, and they would taunt me with their 22 notes. You remember the work you did? IT WAS FOR BUT A PITTANCE!

So I guess what I’m saying is maybe it’s for the best. The cancellation saves me from myself.

Hey, though, heads up. If and when you go back and watch the series again, pay attention to the extras -- the unsung heroes of the entertainment industry. There are some extras reallllly putting in work on this show. It absolutely adds to the delightful quality of Andi Mack. Every time I would spot someone in the background being goofy or really overselling whatever they were supposed to be experiencing, it filled me with joy.

It’s a fun show. Everything about it is fun, including the little details.

Ooh, a serious one. This is going to be my first ever hybrid Discussion/Analysis post.

Okay, so I think we’re talking about two different things here.

I won’t argue that I think Tyrus could have absolutely happened sooner and been explored more.

I obviously can’t say with certainty, but I assume that was at least somewhat the plan leading out of season two. The setup for their relationship was all already there by the end of it. They’d met, they had bumps, they grew really close, and they capped the whole season off with TJ looking back at Cyrus. All the elements were in place that you could jump right into this storyline in TJ’s next appearance. (Not necessarily them canoning, but at least the exploration of TJ’s feelings or some movement towards canoning.)

When Cyrus’s lookback happened, it was addressed in the very next episode (granted following a break in seasons). I don’t know that TJ’s would’ve been as immediate, but I don’t think you have him look back in the season two finale if you don’t intend on truly paying it off for 21 episodes. (Or, at least 13, if you want to say 3x13 was the real start of a storyline involving TJ’s homosexuality.)

So, yeah, look, I’m speculating wildly, but I would imagine the original creative idea was to address TJ’s lookback early in season three and start getting into it, and that, yes, that idea was likely kiboshed from above.

What I will argue is that the bench scene is subtle but not ambiguous. We’ve made the semi-joke constantly around here that there’s “No heterosexual explanation for this!” but, truly, there is no heterosexual explanation for the bench scene: two boys, one of whom has already explicitly stated he’s gay, slowly reaching for and holding each other’s hands, intertwining their fingers while they sit by the fire and stare into each other’s eyes, nervously smiling. This is something that has been built towards for multiple seasons. If you’ve been watching the show, if you’ve been paying attention to it, if you care about the characters, especially TJ and Cyrus, it’s very clear what’s happening here.

This feels like talking about people who weren’t sure Cyrus was gay after the first two times he came out because he didn’t use the word. Or people who thought Cyrus wasn’t gay anymore after he said his crush on Jonah was gone. I sympathize with some of the younger set who maybe don’t have the world sense to follow along with this, but, come on, at some point, we’re three seasons in and you have to keep up with the level of the storytelling. I don’t mean this in an insulting way, but if someone can’t get what’s happening here, then maybe this whole thing isn’t for them. Maybe if all they know right now is that Cyrus is gay and accepted and happy, then that’s good enough, and they can hold onto that idea and grow with that and catch the next train, whenever it comes along. Maybe this moment is for all the people who get it.

That’s about the kids in the casual audience. Now, if we’re talking about an adult homophobe -- one who would express the kind of outrage that we believe Disney fears -- it’s a different story. If an adult homophobe is really watching that scene and thinking, “Seems pretty straight to me” then it feels like it doesn’t matter what they would’ve done in the finale. They could’ve said “gay,” they could’ve said “boyfriend,” Cyrus and TJ could’ve lead a pride parade down the street outside Celia’s house while blasting -- well, I was going to pick a gay song here for the joke, but probably “Born This Way” would be the most appropriate one, so -- “Born This Way” from loud speakers, and that homophobe would’ve been like, “Nice parade.” As ignorant as homophobes are, even they are not that dense. An adult pretending Tyrus isn’t a couple after the bench scene requires a level of impenetrably willful ignorance.

Anyway, the truth is that angry homophobes aren’t watching the show. They never do. They like to read headlines and get mad, but they’re cowardly and, most of all, lazy, and they don’t like to put in the actual footwork. They like to leave comments on articles they haven’t read, about shows they haven’t watched. They like to post reactions to stuff they see in their Facebook feed or send one sentence responses like, “There goes Disney Channel!!!” or “What is happening to our country?!?!” And then they like to scroll on to the next thing that will feed their sad rage about how the world is changing around them.

If you want to think about Disney censorship as a way of preventing those homophobes from being outraged, it’s not the textuality of the scene itself, it’s the placement at the end. Delaying them canoning until the finale just makes for less work. Show’s over. There’s nothing to defend. No one’s signing a petition to get a show off the air that’s just aired its last episode. Most of the articles written will be about everything happening in the finale, and Tyrus would just be a part of it.

And that is more or less what’s happened. Just about every major article I’ve seen about the finale has discussed Tyrus, and discussed them as textually getting together -- again, there’s no ambiguity there -- but has also brought them up in conjunction with what happened with Andi and Jonah, with Muffy getting together, and with Andi getting into SAVA. And the articles themselves tend to largely be about the show ending as a whole and its impact. (No one needs to send me articles trying to prove or disprove this. I’ve been over a lot of them. Some are more Tyrus focused -- the ones in the gay media for sure -- and some just mention it -- more traditional media sources. This is the general gist of most of them.)

So the article headlines mostly read “Andi Mack Finale” or “Andi Mack Ends Run” or something like that. The homophobes -- who, again, aren’t watching the show and are getting all their information about it via article headlines -- see those headlines and don’t even remember Andi Mack was the show they hated from two years ago because their rage is mostly performative and short-lived. They get mad in the minute but forget about the specifics of the stuff within a day.

Like I said in the recap, I won’t argue that there’s a scene with more that wouldn’t work, but I personally don’t see the bench scene as not having accomplished everything it needed to.

Oh, that went longer than I thought it was going to be. Not very lightning round of me.

This actually got sent a while back but it was still in my inbox and I figured I’d throw it in here in case the anon saw it. Lightning round!

Sorry, anon, I wasn’t ignoring you and I appreciate you reading my old recaps, but you were the second anon to piece together that I am actually blessed with psychic powers.

I don’t really have any plans to, sorry.

I had only planned to do one set before and after the finale for Tyrus Week, but I will point you and anyone else interested in making their own TJ and Cyrus texts to this post I made that should give you the basic tools needed for the job. (Use them! You wouldn’t believe what a pain in the butt it was to get that background clean like that!)

Thank you, honestly. That’s so, so sweet. But I have no plans to do that.

Like I mentioned at the start of this post, I’m working on something now that I’ll tell you guys about shortly that’s look-backy and will hit on some stuff from those seasons. (Though not in the same vein as the recaps.)

The recaps take a long time to produce, and as much as I’ve loved this show and this fandom, I will be honest and tell you guys I am sort of planning my exit.

This blog has become something of a part-time job for me. Not in the work sense because I have truly enjoyed all this, but just in the time sense. I’ve put a lot of time in and I would like to rededicate that time back toward other things I’ve put on hold for the last year and a half.

It’s starting to feel like making you shout Lightning Round! each time was a mistake now that I’m answering stuff seriously or sadly.

I was getting emotional multiple times while writing it, because of the show, because of the fandom, because of this whole journey we’ve all been on together.

I appreciate you saying this so much because that’s what I’ve always hoped has come through in the things I’ve written about this show. That I’ll make jokes or point out holes or goofy details or whatever, but that I couldn’t do this -- I couldn’t commit myself to this as much as I have -- if I truly didn’t love the show. That everything I’m doing here comes from a place of love and celebrating the show and embracing it for its good stuff and its silly stuff.

It wasn’t a perfect show, but that was always what made it kind of perfect.

Thanks for the asks. Thus ends the lightning round.

[violetsystems]

#personal

The biggest edition to my footwear collection is still the cat sleeping at my feet as I type this.  She doesn’t use the other litter box at all which is understandable.  That’s my default these days.  Whether things are understandable or not.  Or maybe whether I really deeply care or not.  I was riding the train home during rush hour yesterday and somebody was playing trap out of a chik-fil-a backpack.  I was done with everything at that point I just muttered “Fuck Chik-Fil-A” loud enough to hear.  It didn’t help the dude’s backpack was in my face.  His friend picked up on it and understandably I got off the train at the next stop.  There’s been a lot of people following me around these days and making me feel unsafe.  Unfortunately nobody will listen to me about it so I just end up understanding the situation.  My understanding lately has been to keep myself safe by walking away from everything.  Like somebody assaulting me and my mom on her birthday wasn’t enough evidence that I’m being targeted.  That’s crazy talk to people out here.  Are you sure you aren’t just imagining things?  I ended up taking the Ashland bus home again which ironically is a far rougher neighborhood.  I honestly don’t think anybody with a Chik-Fil-A bag is going to understand the finer nuances of why I’m offended.  I honestly don’t want to have a conversation with that type of person.  I don’t have time to be the steward and sheppard of the lost flock everywhere I go.  And yet people have these societal expectations of me that never seem to deliver.  They walk all over me without my consent and I just have to nod.   I have existed within this hidden framework of rules for years bumping up against the fence over and over again.  No matter what I do somebody seems to jump in and assume control over what I’m trying to do with my life.  Like I never asked.  Literally nobody gives me a chance to speak other than on Tumblr on the weekends.  I’ve described the kinds of behavior I’ve been subjected to for years.  For years people told other people behind my back that I was crazy, antisocial and worse.  But they never understood until recently that I actually had a very dangerous point.  This is traditional gaslighting and in America I think it’s the norm.  I was reading how the American economy is literally financed by debt fueled by overconsumption whereas in China it’s fueled by debt driven investment.  I have as many bills to pay as the next person.  I spend a little time every day to manage a spreadsheet like a journal in regards to how much money I spend.  I’ve done this for years by myself just like I’ve worked out my feelings in real time on the internet.  There’s no shortage of people trying to get you to spend more money.  It seems that people only value you in America based on how much money you are able to spend.  I bought a pair of Gore-Tex converse for seventy dollars.  They’re literally the illest shoe in context of people’s understanding of how I wear clothes.  I don’t sit here and spend hours talking about the clothes I wear.  Nobody cares.  I’ve been invisible for years or worse.  I’ve been a wink or an inside joke that people abuse to sell their products, images, and manifestos.  When I make a valid point it is met with laughter behind my back and mined for intel and dirt in secret.  Laughter and comedy in America is rooted is some deprecating humor.  It makes sense when you tie this into bullying.  People want you to feel bad about yourself for a lot of reasons.  It’s mostly an act of devaluing your self esteem.  That you aren’t enough.  So you’ll spend more or try harder for people who wouldn’t do the same for you.  It’s a pyramid scheme staring you in the face on a dollar bill.  And then there’s the things that money can’t buy.  That some people care about and other people just overlook time and time again.  Self respect at the end of the day or the beginning of a new one is hard to come by.  It’s understandable why I keep to myself in that respect.

I can’t change how shitty I’ve been treated.  I live with years of it.  I thought it might get better clearing it up in a journal.  Writing about how I feel about this or that is about as close to a vibe check as any.  And still people try to play these games with me in real life.  The games prove nothing.  It’s just an excuse to pit people against each other and tear down power.  Like you are cordially invited to the wood chipper or meat grinder.  Your opinion matters.  Except when it doesn’t.  After all these years feeling lost and alone is still my problem.  I recently have come to embrace this.  Who wouldn’t want to get lost and alone with me?  There’s people I don’t want to be lost or alone with.  Because I’ve been there facing myself in the mirror.  We can talk for hours about all the good we are doing and there’s no record of any work or activity to show for it.  When I was on Facebook I used to relentlessly post my miles I tracked in my running app.  They’d go ignored for years.  I’d check into the gym and it would echo in the digital staleness of the platform.  Really nobody cared or understood what these things meant to me.  The minute I would share something that inspired me I would be talked over or the conversation would shift to another person.  I just basically defaulted to thinking nobody cared about me.  I didn’t want to burden the world with how that made me feel.  But I wrote about it here week after week.  And I never lied when I sat down to sketch it out.  It’s just that nobody really understood how bad everything had gotten for me.  I have lived a literal fucking nightmare for the last two or three years.  Ironically I quit drinking around the same time.  That part was me understanding I wasn’t doing anything positive for myself with that habit.  People asked in a hushed whisper online if I “got help.”  I just fucking quit.  Like I quit huge portions of my life that were complete bullshit.  I’m constantly reminded how I don’t fit into those parts of my life when they return to haunt me.  Ignore my pain for years and then suddenly show up again to try the same old socialite bullshit.  We’re all in this together.  Except when people alienated me for years.  This isn’t something new or shocking for me.  I understand other people are coming to the very same realization.  People in America use the English language like a bulldozer.  They talk emphatically with a concerned tone about how much they care.  They never give you a chance to question why.  They’re always doing the questioning.  They always have the right answers tied to the right texts that nobody has ever really heard of.  I get these emails about how my name was mentioned in this or that academic paper.  I have to pay a fee to sign in to find out which.  So literally I have to pay a fee to figure out who is plagiarizing and conceptualizing my life.  Just like I bought all this street wear gear to be noticed and just ended up victimized and shunned.  There’s a wall out there for sure you can���t pass.  It’s a fence that has no logic other than rich people who don’t think you’ve paid enough to be human.  And these are numbers that don’t really work well with a nonprofit salary.  And yet I still do what I can with it and hold my ground.  Because this shitty behavior is not sustainable.  And the real vibe check is that I am done with everything and beyond anger and frustration.  Sadly I’m the one with the answers to my problems.  And the only answer I’ve found is staying away from the disrespect.  That and saying what I feel whenever I feet like it.  Because nobody cares anyway.  They’ll applaud how brave I am then figure out a new way to poke me with a stick.

I’ve always thought the best I could be was being a good person.  I’ve made a lot of sacrifices nobody understood to be that person.  People distrusted me for years.  I only recently began to realize that this was not my fault.  I can’t possibly do anything else in my life to get people to trust me.  People have dug down so far deep into my life it is insulting.  If you bring it up to anyone the first thing they’ll do is doubt you.  Typical stage one gaslighting.  “How can you be sure?” in a concerned tone is really just “Why are you rocking the boat?” in America.  I can be sure enough that most people out here don’t value the sacrifices I’ve made.  They can’t fathom them because they don’t pay attention.  They say they know me behind my back.  How that one time they saw me out of context.  People for the record haven’t hung out with me for months if not years.  I used to play magic down the street and then people got cocky.  Now I play Hearthstone online and developers still get cocky but it’s far different.  There’s an actual community there with complex thoughts on everything.  Some of them I agree with.  Other things like Hong Kong I feel are none of my fucking business at this point.  I don’t think anybody cares about the nuances of how unhappy I am with politics these days.  I keep out of discussions now because they go nowhere.  Americans want you to say things out loud so they can put you on record.  Somewhere they can either use your opinion to sell a product or a service.  Maybe even a patriotic ideology.  I write enough reviews on Amazon to know the functionality of that.  Somebody asked the other day if an acrylic paint I reviewed could be used on silk fans.  I answered the question as non-biased and informative as I could for a white guy and moved on.  For a person who drinks as much coffee as I am nobody understands that I have a subscription.  I spent seventy dollars a month for a month’s supply of single origin coffee.  Meanwhile people at work are always trying to sell me on something else.  How my coffee habits are meaningless unless I spend money into this or that pool.  How Blizzard is evil and doesn’t deserve my support.  How I need to convince people my view on Hong Kong is correct when they’ve never even been there.  There’s times when my opinion is valued and I share it.  And then there’s times when people don’t listen to a word I say.  They have absolutely no understanding of why I live and breathe let alone choose to support.  They show no care.  They simply target, bully and neutralize.  If they fail they deal with the awkwardness of their assault by pretending I don’t exist.  That’s the real wall.  How you will never be good enough in some people’s eyes.  Because you might just realize your value and leave all together.  Take your money, your care, and your attention elsewhere.  Maybe even to another country where the debt is driven by investment instead of hyper conspicuous consumption.  Really after all these years of suffering in America I feel like I have no value to this country.  I’ve been raked under the coals so much and scrutinized for no reason.  If people really were watching and paying attention they’d know how much hurt I’ve been through.  I’ve stayed accountable for my actions so I could live in a space where I could love myself.  Which makes it highly understandable why I keep to myself and stay out of the public eye these days.  It is not safe for me and has not been for a very long time.  You can only be brave for so long until somebody finds a way to make you a martyr.  In that respect I’ve carried enough crosses to know you’ll never cross that line with me.  Especially if you eat at Chik-Fil-A in 2019.  Eat a real fucking chicken sandwich you dumb fuck.  <3 Tim

[nancywheelxr]

Brainy not being able to choose where to stay, so he divides his time between Alex's apartment, Kara's apartment, and a hotel room Lena got him

and like, if they didn’t know about it, he would probably have terrible excuses to go from one place to the other? Like, at the same level of Kara I flew on a bus Danvers?

As soon as he sets foot on the hotel room, Querl knows he’s in trouble.

Mainly because Lena, Kara, and Alex are standing in the middle of the room with expressions that don’t need words to scream explain. And in all honesty, it’s almost a relief. Lying by omission weights nearly as heavy on his shoulders as flat-out lying did. “I can explain,” he says, dropping his bag on a chair. “It was an accident,” Alex scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest, but sits down on the bed. It’s a good sign, Querl thinks as the other two follow suit. “I did not mean to lie, but things spiraled out of control.” They tend to do that in this century, or so his personal experiences seem to indicate.

Clearing his throat, he begins where all tales do, from the very start.

*

Colonel Haley firing him isn’t a surprise, not at all. Still, it stings as much as he expected it to, and he retreats to the quiet of his bedroom to lick his wounds. Rationally, Querl knows there was never any chance to win with her, she had been intolerant and set on her prejudices from the start, but he had hoped, if he did a good enough job, then maybe– but it doesn’t matter.

The fact is that he is no longer able to work on the job he had promised to do. Winn had trusted him to be here in his place, and Querl had failed. For now, at least. Later, when his mind isn’t busy trying to come up with a solution for his newly acquired homelessness problem, he will find a way to keep helping Supergirl and the others.

There is not much to pack, he didn’t bring a lot of things with him– never had the time to properly pack back then either. And so, he’s zipping his suitcase closed when Alex barges in, closing the door behind her. “Hey, thank god, you’re still here,” she’s a little out of breath, and he wonders if she ran all the way downstairs. “I don’t have much time, they’ll notice I’m gone soon, but here,” she presses a key to his hand, “it’s for my apartment, my offer still stands, you can stay there as long as you need.”

It’s not that he didn’t remember their conversation a few days earlier, but promising something when it’s all hypothetical is easy. Querl didn’t want to assume, didn’t want to impose. “Thank you,” he says, closing his fist around it. There’s a lot of trust in letting someone in your home, he will not forget this. “I don’t know how to–”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Alex interrupts, waving him off, “but I gotta go. And hey? We’ll fix this, okay? We’ll get you and Kara back, I promise.”

And then she’s gone, sneaking her way back to the control room.

*

And here is how things begin to– he wouldn’t say go wrong, but it’s not exactly an ideal situation either. This is when it all first derails.

He’s just left the DEO, suitcase in hand and backpack on, wondering if it’s worth to call a cab or just wait around until Alex’s shift is over. It wouldn’t take long, he doesn’t think, but he might run into the Colonel or some less pleasant agents and–

“Brainy?” It’s Lena, lab coat still on as she climbs down the stairs. Her expression is half worry, half anger; she must have heard already then. “I’ve just talked with Alex– I’m truly sorry, I can’t believe they would do that to you.”

“It’s quite alright,” he says, even though it isn’t, not by far, it’s not even logical. “I’ll admit I’m a bit upset about the whole thing, but it’ll be fine– boxes, right?”

It seems that wasn’t the best thing to say, as she only grows more distressed. “Right, right, but what can I do to help?”

“Thank you for the offer, but there’s no need, really,” Querl tries to reassure her. It would do neither of them any good to draw attention in the sidewalk, in the middle of so many civilians. “I will be fine.”

“At least let me get you a car,” Lena says, already pulling out her phone and dialing. She taps her fingers on her arm impatiently, and he decides to accept her offer is the path of least resistance. Being yelled at in a room full of people is surprisingly tiring and he would very much like to lay down for a bit. “Hello, yes, could you bring the car around? No, I need you to drive a friend to– where should I tell him to drop you?”

The last question is directed to him and Querl finds he doesn’t have an answer. Alex’s apartment is too vague a description, not an actual address. He tries to remember ever visiting, but comes up empty as well, any activities are all held at Kara’s place. It’s a stupid mistake, forgetting to ask Alex for directions, and he can’t go back inside now, Colonel Haley had banned him from all government facilities. What was he thinking–

“Oh dear,” Lena breathes, pulling him into a hug. It’s a little awkward at first, as he was not prepared but for the gesture and he’s sure it shows, but before he left for the first time, Winn showed him how to bro hug. And Lena would surely count as a ‘bro’ by now, right? “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.”

“Thank you,” he sighs in relief. Of course, she would know Alex’s address. A car rounds the corner, nicer than any cab in the city and with a trunk that will fit his bags less dangerously than Alex’s bike.

“I need to go back inside– as much as I wish to tell that Colonel exactly where to shove it, this city needs that filter.” She helps him into the car, rattling off an address to the driver, before turning to him one last time, “should you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call, alright?”

Something about the address bothers him. The name of the street, it’s downtown, Alex could never afford it with a government salary, and– it’s a hotel. Lena didn’t know Querl already had a place to stay, she probably interpreted his hesitation as lack of options. He needs to–

The car is halfway to the next street and Lena Luthor is a shrinking figure waving goodbye from the sidewalk.

*

And this is the final nail on the metaphorical coffin.

His coffin.

He’s at Nanoon’s getting coffee, waiting for his order so distractedly he doesn’t even notice Kara approaching. Querl is in the middle of he considers a halfway decent plan to tell the truth to both Alex and Lena without hurting any of their feelings, and then suddenly there’s a blur of blonde hair and pastel colors wrapping her arms around him. She startles him a little, but it’s– nice. Kara is very good at hugging, in his opinion.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, voice angry and sad and frustrated all rolled in one sentence, “Colonel Jerk Face has no business kicking you out– it’s all just so unfair!”

“It will be fine,” he assures her, because, at this point, he almost believes so. “We will find a way to reinstate us both soon.”

“Yeah, I know, but even so,” Kara makes a face, scrunching up her nose as if tasting something sour, “it still sucks. How are you feeling?”

The question catches him off guard, “oh. I am– feeling better than a few hours ago,” he picks up his coffee and the box of scones. Not a bribery, but a peace offering. “It’s been quite the change, but I’ll adjust.”

“I wish there was more I could– wait,” her eyes widen behind her glasses, and she goes from frustration to excitement to sadness in surprisingly quick succession. “Where are you going to live?”

“Well,” he draws out the word, stalling. Either at Alex’s or in a hotel room– all he needs is to choose which. Kara is still looking at him expectantly, and should he make a run for the door? No, she’d catch up. But it’s fine, he’d have to choose anyway, before meeting with Alex or Lena.

“Oh no,” she eventually interjects, shoulders drooping and eyes going wide and sad at the edges. Sad puppy eyes, Alex had called. “I dunno why I asked, nevermind that. I have a spare bedroom, you should come live with me– it’ll be great! I’m a great roommate, you’ll see. We can have movie nights! And Taco Tuesdays! It’ll be awesome. What do you say?”

Querl has faced dozens of most dangerous criminals before, both with the legion and here in the 21st Century, but saying no when Kara Danvers is smiling brighter than any sun and looking so happy with her idea– it’s positively impossible. So he says, “it would be my honor,” and hurries out of the coffee shop before someone else can come along and offer him someplace to sleep.

He never thought that would be a problem before.

“Cool,” she calls, still grinning, “just come by later and we’ll work out the details!”

This is not good.

*

“And then I did not know how to tell the truth to any of you,” he finishes explaining, “every simulation I ran, all the scenarios included at least one of you being upset, and I could not bring myself to choose, so I decided the wisest course of action would be to wait until I had found the solution.”

“You managed to divide your time between here and both out places,” Alex raises her eyebrows, sounding a lot less angry than before. Almost impressed, the hopeful part of him would say. “For nearly two weeks?”

“Yes, it was easy. I checked in the hotel and then flew out of the balcony,” Querl tells her; honesty is the wisest thing to be right now. “You are almost never home so I usually go to Kara’s or tell her I’m spending the night at your place. She never questions it or the lack of luggage.”

Both Alex and Lena turn to look at Kara, and she shrugs, “what? I just figured– I don’t know! 31st technology or something, like shrinking things or, or, like Barry’s ring? That stores his suit? It’s not that impossible!”

“You need to stop watching so much science fiction,” Alex scoffs, “and you should have just told us the truth.”

“Yes, from the beginning,” Lena sighs, uncrossing her arms, “we would have understood. You choosing only one out of our offers doesn’t mean a personal insult to the rest.”

“Yeah,” Kara nods emphatically, “it doesn’t mean you like us any more or less. It just means that Alex was faster, that sneaky cheater. Or that this room is like, ridiculously nice. I mean– this bed? It’s like sitting on a cloud.”

“I apologize,” he hopes they can hear how much he means it, “it was not my intention to lie or cause any trouble. I, well. I am truly sorry.”

Lena shakes her head, “apology more than accepted, but,” she pauses, “it makes no sense for you to keep going back and forth between our places anymore. You’ll have to choose.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, a grin slipping into her face, “it’s time. Choose.”

Before he could spiral into doubt again, Kara smiles knowingly, “why don’t we do this– you should stay with me, it just makes more sense. Alex is there most nights anyway, and Lena is always stopping by. My place is basically our secret headquarters right now and official hang out base.”

“That is– yes, it would make more sense,” he echoes. It does make sense, it’s the logical choice– it’s almost no choice at all, really. “Thank you.”

“Great,” her grin grows brightly, “now that that’s settled, we should really order some room service, I’m starving.”

Yes, Querl thinks things just might be looking up after all.

[porkchop-ao3]

Slip Stitch: PART 1/2

My first ever pure Rickcest fic, woo!

Part Two.

Please be nice, this is the first time I have written in third person for a long time! 

This story involves my British Tailor Rick OC and the hairstylist Rick that was seen doing President Morty’s hair in that one episode. The events of this fic were hinted at at the end of my RickCon’18 fic, which you can find here :)

This was getting a little long so I split it into two parts, this part being nearly 2.5k words. Its mostly SFW for now but it will be super NSFW in the next part. Contains: oral sex, frottage, public sex acts, anal fingering.

Enjoy! :D

-

“Well, that went better than I expected. When I walked out there and saw all those bloody lab coats I thought I was going to get heckled off stage.” Tailor Rick chuckled dryly as he walked back into the dressing room after being on stage for the last hour. He'd been hosting a seminar, along with a number of his other fashion-oriented alternate selves, about style tips for the average Rick. It was a relatively stripped back talk, he'd had to speak through gritted teeth when he'd talked about designer lab coats; if it was up to him, all lab coats would be burnt to ashes, but he knew he had to compromise for these Ricks.

“Yeah, but I-I-I wouldn't have outright insulted that Rick in the turtleneck. They might not be on fashion right now, b-but he didn't look that bad. Perhaps you could've softened your words a bit?” The second Rick, who had been sharing the dressing space all day, scolded. He'd been appointed as the stylist for the charity fashion auction, but had volunteered to join the seminar as a last minute guest. Most of his knowledge was in hair styling, and despite grumbling about it for a while, tailor Rick had to admit the panel could use his knowledge.

“Well, do you disagree? Do you not think he- he looked like he had no neck?”

“Ah, but that's not what you said. Y-you told him his head looked like the tip of a short, yet girthy penis.” Stylist reiterated, cocking a brow. Tailor Rick walked over to the mini bar by the dressing table and reached for the bottle of bourbon, unscrewing the cap before turning to his counterpart.

“I repeat, do you disagree?” He questioned. The stylist kept his mouth closed. “I stand by it. He did look like the head of a chode, it was just shoulders and head, shaft and bellend. Where was his neck? Honesty is always the best policy.”

“He's the guy who bid on that God-awful green suit of yours at the auction. You didn't think his fashion sense was s-so bad then, did you?”

“God-awful?” The tailor seethed, spinning around, a glass in one hand and the bottle of bourbon in the other. He poured himself a healthy amount before slamming the bottle back down behind him. “How dare you insult my brand like that. Do you- you have eyes in your skull, don't you? I suppose you're jealous, hmm? Jealous you couldn't afford something like that, so you have to bash it to make yourself feel better.”

“Oh, I could afford it. The president pays me a generous salary, not that th-that has anything to do with you. I simply wouldn't be seen dead in that much forest green. That kind of colour should only be used in an accent piece.” President Morty's stylist quipped, reaching a hand up to his hair to smooth out the eye-catching style he was wearing; all swept upwards with the tips bleached blond.

Tailor Rick's eye twitched, and for a split second, Stylist felt nervous. He quickly pushed the feeling away, nervous? Why should he feel nervous? That Rick was no better than him, he shouldn't worry about pleasing him, or being sensitive to his feelings. The tailor was a pompous asshole who'd been rubbing him up the wrong way all day. And people have the cheek to call him pompous?

“Says who? The guy dressed head to toe in fuchsia?” Tailor scoffed, taking a large swig of his drink.

“Don't try to tell me this is a fashion faux pas, you auctioned off a three piece in this exact colour. If this is bad, then you're a bad designer, bodkin.” Stylist stalled at the words coming out of his own mouth. Bodkin? What the hell, where had that come from? He wasn't even sure how that word had made it into his vocabulary, let alone slipped out now of all times, as an insult, no less. Tailor seemed just as taken aback, if not just plain confused.

“Bodkin?” Tailor mumbled in uncertainty, then shook his head dismissively. “The difference is, I designed that ensemble to be striking, to be worn under very specific circumstances. It's not every day attire, you just look like a little girl running around in her garish pink dress up clothes. That should not be y-y-your go-to look. You'd be much better suited to a powder blue, perhaps even a pale mint green.”

Now he was giving him fashion advice? The worst part was, Stylist found himself considering the advice seriously, taking a tentative glance down at his own hot pink jacket.

“Hmm, no, perhaps the pink is fine. It would just look better if this was shorter.” Tailor mused, strolling across the room towards the other man, reaching behind him to lift up the back of the jacket, holding it so it sat higher on his hips. He didn't notice the immediate tension in his counterpart’s body, nor the colour in his cheeks that could rival the jacket for vibrancy.

The stylist wondered at what point this turned from petty insults and bickering to genuine advice and contemplation over his own choice in attire. He didn't have it in him to question it out loud, he wasn't opposed to the sudden closeness of the other Rick. He smelled good; like expensive cologne.

“I could take it up for you, you know? This cut would- it'd look more flattering. Right now the shape of it a-and all this pink. It's very heavy, it brings your shoulders down and makes your posture appear lazy, even though up close I can tell that it's not.” Tailor continued, moving around to the back of his latest project, dropping the fabric of the jacket and instead sweeping a hand up the tall, gently curved line of his spine. The Stylist stayed impossibly still under the contact, not entirely sure what to say or do.

Tailor eventually dropped his hand from his back and strolled away. When he turned to look, Stylist saw that he was going for a large leather carry case that when popped open, was revealed to contain a bunch of sewing equipment.

“Wait, y-y-you’re serious? You want to alter this, right now?” He questioned, a frown creasing his forehead. Tailor stopped what he was doing and looked up, shifting his glass of bourbon from one hand to the other.

“Yes.” He said flatly, his expression bored.

“No! You aren't chopping bits off of this, this cost a lot of money.” Stylist argued. He gained an eye roll and a heavy sigh for his refusal. “I'll just buy a different jacket, if you're so concerned about the clothes on m-m-my back.”

“I'm not concerned at all. Do you think I care all that much?”

“Well you're the one offering to alter it, you obviously care a little.” He quirked a brow.

“Quite frankly, you could walk around in a bin bag, or nothing at all, it wouldn't affect me in the slightest. I was simply offering my expertise, since you helped out at the seminar. You scratched my back, so I thought I'd scratch yours.” Tailor straightened up, letting his eyes roll up and down the form of the other man as he took another sip of his drink. His eyelids were low and his expression indifferent, but there was a sort of flame flickering in his eyes that couldn't be ignored.

“Yeah?” Stylist snarked, though he didn't know how to continue from there. He suddenly felt tongue-tied, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Even more puzzling, his pants were beginning to feel tight, with this man's eyes on him. This angered him. “I don't need your help. I definitely don't need your condescending fashion advice, I'll wear whatever the hell I want.”

“Well then, be my guest. Fuck me for trying to be nice for once.” The tailor's eyes rolled so hard it was a surprise they didn't disappear into the back of his head. “You can look as frumpy as you like, just don't do it in front of me.” He waved his hand like he was swatting a fly as he kicked his sewing box away, it slammed into a nearby clothing rack, making all the empty coat hangers clatter together.

“Fuck off.” Stylist spat, marching forwards to grab his box of cigarettes from the coffee table beside the other Rick. He didn't miss the other man's eyes dropping to his crotch as he walked, and a flush of embarrassment made his palms sweaty when he realised he was very obviously sporting a semi. The white pants he was wearing practically enhanced it, screaming look at me!

Why the fuck was he getting hard at a time like this? The man was infuriating, thinking he was so far above everyone else. The truth is, he was just a Rick, just like the rest of them. He wasn't fucking special. He had no business talking to Stylist like an idiot, or meddling in his decisions and messing with his head. He certainly had no business grabbing the wrist Stylist was reaching for his cigarettes with, and pulling him upright to get a look into his eyes.

Instinctively, Stylist jerked out of the grip and gave the other man a shove. Tailor dropped his glass, it shattered on the ground, the cheap thin carpet now soaking up his bourbon doing nothing to soften the blow.

“Hey! That was good fucking bourbon!” Tailor growled, latching his hand back onto that same wrist and dragging the stylist close to him, snarling in his face. “I've about had enough of your attitude, you're a little big for your boots for a lowly fucking hairdresser.”

“I'm the president's stylist, you fucker!” Came the retort, spit flying with anger.

“So you keep saying. He's just a fucking Morty. Y-you think anyone's impressed because you help a fucking Morty comb his hair in the morning? If you ask me, I think it's just weird. Th-this is exactly why I refused to live at the citadel, bunch of deluded bloody freaks, you are.” Tailor seethed, leaning in close, physically looking down his nose at the other Rick.

He didn't stay there long, he was shoved – harder than the first time – and fell backwards over his sewing box. He landed in a heap among coat hangers, having knocked down the clothing rack behind him. It stunned him for a while, it took him a moment to work out what had happened, but when he regained his bearings he was on his feet, brushing himself off as if nothing had happened.

Stylist watched him as he so meticulously plucked a piece of lint off of his suit jacket, and brushed down his pants. He was sure the guy was gonna bite back, lunge at him, take him down, and in all honesty Stylist was in the mood for a fight. He was both shocked and disappointed that it seemed the tailor was not interested. The other man cleared his throat and raised his head to meet stylist Rick's eyes.

“Wow, I didn't take you for a brawler. You're even less refined than I thought you were, you certainly fooled me. It-it seems you're nothing but another sewer-rat of a Rick, shame.” He sighed wistfully, and it was Stylist's instinct to swing for him. Though he resisted, since it would only prove his point.

“I'm going out for a cigarette.” He muttered instead, reaching for his cigarettes a second time.

“Really? With that hard-on in your trousers? Whatever will people think?” Tailor mused lightly, his voice like a breeze, completely casual and inoffensive despite his words. It made the hairs on the back of stylist Rick's neck stand up, and he froze, bent over with his eyes on the box of cigarettes. “I can't say I'm shocked. I knew from the moment you met me that you wanted me, it's an instinct I have. Y-you may call me arrogant, I'd see it as me being in tune with others, personally.”

“I don't have a boner. My dick’s just that big.” The Stylist excused, his fingers closing around the box as he raised back up. “Don't flatter yourself, and don't be staring at my junk. An-and you call me the weirdo.” He added with a tut.

“I’m not an idiot, I know what a boner looks like.” Tailor replied, his eyes fixed on the bulge between the other man's legs. To his embarrassment, Stylist could feel it growing. There was no hiding that. “You need help with that?”

The question hit Stylist in the gut like a punch, his cock twitching in response, almost like it was answering the question for him. Who the hell gave this guy the right to make him feel this way? Stylist Rick had fucked around with alternative versions of himself before, sure, but he at least got along with them out of the bedroom too. This guy had been irritating him all day.

Still, he couldn't deny the building sexual tension between the two, even out on stage, every time Tailor butted in while he was talking, or made a passing comment about him and his style choices, to make an example of him. It had annoyed him immensely, but he could not ignore this irritating kind of admiration he had that had been building. The man had confidence, he had a certain kind of charm, he had this effect where everyone shut up and listened to him whether they agreed with him or not. He was a big presence, one that would not be ignored.

“Are you really asking that? W-what, are you gonna jack me off or something? That what you have in mind?” Stylist questioned irritably, narrowing his eyes.

“You'd like that, hm?” Tailor purred, closing the gap between them, tracing his fingertips from his chest, up to his shoulder and around his neck. “I was thinking something more mutual.”

“Won't your girlfriend have an- an issue with that?” Stylist continued to stare into the other man's eyes, searching them for a hint of insincerity. The last thing he wanted was to be made a joke of by this guy.

“Girlfriend?” Tailor questioned. “You mean my model? She's not my girlfriend. I don't- she isn't my type.” He explained, a certain edge to his voice that told the stylist all he needed to know. Tailor looked him over now that he was closer, his fingers brushed upwards to the back of his head, feeling the soft short hair of his partially shaved head. “You, however…” He purred very quietly, the corner of his mouth turning up just slightly. Stylist licked his lips.

Tbc...

[syrahnbloodfeather]

The Webs We Weave

The angry crowd was in full force this morning.

The Amber Castle was surrounded by a moat of elves, all trying to shout over each other to angrily explain their grievances. The guardsmen kept their weapons sheathed but their shields at the ready, creating a block at the single portcullis to prevent them from surging forth and storming the castle; others patrolled the walls to make sure nobody tried scaling the walls, while a handful of guards kept vigilant along the four towers, armed with crossbows - just in case things got out of hand.

They were out there long enough to compel House Bloodfeather to respond, and who better to speak to the people than the Commander of the Amber Glade? When Syrahn appeared the crowd grew even louder, shouting all sorts of things directly at her while they tried to muscle through the wall of shields and heavy plated armor. By the time her sister Miriam wrote up a convincing speech, there were well over five hundred people gathered where they could see her, with no signs of anyone dispersing anytime soon; it wasn’t every day a commoner was able to get an audience with the “Glade Queen” they so affectionately called her. A part of her felt like that was an insult, but over half a year of hearing that title, Syrahn decided to own it. She raised her hand to silence the crowd, and after a prolonged period, they eventually settled down.

“I know you have many questions… many concerns. I am grateful for the peaceful assembly, and will reward your patience with the answers you seek.” Her voice was amplified by speakers, carrying her words far beyond her sight, while a barrage of white flashes of light struck her face and body from cameras too numerous to count. “Thanks to the outstanding vigil and bravery of our City Guard, the threat to the Amber Glade has been swiftly dealt with.” It was difficult to lie to the faces of so many people, but not as difficult as she had thought. After all, she was learning from the best.  “Our borders have already been secured, our safety within the boundaries of the Glade, guaranteed. I’ve ordered the masons to work day and night to get our border rebuilt, and doubled the guard patrols in the area to prevent any criminals from trespassing on our homeland.”

“Lady Bloodfeather! What about the rumors that the attacker was actually Alucieus Sun’rael, the sole Sin’dorei High Justicar?” a man shouted over the crowd while concerned murmurs reverberated like ripples across a pond.

“A falsehood.” Syrahn calmly yet quickly answered. “Lord Alucieus died in Dalaran from wounds he received fighting in Highmountain.” She felt nauseous from that, but she was able to swallow it down to maintain a confident façade.

“Many of our sons were killed during that attack!” Another shouted from her distant left. “What will House Bloodfeather do for us?!”

Syrahn glanced down at the parchment in her hands, hidden on the other side of her podium from the countless prying eyes. “Your sons have been avenged. We will hold a proper ceremony to honor those that fell during the struggle.” The steady crescendo of angry voices was all she needed to hear when gauging the crowd. She raised a hand again to silence them before adding, “Their funerals will be paid for in full, as well as the rest of their year’s salary to the grieving families. I cannot give you back your sons, brothers, or fathers… but I hope we all give their souls the rest they deserve.”

Miriam watched her sister's display from within the castle. Syrahn was quickly learning to effectively peddle lies to the brainless fools at the bottom of the pecking order, but she still had a long way to go before she could get anything past Miriam. Casually the woman sipped from her wine glass to maintain her numbing buzz, staying just tipsy enough to keep herself occupied. The crowd was finally thinning out by the time she finished the last few drops of the bottle, giving Syrahn some merciful reprieve from their exhausting interrogation. Slowly she waved to them one last time before turning to retreat back into the Amber Castle. “How are you feeling?” Miriam asked once the doors behind her were closed. Syrahn shot her an exhausting look before tearing the parchment down the middle to toss the pieces over her shoulders.

“Tired and angry. And in desperate need for a drink.” Syrahn seemed to limp a bit while they continued down the hallway; she shouldn’t stand with her knees locked for such a long time.

Miriam let out a sigh before looking down at her disgruntled sister. “I know it feels wrong to lie to so many people. For a long time I hated it too, for a time… but as the um…  ahem… ‘Glade Queen’... it is your duty to ensure your people feel safe, even when they shouldn’t. It’s a necessary evil, Syrahn. You did well today.”

“You rarely give me words of encouragement…” Syrahn narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Miriam. “... what’s happened? What’s the bad news?”

“See for yourself.” Miriam opened the door to Syrahn’s office and gestured for her sister to step inside. Immediately Syrahn noticed the large wooden chest sitting in the middle of the room, sticking out like a sore thumb. It was made of duskwood oak, covered in pale elf leather, and reinforced with ghost iron; a bleak and dreary thing, especially when surrounded by orange velvet and crimson curtains. Resting upon it was a banner as black as night, and the silhouette of a raven entwined in twisting vines; the unmistakable sigil of House Sun’rael.

“Is that… the payment…?” Syrahn was reluctant to ask. It certainly didn’t look to be six million gold coins. Miriam remained silent, instead gesturing toward the chest again. Hesitantly she stepped closer to place her hand on the banner. It was such a peculiar thing, being this close to this sigil; she had seen it so many times flapping alongside the Bloodsworn Vanguard banners of old, she could perfectly draw it straight from memory. Yet seeing it now, it seemed so… foreign. Opening the chest turned out to be a mistake. The heavy iron lock was already popped open, likely from the court’s locksmith, yet the lid was far heavier than she expected. Inside sat row after row of gold coins, all bearing the face of the late King Anasterian. The hopeful twinkle in her eyes came and went in an instant after doing a quick count. There weren’t nearly enough.

“The chest came with this letter.” Miriam stepped forward and offered it with an extended hand. Syrahn carefully closed the chest without smashing her fingers, straightened out her robes when she stood up straight, and hesitantly took the letter to inspect it.

“The seal is broken.” She narrowed her eyes at the letter before glancing up at her sister.

Miriam turned to the nearby table and began pouring herself more wine. “As chief of security I am responsible for your safety. When the High Justicar laid waste to our outer defenses, we became vulnerable… any fool with enough determination can draw a fire rune in a forged letter.” She turned to glance back at Syrahn. “Read it. You’ll want to know what it says.” Closely she watched her youngest sister’s expression change faster than she could blink.

(( You can read the letter here. ))

“She sold all of Alucieus’ belongings to make this payment… and it’s only nine hundred thousand…” Syrahn’s furrowed brow relaxed into a frustrated scowl. “And… it’s the last she’s sending.” She took a step to the side to sit on the edge of the chest; the Glade Queen fell silent again, her eyes darting back and forth along the letter almost as quick as lightning. Slowly but surely her furrowed brow returned. “Gods… she was atta-”

A heavy knock on the door nearly caused her to fall backwards over the chest. “C-come in!” Miriam set her glass of wine down the moment Captain Zandis stepped into the chamber; he was carrying an urn painted with his house’s colors. “Zandis…”

“Lady Miriam. Lady Bloodfeather.” He was almost unrecognizable with his voice blown out; the black circles under his eyes kept Syrahn’s tongue still. “I am sending in my resignation as Captain of the Guard. I am returning to my home to scatter my father’s ashes.”

Miriam crossed her arms while she started carefully watching him next. “There’s no need to be so drastic. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?”

Zandis didn’t bother looking up at either Bloodfeather. “I am sure.”

“I can’t stop you from leaving.” Syrahn finally found her voice again. “Take all the time you need to mourn… but I need you to come back. Please Zandis… reconsider. I… need you here to defend me.”

Slowly the elf’s piercing gaze rose to meet the Glade Queen’s. “I watched my father die.” His trembling voice was now seething with rage. “My father is dead because I did nothing!”

“That’s not true…” Syrahn was quick to interrupt, but her words were unconvincing even to her.

Miriam’s slight grimace remained steadfast. “If you charged the High Justicar, he would have killed you too. Or, he would have killed Syrahn. You already know this.”

Zandis almost staggered forward while choking on his words, but whether it was from furious anger or exhaustion, they couldn’t be sure. “If I fought alongside… we could have…” He covered his face with his only free hand, squeezing the urn so tightly against his chest it threatened to shatter. He regained his composure quickly enough, glaring vacantly in their direction before straightening himself out again. “Will that be all, Lady Bloodfeather.”

“I…” Syrahn didn’t know what else to say to him. Zandis was a good man and a capable fighter, he certainly proved that when she rose to claim the Amber Glade for herself; he was a true friend of House Bloodfeather, and the thought of him stepping out of her life forever brought her nothing but confusion. “Y-yes…” Without another word he spun on his heel and departed. Syrahn collapsed back onto the chest the moment the door slammed shut, letting the letter slip from her hands to fall idle on the floor.

Miriam plucked her glass of wine off the table to finish what she started. “House Sun’rael is not paying us what is owed. Her daughter has risen to power in her house. Assassins tried to kill her in her apartment, bearing House Greyshade’s ensignia. And now we need another Captain of the Guard.” She downed the glass before tossing it back onto the table. “I’m beginning to think House Sun’rael isn’t the ally you were hoping for.”

“Both Alucieus and Sorlu died because of my botched plans. The damage to the Amber Glade is my fault.” Syrahn leaned forward and dropped her face into her awaiting hands. “I just tried to do what’s right.”

“Might I offer some council?” Her sister walked over and sat on the chest beside alongside her. “You are trying to do too many things at once, too quickly. Take a deep breath, take all the time you need… then focus on one task at a time. It’s what I did when I was head of our family when our brothers left.” Miriam paused only to place a hand on her shoulder. “One. Task. At a time. Now, Syrahn, Daughter of Baeran: what is your next move?”

Syrahn glanced up to look Miriam in the eyes for a moment to collect herself. Then the determination flashed across her face once again. “Find a craftsman in the Market Square. I need them to make a chest just like this one… but four times bigger.” The Glade Queen tapped the chest with her palm before turning to look around the room, as if the answers she needed were floating around her head. “I can mimic Kaevia’s penmanship if I put some practice in…”

“You plan to forge a letter?” Miriam perked a brow. “That would be very bad for us if we’re caught.”

“If we’re caught. The other houses will not put this issue to rest unless they’re convinced House Sun’rael has paid the debt in full. If these assassins truly did come from us… from House Greyshade… we’ll need to stop them. Hopefully the debt being repaid will suffice until we get to the bottom of this.”

“Do you plan to confront Lord Iveth Greyshade about his missing brooch?” Miriam asked.

“I do. But not publicly.” The wheels in Syrahn’s head were beginning to turn. “I don’t want to start pointing fingers before I know for certain. Only a fool would dress assassins in their own colors.”

Miriam leaned back with a smirk on her lips, clearly pleased. “Very good. And the new captain?”

“Many in House Bladewhisper are handy with a blade. Offer the position to one of them.” Syrahn slowly rose from the chest to approach the window. “Get Viridias in on this. She’s better with money than both of us combined.”

“At once.” She couldn’t tell if Miriam was mocking her or not, but she didn’t care. The Glade Queen remained silent while her oldest sister left her alone with this bleak chest, finally giving her the alone time she needed to sort her thoughts out.

She promised herself she wouldn’t give her friends any more favors. She was mistaken.

Mentions: @alucieussunrael @k-sunrael

[kfdirector]

Student Awareness of Nonstandard Danger Society

It was an early morning in late August. The receptionist at the front desk of Xavier High School watched her own reflection in the blank monitor as her computer stirred to wakefulness. It was the reflection of someone who had been an uncertain age for as long as anyone could remember; one half-expected to find a hideously decaying portrait hidden somewhere in the back of the art room.

She looked upwards from the screen, to see a young man, tall and blond and bearded, step into the front office - catching the sleeve of his suit on the door handle and muttering as he stumbled, grinning as he stood back up, dark circles under his eyes.

“Are you quite awake, Jacob?” she asked. “And quite sober?”

He rubbed his face. “I wasn’t expecting to get called in for substitute duty on the first day of school,” he said, before pausing to recall something. “But I’m quite alright, Judy. I drove here, after all!”

She smiled. “I remember your driving. Has it gotten any better?” The question was met with a shrug. “Well, in case you maybe had a severe headache for the phone call, you’re not here on substitute duty.” She plopped a set of keys on the desk between them. “You’re a replacement.”

Jacob picked up the keys. “Room 203? I’m replacing - Mr. Kelly?”

“He retired two years ago. You’re replacing Mr. Wales.”

Mr. Wales, he thought to himself as he unlocked the classroom door, what a name liable to be turned into an insult. I hope he was not an overweight fellow - and not two steps into the classroom, strong arms intertwined with his own, lifting him under his armpits, forcing him forward and into the room. He wrestled with the grip, and staggered forward out of it, spinning around and raising his fists to see his aggressors - two teenagers, one tall, athletic, brown-haired and freckled; the other tall, athletic, blond-haired and pale.

“Who the fuck are you? What the hell is this bullshit?!” one demanded articulately.

“She had to have been lying about Wales!” the other insisted poignantly.

Rationality reclaimed his brain and Jacob lowered his fists, stood up tall, and straightened his tie. “Gentlemen.”

The two stood back.

“I’m here to teach freshman history. I’ve never heard of Mister Wales before today. If there’s drama, take it up with Mister Pilgames, Mister Jibrail, or literally anyone else, since they’ll have been working here more than five minutes.”

The freckled one frowned. “They didn’t tell you fucking anything?”

The blond one scowled. “This is some grade-A bullshit.”

He stared back. “Nothing.”

They had the presence of mind to offer a muttered “Sorry, man” as they turned and stormed off. He had the presence of mind to shout after them “And hey! Language!” once they were well and gone.

High school, Niewitzski had long noted, was a constant drama with a cast of hundreds of dynamic characters - and so far as he could tell, absolutely no narrative structure. Plot twists? Yes, constantly; arguably more twist than plot - but no rising action, no falling action, and certainly never enough exposition. He’d usually needed explanations himself as a student, because few bothered to involve him in their drama and there was a serious lack of proper narration for everyone else’s.

He didn’t know if he had expected that things would be different as a teacher - he only had been wrapping his mind around his new job title for about an hour and a half - but he was certainly disabused of the notion.

Niewitzski stepped into the teachers’ lounge two hours later, his head swimming with names and faces he was going to take a while to string together. A Tracey, a Craig, a Mario and a Marty, a Buddy, and twenty more - all freshmen, all coming together and apart in his mind.

“Hey! This is the teachers’ lounge!”

“I am a - ” Niewitzski started to retort, then saw who was saying it. “Mister Pil - uh, Paul!” They were colleagues now, and so the first name was appropriate for the man who had been his teacher four years prior.

Paul Pilgames stroked a red goatee. “Who’s lazy ass are you subbing for on the first class session of the first day of the year?”

“I’m...replacing a Mister Wales?”

Pilgames arched a bushy eyebrow. “Oh. I guess that’s a rumor confirmed.”

“Y-yeah?” Niewitzski asked, hesitantly. He was glad for a full-time job, but was not eager about the idea of stepping into a cursed position. He was hoping to teach history, not, say, defense against the dark arts. “Was he in an accident or something?”

“If he’s already being replaced, that’d be a ‘or something.’ Knowing him, probably got caught in flagrante delicto with a student.”

It didn’t seem right to breathe a sigh of relief at “mere” sexual misconduct, and so he didn’t. “He was pretty popular with the kids, then? I think I ran into two of his fans this morning. Or they ran into me. Or they bum-rushed me against a desk. Probably should have gotten their names, given they assaulted a teacher.”

Pilgames crossed his arms and shrugged, seeming to have not heard several salient points of Niewitzski’s chatter. “I guess? He wasn’t so popular with the department chair, though, that’s why he was only teaching freshman classes this year.”

“And the department chair is...?”

“Me.”

“Congratulations on the promotion, and shit, that makes you my boss.”

Pilgames smirked. “If you thought my finals were bad, wait until you see my performance reviews.”

* * *

Night had fallen. Niewitzski sat up in a shot, cold and clammy, sweat in his hair. He shook his head, to clear visions of an atomic apocalypse from his mind, and was rewarded with a moment of confusion. He was not lying on an air mattress in his double-wide mobile home; and the air stank of cigarette smoke, marijuana smoke, and beer.

His eyes adjusted to the light, just a moment after recollection clicked in.

He had stopped by the school theater after last bell to check in on the drama teacher and see if he could lend his support to the fall play, partially for old time’s sake and partially for the extra thousand dollars of salary he could earn for helping out in an extracurricular activity. Time spent roughly half reminiscing and half arguing the merits of different royalty-free scripts (the drama teacher was sick of Shakespeare and had a personal vendetta against Our Town - actually, he had a personal vendetta against a lot of things, but in this context the work of the late Mr. Wilder was the most prominent) became a bit less cheerful when Niewitzski noted that Mister Bustamonte had in fact been drinking for several hours straight.

“You’re not getting another DUI,” Niewitzski promised, and to make good on his word he’d been forced to confiscate his car keys, and there had been a brief scuffle followed by a bit of vomiting, and then he’d been left to monitor the sleeping drama teacher until daylight.

Carlos Bustamonte was still asleep. The open skylight said it was still night. Why was Niewitzski awake?

He looked up again. Why was the skylight open?

He reached into the lighting booth and dug around for where the flashlight would usually be kept; it only took three tries to find one instead of an empty beer bottle. With a couple of slaps it came to life, and he shined it around the theater.

Green sofa, beige sofa, worn-out card table. Row of seats, another row of seats, and a few more...he played the light up and down the aisles. And then towards the doors, out to the school hallway and out to outside. Nothing.

He stepped up onto the stage, and stepped behind the curtain, beholding the great colossal pile of set pieces, stacked props, and other knick-knacks. There was a draft. He stalked back and forth among what would with a little less charity be called debris.

He paused.

The draft was gone.

He didn’t quite have time to finish looking up before he heard a feminine voice say “Aw dang”.

He didn’t quite have time to finish hearing the voice say “Aw dang” before a soft but heavy weight smashed him into the floor.