#oh my god???? we're over halfway through the year???

[jasperscringepit]

what do you mean it's AUGUST????

[evie-sturns]

tummy ache - Chris Sturniolo

summary: your boyfriend chris is typically clingy as it is, but when he comes down with a stomach ache and a fever he can't keep himself off of you.

contains: nsfw, oral (male receiving), flufff, sub!chris, swearing, clingy!chris

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

chris and i have been dating for over a year, he's always by my side when we're at home, and like today when we go out.

the blaring music echos through the mall, chris sits down on one of the couches as i sort through various bags i've picked up today, chris hasn't let me pay for any of them.

"um-" chris clears his throat, i look over at him with a small smile,

"i think we need to go home." he whispers with a small crack in his voice, my eyebrows twist,

"oh- no thats fine yeah." i nod, "you okay?" i follow up.

"my stomach hurts." chris mumbles, i stand up with the several bags in my hands and heave him up off the couch.

"aw chris, i'm sorry." i say, grabbing his cold hand and guiding him through the countless people near the exit to the mall.

he goes silent, something that rarely happens meaning something off.

i squeeze his hand lightly and look up at him with a small 'are you okay' look on my face, he shakes his head with a light sigh.

"we'll get you home chris, car is parked just over there!" i smile, stepping out into the parking lot.

i almost drag him over to the car, i swing open the door for him and help him into the passenger seat before walking round the front of the car and jumping in myself, i set the bags down by my feet before looking over at chris.

he just shrugs with a small pout,

"you think your stomach hurts 'cause you had too much soda?" i joke softly, earning a weak laugh from his soft lips.

i press a kiss to his cheek before starting up the car, "you want some music?" i ask before pulling out of our parking spot.

"oh- yeah thank you." chris says quietly before connecting his bluetooth to the car.

--

we pull into the driveway after a short drive, i turn off the car and chris hops out.

i jump out with him and reconnect our hands and walk with him up to the front door, he rubs his eyes as i rummage through my purse for the keys.

i click open the door and step inside,

"you wanna go grab some water and i'll set up the couch for you?" i ask, chris nods eagerly

"yes please, thank you." chris smiles before walking over to the fridge,

"chris-" i call out, "no- no pepsi thats not gonna make you feel better."

"mmgh it always makes me feel better though." he whines, i shake my head,

"water bottles are bottom right" i smile before jogging into the living room, the cool breeze from the air conditioning hits my skin.

i tug a blanket out of the small basket in the corner of the living room before throwing it onto the couch, i walk back into the kitchen and grab a small clear bowl,

"are you feeling throw up sick, or just sore stomach?" i ask,

"i- i dont really know." he wipes his forehead,

"better safe then sorry!" i shrug before trotting back into the living room and flopping down on the plush of the couch.

chris walks into the living room, wearing baggy jeans and a black shirt, his cheeks red and small droplets of sweat on his forehead.

he undoes his belt, leaving him in his loose boxers before he flops down on the couch.

his heavy body is halfway on me as he buries his face into my chest.

i press the back of my hand to his forehead,

"oh sweetheart, you're 'fuckin burning alive." i laugh with a sad smile,

he groans in response,

"c'mon, have a sip of water for me." i whisper, he holds the plastic bottle up to his raw lips and downs a good quarter of it.

chris flops back down onto me, i play with his hair while his head presses on my torso.

suddenly he lets out a crunchy cough, "jesus-" he mutters,

"god- you really are getting sick," i laugh, chris nods as he relaxes into my body.

"i think i'm dying" chris says dramatically, "i think you are okay chris"

"can i do anything else to make you feel better?" i ask, running my hands through his long floppy hair, he hesitates for a moment before opening his mouth,

"just some mind blowing head maybe.." he grumbles, i shake my head with a small scoff

"i mean something serious christopher." i reply,

"i am serious!" he protests.

he looks up at me from his position on my chest with his blue doe eyes, "please?"

i sit up, chris follows and sits up off me as well

i get up off the couch with a small giggle, chris manspreads with a stupid smirk.

i drop to my knees between his legs and rest my fingers on his thighs,

"please..?" he whispers slightly, i reach my hands up to the waistband of his boxers and tug them down teasingly, just enough to reveal his base.

"tell me what you need." i say calmly, chris lets out a needy whine, his leg bobbing up and down on the spot, "please." chris breathes out again.

i tug his boxers down to his mid thighs, his throbbing erection springs out.

i lean foward, wrapping my lips around chris's tip, a soft moan exits his mouth as he gently tangles his fingers into my hair.

i swirl my tongue around his red tip before taking more of him further down my throat, earning a small gag from me.

"close-" chris warns, bucking his hips up, forcing him further down my throat as his hands grip my hair tighter. i pull off his cock for a second to catch a needed breath,

"oh god-" chris protests as his cheeks flush, small droplets of sweat gathering on his forehead, he runs his hand though my hair. i wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, "i know baby." i say, quickly wrapping my mouth around him again as i scratch his thighs with my nails.

i bob my head up and down quicker, chris's whimpers filling the room.

i look up at him with squinted eyes, he squeezes his eyes shut, thrusting his cock deeper into my mouth.

i can see his breathing intensifying before he releases in my mouth, i pull off of him.

"you don't have to swallow that-" he says, placing a hand under my mouth.

i spit it out into his large hand, "you might need to drink more water" i laugh, chris lets out a small giggle,

"i knowww..." he groans, wiping his eyes.

chris wipes his hand on one of the tissues next to the couch before tugging his boxers back up.

i stand up and flop down on chris's lap, straddling him slightly.

chris coughs into his elbow,

"if you get me sick i'll-" i start, but i'm cut off by a crispy cough in my mouth from chris,

"oh my god chris! you're disgusting for that!" i say turning my head away from him with a grin,

"you just sucked my dick its not that gross..."

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

@ilovemymannnnnnnn @chr1sgirl4life @luanetaluenta @sturnsssbow @mattfangirl @luvr4miya @luvtay111 @lolasturniolo @freshloveforthefit @ruedowney @lovingchrissposts @333michelle @h3arts4harry @sonicmacks @jamiesturniolo @chrisstopherfilmed @itzdarling @sturniolo-simp4life @daddyslilchickenfingers2 @ev3rgreenxtrees @lovergirl4387 @certifiednatelover @solarsturniolo @mattsenthusiast @yomamaslays4lyfe @peachmels @alinaa131 @pepsiluvr0209 @creamoncreamoncream2 @szobofc @mattscoquette @blahbell668 @sturniolo04 @ecilphttlunar @bitchydragonparadise @thematthewlover r r @sturni0l0 @ratatioulle @sturnsfav @chrisgetsmewetterxo @mattsonly @justalittle47 @mattsturnioloisbae@sunsetsturniolos @sturniolo04 @similartokayyz @pkfferoo @sturnsintrouble @ilovemattsturn @raysmayhem-72 @75sturn @sturniol0s @secret-sturniolo @hfkeclnendmwodne @sturniolosass @gxldenlush @stonermattsgf @101sara @beccaluvschris @oliviasturniolo21 @imwetforyourmom m @tylerstacobell @sunsetsturniolos @aliceloveschris @jayz4dayz4 @sassysturniolo2008 @nyktoxs-lover @nathandoesgf @starsturns234 @chrissturnsss s @joemamaaa42069 @sturnthepot @zayyluvz @realuvrrr @livialifesblog @sturnioloblogs @riowritesitall

[erinwantstowrite]

Let me just quickly say, cross-overs can sometimes get REALLY difficult to map out and write in a cohesive way but you have absolutely NAILED IT!! I absolutely ADORE LoF!!! I usually don’t even bother reading fics with the ‘Richard Grayson is Richard Parker’ premise cause I felt like they were super confusing and overcomplicated but this fic?? SUPERB. ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE. OH MY GOD I ADORE IT. Everyone’s characterizations are so nice and wonderful aaaaaaah!!!! <33333

Ok ok I did actually have a question as well: would you be willing to share what your writing process looks like in terms of a chapter you’ve already posted? I was just wondering since I’m also currently working on my own fic (it’s been a few years but I managed to get fixated on an idea and it grew legs lol) and I’m currently fighting the organization of it haha.

How do you keep track of the plot points and/or foreshadowing you want to get a ‘lightbulb!’ moment for later? Do you have any tips?

Thank you so much! I absolutely adore your writing AND your art is so gorgeous omg it adds so much to the incredible story :DDD I hope you have a good day!!

I have a secret: I actually didn't like "Richard Grayson is Richard Parker' tag for a while for the same reason. Sometimes they felt like they missed the mark or it's just. A thing that's there? I almost didn't include it for LoF, but I'm glad I did because it changed the direction in such a big way.

Another secret: this made me incredibly happy because I have read so many wikis and scoured the internet to make sure that I had enough info on both fandoms so LoF could make sense to anyone who's reading it, whether they know Spider-Man, Batfam, or neither at all. Sometimes I worry a lot before I post that I'll miss a mark and will confuse people.

As for the question: I definitely am willing to share what my writing process looks like!

Be prepared for under the cut, I love to yap. It's in my blood to yap. And that's why it took a minute to get to this ask haha

(Spoilers for Leap of Faith!! Everything mentioned has already been published ((Chapters 1-11))

I had to go and find out which chapter I wanted to use as an example and I think we're gonna go with Chapter 5 for the most part :)

My writing process is, as described by alighterwood:

I think the description fits because while I'm all over the place, I have to be very detail oriented and I store everything in one spot.

Starting with the overall process, what I find is most helpful for me, when organizing, is having a notebook rather than doing it all digitally. I've been using a 70 sheet notebook that I had lying around waiting to be used, and as of yesterday, I officially filled the entire thing front to back. It's been an incredible help, for a lot of reasons, but mostly because it's a lot easier to remember something I physically wrote down than it is to remember something I typed. I'm now on to my second notebook for LoF, and I might even have to get a third.

In another ask, startupkat asked me this:

And I shared a little about my outline process there, but I'll try to go into a little more depth here. Emphasis on little because this is so long.

I write a truly insane amount of outlines in this notebook.

This is just what I can show you, but a good chunk of the notebook is just outlines. Over and over and over again. That's because they're always changing/adapting based on so many different factors. Sometimes I get to a chapter I thought I had fully planned out and then realize it just doesn't work anymore. Other times, I get to the chapter and realize I don't want to write that anymore/isn't as interesting as I thought it would be. A few times I got halfway through a POV of a scene I was struggling on and decided to switch POV's, which will change up the outline for a chapter every now and then.

Which is why I don't write incredibly detailed outlines and try to keep it vague until I actually get to that chapter. It's a lot less daunting to rewrite a chapter outline than it is to rewrite the entire outline.

Fic outlines and Chapter outlines look a lot alike.

This is what I said in the other ask, but I didn't elaborate on it all the way.

I make a list just like that, and then I try to put it in chronological order/in an order that makes sense. I keep the Fic outline vague by writing down "Goals" for a chapter rather than scenes. But I also keep notes to myself if I really think something is important. The more important I think a scene needs to be, the more details I write down to make sure my future self recalls what I had in mind when I thought it up.

Really simple example:

Chap 1 Goal: Peter gets to Gotham and meets Babs while running around. Meet Nightwing too? Get shelter.

Chapter 2 Goal: Bats are like "???" about Peter. Batfam dynamic important... Peter stalking Batfam back? Peter meet Batman >:)

When I get to a chapter, that's when I make a far more detailed list of wants/needs/goals. It's the Step 2 from the Step 1. Here are some examples from Chapter 5:

Needed to have:

More POV's from universe 1299 (Peter's home universe)

Tony's POV more specifically, how he's doing/feeling, what he's figured out

What they've figured out on 1299 side vs what's going on in 1300 (Gotham)

Explaining more about Peter's trauma/his past

Dick learning more about Peter, and vise versa

Wanted to have:

Ned being a more central character

Natasha :)

Loki being a little shit

Tony and Cap bickering

Peter talking to Nightwing again

The last name Grayson

Gymnastics!!

(This is the shortened list, because the chapters are so long)

When I looked at this list before writing my outline, I had to figure out how I could incorporate everything. If I needed more 1299 POV's, and I wanted Ned, Natasha, and Loki, there's one scene accounted for. I had to get their side of things and wanted that trio together. I needed a Tony POV, and I wanted Tony and Cap bickering, so those went together, plus I got 1299's POV of Ohnn and his plans explained.

I needed to have Peter explaining more about his trauma, and Dick and Peter to talk/get closer. I wanted a Nightwing POV, to have Peter say his last name, and them doing gymnastics. I knew Peter wouldn't willingly talk about that, so I had him have a nightmare. Not only did it give readers perspective but it made Peter more susceptible to talking to Nightwing because he was more emotionally vulnerable/lonely, and that's how that scene came together.

That's when I would write down the chronological order of these events by writing out "Scene Blocks." (This is what I wrote down but my handwriting was so bad I can't subject y'all to it):

scene 1- Ned talking to Loki. Natasha should be nearby and observing Loki's behavior. They are not on friendly terms. Ned is more worried about Peter than he is as to what Loki could be up to, so Natasha takes on that role.

scene 2- Tony is freaking out about Peter being in an alt dimension. He should attack Ohnn when he's not prepared for it. Beat his ass? Beat his ass. Cap there too.

scene 3- Peter's nightmare. "Ben, where do you go when you die?" "Where do you think?" "With you. Where you went."

scene 4- Nightwing and Peter.

Of course, things come to attention when writing. Like originally, Tony and Cap were arguing in the Tower. But it was a little too much like his and Natasha's argument, and I kept in mind that Tony is smart. Sometimes I forget that the characters are smarter than I am, so I have to account for what they would figure out. So Tony would have picked up the puzzle pieces and come to more conclusions than I originally thought about, and I figured he'd be way more proactive about it than just. Being in the Tower and waiting.

Which means that that scene ended up being as listed above: having a squabble with Cap, learning more about Peter's dynamic with the Avengers in this universe, and seeing how Tony is reacting to it by throwing himself head first into trying to capture Ohnn.

I'll realize I need something else to be mentioned or put in and I'll have to shimmy things around, but that's basically how it goes.

As for other forms of organization:

Keeping a timeline is so important because it tells you a lot about the environment your characters are in. It's also important to remember what a character has on them, what money they've spent, who they've met/who you have mentioned, every alias that is being used, to read your work and write down edits you want to make before you make them, to write down ideas beforehand of situations you can use, and, most importantly: MAKE A MAP!! This has saved me so many times. Sometimes your brain WILL trick you or make it harder on you to envision a scene. Make a map of where your characters are physically!! It will save you too!!

As for foreshadowing and plot points, I'll let you in on yet another secret:

Your subconscious is doing a lot more than you think it is.

Sometimes when I foreshadow something, I didn't even know I was until I got to it. I very often go back to read chapters that came before this to see what I've mentioned and what I haven't, and when I do, I'll see something and go "I have to bring this back" or "I almost forgot about that!"

Other times, I am very aware of what I'm foreshadowing, and that's because I follow a mystery plot formula. You have to keep in mind everyone's intentions, all the time. How are they feeling? What are their motivations? And: what are they doing right now, while this character is doing this?

Like Beck and Ohnn. From the very beginning, I knew I had to make sure that it was obvious Ohnn wasn't working alone. From there, I had to weave through the story and slowly build him up as someone who's working behind the scenes. Even from Ned's first POV, I made sure to mention that this person knows Tony and is tech savvy.

My biggest tip is to make sure you reread your work or at least skip through it, because sometimes you don't even know that you placed something there.

And sometimes, it's very purposeful. :)

I hope this helped! I really tried to keep it short but I am insane and the process is sooooo long. It sounds complicated but it really is simple when you're actually doing it I swear

[minhosimthings]

Rodeo Ride

Symphony Smut Series Day 9: Lah Pat and Flo Milli's Like a Rodeo Ride

Lyric: He love how I ride it, hop on a dick I made him get excited

Pairings: Husband!Changbin × wife!fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, thigh riding, sub!reader, hard!dom!Changbin, office sex, sex on a chair, missionary, rough sex, swearing, dirty talk, dry humping, needy reader, VERY sex deprived reader, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it)

A/N: day 9! Woah we're almost halfway through this series now and I'm finally doing Binnie. I really couldn't think of anyone better for riding that Changbin for some reason

THE SYMPHONY SMUT SERIES MASTERLIST

Changbin was a simple man.

Wake up, get dressed, kiss your amazing wife goodbye, get to work, do said work, come back, kiss wife again, and then cuddle with her until the morning and you gotta repeat it again. And he liked this life. What else does he have to ask for?

And yet, men never understand the workings of women's sexual systems do they?

"Bunny I'm going to be late today." Changbin looked up at you sitting opposite to him, hastily arranging his tie as the maids took away his plate.

"Again?" You slammed your fork down, glaring at him. It wasn't that you didn't love your husband enough to let him go to work and make his decisions, but sometimes your pussy needed some food.

"I know, I know." Changbin chuckled, an awkward attempt to ease your tension, "But I've got to. Got a meeting today, I can't let the employees be alone without their boss now can I?"

"But Binnie...." You drawled out, making your lips onto a pout which you knew could never make him say no to you.

"How about this?" Changbin leant over to you, caressing your lip with his finger, before pulling you in for a short yet sweet kiss, "Stay awake till I come back, and I'll fuck a baby into you."

"Tempting." You said, folding your arms, "You promise?"

"Promise." Changbin replied, before quickly scampering off to his car, leaving you all alone, once again in the mansion.

"How much longer, how much longer." That's what went in your mind till about three o'clock. Waiting for Changbin really was a task, as the minutes ticks painfully away, it felt like eternity.

This was a punishment, you were convinced, whatever you had done in your past life to deserve this, you were regretting it. Were you being dramatic? Maybe. But we're you going to stop? Absolutely not.

And that is the story of how you turned up at Changbin's office building, wearing a furry black coat which reached down to your ankles, with nothing inside. Well almost nothing, you thought, as you looked down at the lingerie set Changbin had gotten you for your fifth anniversary.

Smirking to yourself, you entered the elevator and pressed the cold button upto Changbin's office, on the topmost floor.

Oh he was going to have fun today.

"Bunny? What are you doing here?" Changbin's eyes lifted from his paperwork as you entered his office, quite a large space, "And why are you closing my curtain blinds?" His last words were ended with a smirk to his face, casually sliding his wheely chair away from his desk.

"I miss you Bin." You say, the sound of your heels clacking the floor as you slowly approach him like a snow leopard approaching it's prey, "I really miss you."

Changbin's words caught in his throat, as his eyes lay sight on you.

Oh he was fucked.

He began to regret all his work now, how he had left his pure baby all alone with no dick to fullfill her sweet pussy.

"Come 'ere." Changbin pulled you into his lap, taking the fur coat and throwing it aside, "It's good you came during lunch hour, otherwise I would have been dead by now."

Your ass was rubbing against his hard dick, making him having to stifle his moans. The same ass that's been nudging against him for the past five years. "God I've missed this" he thought to himself.

He lightly grabbed onto your hips and moved his against your ass. "S-shit.." he sighed, the slight friction easing some of the pain. He moved again, pressing into you a little harder, letting out a shaky moan and burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

The slow movements gradually got faster, the slow grinding turned into him rutting against you, like a dog in heat. All of this movement caused you stir, halting Changbin's movements. Making sure you were still there and this was no his imagination, he started moving his hips again, slowly.

The friction wasn't enough though, he wanted more, he needed more. He pulled his pants and boxers down, or at least enough for his dick to spring out and breathe. Thank god for his desk having a barrier.

The cold air hit his tip causing him to shiver and stifle a moan. Pulling you close and stroking himself, spreading his pre-cum, he pushed himself between your thighs. He knew it was weird, to grind and hump on you while you were in his office, but fully fucking you didn't make him feel better, your thighs will suffice for this one time. 

Thrusting his hips he let out a moan,a little too loud that he had to remind himself the walls could listen, he bit his lip trying to silence himself.

"Ahh fuck darling you're so good for me" he moaned, feeling your pussy rub against his dick.

Dipping his head in the crook of your neck he let out an airy breath and kissed your shoulders, hips thrusting faster and balls slapping against the back of his thighs. 

Whining and huffing in your ear, kissing and nipping at your neck, he was getting closer and closer to cumming all over your thighs. Changbin grabbed your thighs, squeezing them tightly, tight enough it might even leave a mark. His hips began to stutter and his hands gripped your thighs and hip while he bit his lip, hard enough to cause it to bleed and pushing his head further into your neck. 

His dick twitched and he could feel his cum in his stomach when-

"Bunny why'd you stop?" Changbin looked up at you with widened eyes, disappointment filling him, "Do you wanna be a bad girl today?"

"Hmm maybe" you said, giggling and slipping a hand onto his dick, gently stroking it, making Changbin moan again.

“ Get on my thigh.” He orders you, pulling your panties down, leaving you in naked. He groans at the glistening wetness staining your thighs before placing his thigh in between your legs.

“Sit.”

The moment your pussy makes contact with his bare thigh he can’t help but groan. “Soaking my thigh already, who knew you were this desperate?” He mutters, your head falling into his neck as your hips begin to move.

The drag of your clit against his muscular thigh causes you to whimper, pressing yourself harder. His large calloused hands guide your hips, moving you up and down his thigh.

“That’s it bunny, doesn’t it feel good?” He questions, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You can’t seem to find the words to respond, overwhelmed by pleasure. You nod dumbly, moaning out his name as he tenses his thigh.

“Who would’ve thought I could fuck you dumb without putting my cock in you? Just so needy for me.” Changbin brushes some hair behind your hair, holding your face to look at him whilst he smiles sarcastically.

"Bunny, my pants are fuckin soaked" he said, eyeing the huge wet spot that were creating, "Such a filthy little slut riding my thigh like that"

His eyes scan your face, admiring the light flush smattered over your cheeks and the way your eyelids flutter shut with every grind against him.

“Want you to cum, can you do that? Cum on my thigh and then I’ll fuck you senseless right here bunny.” He groans, your arousal audible now with each drag. Your legs begin to shake with exertion, Changbin taking over and continuing to grind you into his thigh, muscles tensing sporadically.

Your orgasm takes you by surprise despite the build up, head thrown back with a moan and eyes rolled back. “Oh god, Bin, please.” You moan out, not sure if you’re begging him to stop or keep going.

“There we go, good girl.” Changbin groans, his thigh absolutely covered in you. He holds you still, allowing you to catch your breath. Changbin places a soft kiss on your cheek, leading you to look into his eyes, pupils clouded with lust. He smirks.

“is everything oka—“ his lips suddenly crash into you. Fingers firmly holding your jaw as his tongue slips into your mouth. you’re completely caught off guard, hands holding his wrists, whining as he pushes you against the desk, arm wrapping around your waist pressing you firmly into his chest.

“I need you,” he groans, aggressively, pre cum leaking out of the tip as he kisses your lips. “don't wanna be away from you.” he bites your bottom lip, causing your voice to crack, whining.

“I trained this pussy so well,” he groans, kissing your lips. “ya get so wet just from kissin’ me,” he smiles, knees kicking your legs further apart as you whine, trying to hold his shoulders for balance.

“fuck bunny” his fingers pushed into your pussy, your walls sucking him as you let out a strangled moan, the squelching wasn’t helping you either. " have something to say?” he snaps, sucking bruises along your neck and shoulder as he pumps his thick fingers in your pussy, proud of himself as he hears the squelching start to trickle down his fingers.

“Bin—“ you’re biting your hand, muffling your moans as your face heats up. So embarrassed that this is happening and you couldn’t even push him away.

“did I cover your mouth?” his words echo as he pins your wrist over your head. “you like talking, so lemme hear you.”

“no—ah ah…they’ll hear me—“ your desperately trying to keep some dignity, but it all leaves the moment you feel your body being lifting in the air.

“Fuck me Bin!,” and that’s all he wants because he’s dropping you down, shoving his entire dick inside until your eyes burst with tears feeling his thick trimmed hair tickling your clit, completely bottoming out.

“fucking took out my eardrums, Bunny,” he’s laughing in your face as he pulls his hips back and shoves his cock inside you again. you were completely dazed, that moment he sank his full length deep in your tummy, your brain automatically turned to mush. he usually took his time when it’s the morning before office, but there was no time now. so he couldn’t hold himself back as he let you take it full force.

“Bin…I-I need you please.” your eyes were filled with tears as you held his hair, fingers rubbing against his scalp, the other digging into his shoulders as you drooled. Such a mess in such a small time.

“mhm? ahh— mm fuck!” he grips your ass, fucking you faster as he feels his balls tighten. You’re drooling into his lips as he opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out, groaning as he feels your spit rub inside his mouth. such a filthy girl. you were creaming so fast, squeezing the hell out of his cock as your eyes grew.

“too much…ahhh—wait!” The desk was shaking as he drove his cock, balls slapping your wet pussy as your legs shook.

You almost screamed as you let go, cum shaping around his dick perfectly, as he slowed down, his chest rising up and down.

Pulling out of you slowly, he quickly got some towels and cleaned you up, guiding you towards the office's bathroom.

"I got some clothes in the second drawer." He set you down on the counter, "I'll come home early today alright?"

"Your pussy isn't done yet."

Taglist: @ramenoil @mynameisniya150 @demigodmahash + whoever wants to be tagged, send an ask my way!

[avianyuh]

Deadline; Mark Lee

Summary: You and Mark are coworkers and have a project due by tomorrow morning. But things quickly go off course which leaves the two of you improvising your after work plans.

Office Worker Mark!

Gotta stay focused, I have to stay focused!

This was my only thought. I had a deadline for this project at work and I had barely made a dent in it. My boss, Tim, made it clear to me that I could not leave until this file was fully completed and on his desk. I don't know if it's good or bad that I was working on this with Mark.

Mark has always been my favorite person to talk to at work. He's funny, helpful and not to mention...he's really cute. We've had this back and forth flirting thing going on for over a year now.

So here we were, 6pm, basically no one left at the office, huddled together in my cubicle. We were sitting so close to each other that our knees were touching. But of course, I didn't mind that.

I fiddled with the pen in my hand as I tried not to stare at him.

He had these thin framed glasses on, and he was sitting in his chair, hunched over. His eyebrows were furrowed together, giving off the impression that he was focused on the paper he was working on.

I turned back towards my own papers in front of me. I finished the page in front of me before moving on to the next one. Halfway through skimming it and I realized there was an error. I let out a frustrated sigh, which Mark picked up on.

"What's wrong?", he questioned, looking up from his work in front of him.

"Julia didn't fill this out correctly, the whole thing is wrong."

"Are you serious?", he asked, when I nodded he responded by slamming his fist on the table,"FUCK", he exclamied. Now we were both frustrated.

"Mark, you know what this means right... everything else is wrong. All our work, it's crap". I buried my head in my hands, Mark did the same.

"Well, we're gonna have to tell him", Mark started to talk. I looked up at him, I had an idea of what he was going to say. "We have to tell him that we couldn't complete the file because Julia's a fucking idiot.", I laughed as he finished his sentence. It was even more comical when I noticed he wasn't laughing, he was being serious.

"Mark, you know Julia can do no wrong to management. They love her. Especially Tim."

"Well, it's not our fault. If we start over we'll finish by the time we're supposed to come back tomorrow. Y/n this is two weeks worth of work in this file, there's no way we could finish this", Mark explained.

I knew he was right. There's no way we could finish this file in enough time.

"I feel like we'll get fired if we come in tomorrow morning empty handed...", I said thinking out loud.

"Y/n, I don't about you but me personally? I don't want to work for someone who leaves us here to work all night. We have lives outside of work. I have a dog to go home and feed", I smiled at that. He always talks about his dog and is constantly showing me pictures of him.

"No, I get it. You know what? Let's get out of here and go get a drink or something, unless you have to go home right now?", I asked. I can't believe I even offered in the first place. Mark and I had never hung out with each other outside of the office. We did have each other's phone numbers and we did text quite a bit, but never made any plans.

"What if you just came to my place? I have a bottle of wine in the cabinet.", Mark said. I tried to analyze his tone, but he sounded casual and calm.

"Uh, yeah...sure", I agreed. "Let me just grab my coat...", Oh god, now I was acting awkward.

Pull it together, I thought to myself.

This is what I've been waiting for since I met him. I just hope I don't do anything stupid.

~

By the time we made it inside of his apartment, I felt like the walk over made me break out in a nervous sweat. I was trying to play it cool, act like all I viewed him as was a work friend. Which to the best of Mark's knowledge (hopefully) was all he was picking up on.

His apartment was really nice. His kitchen was small, and you could definitely tell that he loved one sinxe he only had maybe five plates and two cups. One of which was sitting in the sink, waiting to be washed.

He followed my gaze to his lack of dishware and tried to explain, "I don't really host at my place", he let out a light laugh as he rubbed the back of his neck. It was a habit of his that he would do when he was nervous.

Wait, is he nervous?

"No, no, it's all good", I reassured him. He scanned the kitchen, most likely thinking about what we were going to be drinking out of. While he was searching in his cabinets for the wine and cups, I continued to look around.

First I greeted his dog, who sat politely at my feet and allowed me to rub his head. Then I looked around at the living room. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a couch, TV, a window overlooking the city, which he had a curtain covering. He had a coffee table that I assumed he ate his meals on since there was no room for a kitchen table. But most importantly, I tried to look around for any indication of a girlfriend. A hairtie, a hoodie, an extra pair of shoes, anything. But nothing seemed off. He truly seemed to be single.

"Aha!", I looked over, smiling and comfortable now that I knew I had no apparent competition.

"You found the wine?" I asked. He looked over at me with this playful expression on his face.

"No, even better, I found some apple juice!"

"Mark", I laughed,"How are we supposed to drink our problems away when we can't get drunk?"

"We pretend", he shrugged as he poured the juice into two plastic cups.

"For you", he said as he handed me my drink. We sat down on the couch.

For awhile, we sat there just talking like we usually do in the office. Though we never met up out of work, we were always in the loop on each other's lives. He'd tell me about his friends and all of the dumb stuff he did with them, which was always entertaining to hear about. We always talked about out families. I had even told him about that horrible blind date my friend set me up on. Conversations always flowed naturally between us and tonight was no exception.

He had just finished telling me this story about his friend who forgot his passport right before they were going to get in their flight. Long story short, his friend tried to sneak past the staff and almost got detained. We were laughing hysterically for what felt like ten minutes but was probably at most two. Then when the laughter died down, Mark started to speak.

"Honestly", he started but cut himself off momentarily to take a sip of his drink, "I hate our job, but I don't want to get fired, cuz then I won't see you as much.", he said, staring at me intently. I waved him off and tried to conceal the fact that I was now blushing. "No I'm serious. You're like, the highlight of that job for me. I hate it but I look forward to going to work everyday cuz I know I'll see you."

"Markkk", I said. I honestly didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure if he was being sweet and sentimental since we were probably going to be getting the boot tomorrow morning, or if he was trying to hint at something more. "You're my favorite thing about work too. I always look forward to seeing you." I responded. He gave me a soft smile, before staring down into his lap.

"Can I tell you something else?" he asked as he looked back up at me.

"Sure", I nodded.

"I hated when you told me about that date you went on. And I wasn't sure why I was so bothered by it..." he scoffed before continuing, "I think it's because I was jealous".

I felt my heart skip a beat. I looked at him with even more intensity than he was giving me moments ago.

"Why were you jealous?"I pressed, trying to play dumb.

"I don't know...I guess it's because I sort of have a thing for you." I noticed that he was avoiding my gaze now. He was looking to the left, near the window.

I figured that it was now or never.

"Well, if we're handing out confessions, I have a thing for you too", I said, not even hiding the blush that by now had spread across both cheeks. We both were quiet for a minute. We just sat next to each other, staring right into each other's eyes. I noticed his were dodging back and forth between my eyes and my lips. But he wasn't making any kind of move and I was getting impatient. So, I grabbed him by the shirt and pressed my lips to his.

I closed my eyes and there we were. My coworker and I who I had had the hots for, basically over a year now. Eventually the kissed became steady. It was hot and sloppy and longing. It was the sexual tension that was being released as our lips collided continuously.

His hands started to travel up and down my body. My hands found their way into his black tresses of hair.

~

Though we did indeed get fired the next morning, we walked out of that building hand and hand. I lost a job but gained a boyfriend and to me that was a pretty fair trade off.

[abiiors]

the spring curse - ross x reader ˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧💌˚.⋆🌿

a/n: this is essentially a sickfic with so much yapping in there oh my god 🙄 yapping and yearning are the two things i operate on cw: brief suggestive content but no actual smut. being ill i suppose but it's very mild and fluffy. also pls we're going to suspend our disbelief here because i have no idea what being a florist entails. wc: 3.4k

they get together at the beginning of winter. 

the last of the leaves are already a deep shade of orange, falling and falling everyday until the trees go barren and white snowflakes start fluttering all around. they’re already exclusive by the time the first proper snow of the season falls. 

ross is a boyfriend. to the girl of his dreams. it makes him feel as giddy as a teenager every time he thinks about it; every time she gives him a sweet smile and an even sweeter kiss. 

he always holds her hand just a little tighter, cuddles her closer just a little longer every time she has to go—he’s making up for the lost time, he thinks. all the time he’s wasted being stupid and a coward. and so whenever she stays over he stays near her, follows her around from room to room. she finds it infinitely amusing, so endearing that she can’t help but kiss him every two minutes for it. 

a florist’s job is pretty slow in the winter. ross learns that quite early on in their relationship when he gets to take the slow days extra slow—cuddling on the sofa and dancing in the kitchen and every other cheesy thing he can think of. 

he fucking adores the slow mornings after she stays over—loves waking up with her in his arms, loves the slow, lazy morning sex where she’s moaning and squirming and cumming on his cock barely awake, loves how she looks at him with sleepy eyes hooded with lust. 

“‘s gonna be so awful when my job picks up again and the spring weddings start happening,” she says one morning while they’re in bed still, her head on his chest. ross hums. “you’ll be lucky if you see me two days in a row.”

he pouts. “it’s not that busy is it?”

“it is! so many new flowers coming into the shop and scott wants us to make sure each one of them is absolutely perfect. individually. fuck and the pollen—you’re not allergic to pollen are you? because i get so covered in it…”

ross racks his brain. maybe he does remember being a bit more sniffly in spring but nothing severe. it’s never been noteworthy. he shrugs and holds her tighter. “nah, don’t think so. it can’t be that bad though.”

she laughs mirthlessly. “you don’t know the half of it. my ex was so allergic i had to stay away for all of spring pretty much. like three months every year where i’d move back in with my parents because it was just that bad for him.”

he pretty much stops listening halfway through, stuck on the part where she had to stay away for three whole months. he can barely stay away half the week. 

“don’t have to worry about that,” he strokes her hair, brushing off the silly unwanted thoughts. 

and it turns out to be true—even when she stays in the shop longer, busy catering to new year’s parties and other events, ross hardly ever has a reaction to it. it’s blown out of proportion, he thinks. sure pollen allergies are real, but they must be incredibly rare.

what are the odds that he has it just as bad as her ex? 

soon enough he forgets the conversation. everything is so blissful, so perfect that by the time valentine’s day rolls around, he’s already asked her to move in. 

“are you serious?” she shrieks, giddy with excitement. it works great for them—for one, the floral shop she works at is so much closer to his house. and then just as an added bonus, he doesn’t have to compromise to seeing her only half the days of the week. 

“yes. oh my god, yes! it’d be perfect…”

and he agrees. it would be perfect… until, well, it’s not. 

spring arrives with a riot of colours—little weedy flowers grow in his backyard, daisies and buttercups cover grassy patches on the ground. even the dead trees start sprouting new leaves. 

everything outside is cheery and pretty and colourful. in comparison, ross feels…weirdly tired. not that it’s an everyday thing but on days when he’s outside more, he’s way too fucking exhausted to do anything else. it’s only when the sneezing starts does the conversation come back to haunt him. 

my ex was so allergic i had to stay away for all of spring pretty much…

ross shudders, thankful that it’s not that bad for him. it’s not! he’s certain about that. it’s only a scratchy throat and mildly itchy eyes that he could have gotten from eye strain too frankly, and maybe just a little case of the sniffles. it’s annoying, sure, but it’s not the end of the world. there’s no reason she needs to know about it and worry that she'll have to be away from him when she just moved in a week ago. 

he can very easily chalk up all his symptoms to a plethora of other things. 

and well, denial’s worked great for him—for one whole week, at least. 

towards the end of her second week, ross feels more tired than usual. she’s been slightly more busy at work (there’s a big wedding coming up) and ross has taken it upon himself to do a deep clean of the house now that he has a bit more free time—spring cleaning, to get rid of the pollen that may or may not be there. 

everytime there’s a persistent cough, he brushes it off. it’s dust—of course, that’s what’s making him cough and sneeze. 

it’s all the cleaning—that’s why he’s so tired.

all of it melts away though when he hears the keys jingling and the door opening. there’s a bit of a shuffle, a door shutting softly and then he hears her. 

“ross?”

he’s out the kitchen and walking towards her the next second, smiling huge. she looks like a fucking delight—hair a bit messy from the wind, surrounded by the smell of her perfume and a whole mix of flowers, plus something inexplicably green. 

she grins when she sees him and almost tackles him into a hug. 

“i love coming home to you…” the words are muffled by his t-shirt but his heart speeds up regardless. ross smiles and tucks his nose into her hair. 

“hello, you. had a good day?”

she nods and stays exactly like she was. the bliss only lasts another second though. ross feels it only a second before it happens—the string of sneezes he lets out with only a split second’s warning from his body. 

one, two, three, fifteen… until his eyes are watery and his throat stings from the effort. she looks at him with a bewildered expression on her face, slightly confused about…all of it.

he shakes his head. “shit, sorry! must have inhaled some pepper… i was just making dinner.” 

which isn’t a lie. he was making dinner and yes he has got the pepper out on the table. she throws him one more skeptical look but doesn’t push it further. 

ross takes her bag from her. “go wash up, i’ve got a movie picked out for us.”

she brightens instantly, and gives him a gorgeous smile, one that makes the tiny dimple by her lip appear. ross watches her nod and walk away from him, making her way to their bedroom. his smile is real for the most part until she finally shuts the door and he lets the cough he’s been holding in loose. he tries not to agitate his throat more, he tries to clear it so it would get rid of the itchy, sticky feeling. 

pollen, the logical part of his brain tells him. there was a tonne of pollen in her hair. but ross stubbornly gulps a glass of water, sighing at the way it makes him feel better instantly. he splashes some water from the kitchen sink on his eyes to get rid of the stinging.

it’s only a bit of allergies, he’s not going to die from it. besides, once she showers, the pollen would be washed away…right?

the other delightful symptoms show up hours later when he’s in bed, tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable. his head feels fucking heavy, like there’s suddenly a dumbbell placed on there. the itchy eyes won’t let him get comfortable and the constant urge to sneeze has him almost on the verge of fucking tears from how uncomfortable he is. 

ross curses silently, staying as far away from her without falling off the bed—for one he wants to try limiting his exposure to pollen. and if there’s a slight chance that he’s coming down with something then it’s better that he stay a bit away from her anyway. 

that just makes him even more miserable. all he wants to do is cuddle and fall asleep and not wake up until it’s at least 8 am the next morning but apparently he’s not afforded this luxury. 

sighing, ross gets up and checks his phone. 1:03 am. 

then he makes his way to the kitchen. maybe some tea might help… at least out of the bedroom he can finally sneeze into the crook of his elbow without worrying about waking her up. 

ross stumbles into the kitchen, his footsteps heavy with exhaustion and frustration. he flicks on the dim light above the stove, wincing as it illuminates the small space. his head throbs with each heartbeat, and he reaches up to massage his temples, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure. 

he tries not to be miffed about it—the fact that being out of the room instantly feels a bit better. it must the the honey in the tea, or the warm water. whatever it is, he refuses to admit it to himself that it may be her. that he’s been cocky about it this whole time only for it to bite him in the ass. 

“ross?” he startles and whirls around. 

despite the painful headache, his heart melts. she looks sleepy and soft—hair half out of the braid, his giant t-shirt drowning her a little, sliding off her shoulder. she squints her eyes against the light and rubs the sleep out of them.

“what are you doing, it’s—” she has to wait till the yawn passes “—so late. you alright?”

he nods, maybe a bit too quickly and fails to stifle a wince. the movement makes a twinge of pain slice through his head and her eyes train on him. 

“you’re being weird… are you unwell?”

“‘m not being weird,” he tries to reassure her. ross walks up to her, placing a hand on her waist so he could gently steer her back to their bedroom. “i’m fine, love. my throat feels a bit dry so i thought tea would help.” 

“your eyes are all red.”

“yeah, babe. i just woke up.” lie, lie, lie. “come on, you’ve got to be up early. go back to bed, i’ll join you in a sec.”

the skepticism on her face remains. “ross, if you’re ill—”

“i’m not ill, come on. would i do this if i were ill?” and then he kisses her. for a good thirty seconds. 

predictably (and to his delight) she goes all loose in his arms, clinging to him as if the kiss is the only thing that matters. that convinces her though and once they break apart, she hmphs. 

“fine, don’t be long.” and then she drags her feet back to the bedroom. 

ross stays in the kitchen for a bit longers, massaging his aching temples and hoping the tea works as some magical cure. he even manages to convince himself a little that it’s working, and maybe it is! 

finally, fifteen minutes later he gives up. he just wants to be in bed at this point. he’ll figure out the rest tomorrow. 

ross wakes up alone to warm sunlight streaming in from the window, perhaps a bit too warm for an early spring day. everything feels weird and uncomfortable and stuffy, almost like he can barely breathe. exhaustion coats every cell in his body. 

what the fuck… 

he just woke up too, how is it possible to be this tired, this early in the morning. he stretches a little, trying to shake off the ickiness, until his eyes land on a post it stuck on the nightstand. 

i don’t know if you remember me telling you i was leaving for work early so i thought i’d leave a note. you looked really tired and uncomfy :( call me if you need me xx 

her neat handwriting stands stark against the paper. how did he miss her leaving for work? he has absolutely no memory of being even half-awake and he never sleeps in until this late. ross frowns and checks himself for a fever but his skin feels cool to the touch, normal. 

allergies. a voice chimes in again. allergies to pollen and spring and. allergies to your girlfriend. 

it’s incredibly childish to think of it that way, he knows it. but he also knows that if she knew her job was causing him this much discomfort, she’d be quite sad about it. so ross just shrugs it away and sends her a text

awake and feeling a lot better :) 

thirty seconds later, his phone pings. 

good, because i took half the day off to spend it with you ♡

despite himself, ross beams, feeling giddy like a teenager. it takes him some effort to get out of bed and shake off the fatigue. he should probably clean the room a bit before she comes back. his thoughts wander back to the last time—to him uncontrollably sneezing and coughing because of the pollen in her hair.

ross groans and tries to clear his throat again. 

somehow he manages to pass the time, doing little things here and there, getting on his playstation to see if any of his friends are free for a game (the are, but only for a bit). he makes himself a lazy lunch, quick and easy tin ravioli that she would 100% wrinkle her nose at (“pasta should be fresh though!”) and then he waits, scrolling on his phone to pass the time. 

he wakes up to an onslaught of kisses and a huge bouquet of daisies. 

for a second ross wonders when he fell asleep. he didn’t even mean to fall asleep, the tiredness just dragged him under… 

“there you are,” she grins at him and places another kiss on his nose. ross tries not to blush like a high school girl. instead, he pulls her into a quick kiss. 

“i got you flowers!” the bouquet of daisies is thrust into his hands. the flowers are beautiful, each about the same size, white and fresh and pretty and she beams at him proudly. “made that one for you.”

“you are perfect…” he kisses her again and cradles the flowers closer. “any special occasion though?”

“nah, just thought you were a bit unwell and thought i’d get you flowers.”

ross brightens. he loves how thoughtful she is, loves that she made sure to get him flowers because she suspected he was sick.

all of it comes crashing the moment he feels the familiar itchy feeling build at the back of his throat, feels his eyes starting to water. he tries not to throw the flowers away as if they were made of fire but he has twist his body away from hers when he breaks out into a coughing fit. hacking and trying to get the flowers away from him. 

“shit, you okay?” she sounds alarmed and rubs her hand up and down his back. it barely registers while ross struggles to breathe. 

quickly she runs to the kitchen to get him some water. it takes him a bit to breathe and stop coughing so he can get some water down. 

“i didn’t know you were this sick!” 

“i’m not,” his voice sounds strained but she ignores him entirely and places the back of her hand against his forehead. 

“no fever,” she frowns. “but you looked so run down before…”

“i haven’t caught a bug i promise!”

she opens her mouth again to argue, about to say something but stops halfway through the sentence, her eyes widening and ross watches in real time as the realisation dawns on her. the room goes drop dead silent. 

“fuck…” she murmurs, “it’s hay fever, isn’t it.”

ross wants to deny it so desperately but all he can do is sit there and pout miserably. there’s nothing he can say that will undo it now. 

“how long?”

“how long what?”

“how long have you been feeling it? itchy eyes, the sneezing, coughing. you know what i’m talking about.”

he does but he doesn’t want to admit it. quietly, she move the flowers as far away as possible. ross palms the back of his neck, sheepish. “two weeks.”

“you’ve been miserable for what–two weeks? because of me! and you didn’t even tell me.” her face falls more and more with each word and ross wants to point out that this is exactly why he didn’t tell her, and now she’s upset anyway. convincing herself that she’s the reason he’s been feeling so horrible. 

“why didn’t you tell me?”

sheepishly, he spills everything—how he remembers the conversation about her ex, how he doesn’t want her to feel like she’s the one making him sick. 

“and i didn’t want you moving away for three months! you just moved in”

he sounds so petulant and childish to his own ears, he sounds like a seven year old, not a fully grown man. 

for a moment she says absolutely nothing. she only looks at him, bewildered and speechless. 

“did–do—” then she has to pause to take a deep breath. “did you take any antihistamines?”

and that’s when it dawns on him. ross opens his mouth and closes it again, like a fish. antihistamines. allergy medicine. a miracle of modern science easily available to him over the counter. something he didn’t even bother thinking about.

“did you?”

“no.”

he hangs his head in shame, embarrassed that he didn’t think about it sooner until peals of her laughter jolt him back. she looks like she’s ready to collapse on the sofa, completely fucking floored by the giggles she can’t seem to suppress. 

“you are so dramatic!” she shrieks, manages to even get the whole sentence out between gasps and giggles. “you’d think you caught the black death or something.”

“oi!” ross flicks her her on the nose but joins in on the laughter too. he has been a fucking idiot, of course he has. “you said you had to move away every spring! because your ex had it that bad!”

“yeah because he had asthma, you idiot.”

with every new piece of information she reveals, ross feels his face warm up more and more. okay yeah… he really has been fucking dramatic about all this. 

“you really are an idiot, you know that?,” she catches her breath with a bit of effort and moves a bit closer to him. ross pretends to grumble but pulls her on his lap and holds her close.

“your idiot?” 

“don’t try to be cute, you’re not living this down.” she sounds stern for about two seconds before bursting into another fit of giggles and burying her face in his shoulder.  

“i’m not moving out the house just because you’re allergic to me, you know?” she teases once she’s sobered up enough. “you’ll be fine with some pills.”

he would be, now all he wants to do is make a mad dash to the pharmacy and buy whatever otc medication they have. it’s been hell as is, he just wants this feeling to go away. 

i’m not moving out the house…

his heart leaps up to his throat and relief floods his body. ross feels like he can finally breathe again (figuratively, at least). 

“i’m not allergic to you,” he counters, “i’m obsessed with you if anything.”

“flirting will not get you out of this!” but ross doesn’t miss the way her smile widens and she struggles to meet his eyes. if only he could stay like this forever…

he would have even, if not for another round of sneezes building up again. ross cringes, turning to the side. 

“shit shit! still, radioactive, sorry.” 

ross snorts, silently begging for the sneezes to go away. 

“let me make a pharmacy run for you,” she declares, putting her shoes back on and shushing him with a look before he can even protest. it’s fine though, he thinks, it's only twenty minutes. she’s coming back home to him anyway. 

taglist: @scooby-doodoo, @partoftheairforce, @justgoatsbreakinghearts0855@beachesgetpeaches, @you-muppet, @mcabister, @alexmarie29, @at-her-very-foreign, @hfkait, @squishysoupy @sierraeslaprincesa @harrie-fic-center @alien-girl-violet @thereisaplaceintheheart @kennedy-brooke @lolidontknowanymore @theoriginalwhatsername@celestcies @sugarkane1001 @ari-turner @thewaywewereinsaigon @daphnesutton @beliefandsayingsomething @ros3chu @nothingrevealedeverythingdenied @zzzhealy @mattymybeloved @fck-off @indiaamars @sofaritsalrightt @k4tie75 @wondersecret @humptyhoran @indierockgirrl @hanbiior @moreyoulove-moreyouknow @rossgirly @if-my-heart-bleeds @little-lovely-darling @abriefnirvana @renitypoem @sinarainbows @lady-may-targaryen @love4agesss @angrylittlebaldman @oneluckygirl @sinarainbows @starvchaser @noacfapologyst @abouttofillhisshoes @tbhnotthatfunny

add yourself to the taglist

[kaihuntrr]

one-year anniversary!

HI. oh my goodness can you believe its been a WHOLE YEAR (and a day, im posting this a day later OOPS-) since i started working on this au? i dont think i started working on the chapters until... the -ber months? but the general brainstorming started now and oh my GOD the amount of changes that has happened while working on this au is insane! im absolutely floored with how much people enjoy this au, and while im too busy to be posting art (im doing some personal work!) i have all the time in the world to talk about how much this means to me.

i've written things in the past, but i havent for the LIFE of me worked on such a long project such as this (we're only halfway through act one of FIVE!) and learning and growing with such wonderful betas and partner (ehehe @mewhoismyself hello there) is just so wonderful <3

SO! in order to make this anniversary special, i've decided to post a little cut/practice scene from act two! this couldnt make the cut with what the plot has in mind, but i figured itd be best to have some nice moments with scott and martyn, eh?

OH! and before i go, the next chapter will be posted a day earlier! <3 im going abroad the day after the original chapter posting date, so i need to rest. i think this back half of the fic is gonna be really something <3

anyway, i wont keep you here for longer. i hope you have a fun time reading this, just as much as my partner and i had fun writing this so many months ago <33

Martyn tried to listen as Scott rambled on about what he’d been up to, how nice it had been to see his friends again. He even tried to let the small twist of jealousy at Scott being so happy over seeing someone else wrench his attention back into the moment, but it didn’t work. The face of Pearl kept flashing in the forefront of his mind, her eyes and jagged scar glowing unnaturally under the moonlight. 

“Oh, and…,” Scott continued to ramble on, but Martyn still couldn’t focus. It seemed that Scott had noticed as his voice trailed off and he looked at the blonde with a tilted head. “Martyn…?”

Martyn gave a grumbled response. His mind blocked out the world around him as he pictured brief flashes of the island, the hollow and desolate stares of the people, the wicked laugh coming from Pearl….

Scott sighed. “Martyn….”

Martyn could still feel a slight buzz in his head from where he was hit. How much blood did he lose back there? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he was glad to be alive. Glad that he was here, still breathing, like everyone else. Glad that he was–

“Martyn!”

Martyn jerked as Scott’s face was suddenly inches from his own. Scott’s lips were twisted into a pout and his eyebrows were drawn into a scowl. “Huh- sorry, what?”

Scott sighed, letting his head fall forward, “So you weren’t listening to me….”

“No!” Martyn said quickly, throwing his hands up. Panic leapt in his chest, making his heart beat faster. He didn’t want Scott to think he was ignoring him…! “No, I- I’m… I’m sorry…,” he hung his head. “I’m trying to listen- I’m not meaning to ignore you, I just….” Martyn looked down at the sand beneath him. Guilt welled up in his throat. He’d been so eager to see Scott while he was away, and before he’d gotten back, and now that he was actually here… Martyn was ignoring him. He was making Scott feel ignored.

Martyn shook his head, forcing a huge smile onto his face. “So, you said you saw your friends, right? Did you have fun-? Oh, what am I saying, you just said you had fun- haha…,” Martyn scrubbed the back of his head, then straightened up, rolling to his feet. “Hey, do you wanna go see if we can find your bird friend? I bet it’s missed you too!” He pointed towards a path leading up to the forest, “Bet he lives in there somewhere…!”

“Um- Martyn…,” Scott trailed off looking after him.

Martyn took a few steps backwards, away from Scott, and spread his arms, hoping he’d follow. “Or we can go down to the beach! It’s a nice day, it’ll feel great to splash in the water a little.”

“Martyn.”

“Or- oh, we can go see the decorations they’re setting up for the festival down in the center of town. You said you were excited right, so we can-!”

“Martyn!” Scott snapped. 

Martyn stopped.

Scott took the few steps to close the distance between them, laying his hand on Martyn’s arm, then sliding it down to take his hand. He tilted his head, giving Martyn big sad eyes. “Martyn, talk to me…. What’s wrong?”

It was hard for Martyn to not crack under Scott’s gaze. “It’s just…,” he trailed off, trying to put his thoughts into words. He was just engrossed in them a second ago, but now, trying to tell Scott, he couldn’t think of what to say. “I… uh….”

“You’re alright, Martyn,” Scott rubbed his thumb over Martyn’s hand in a small, circular motion. “Take your time.”

A small pause fell over him. Martyn could hear the slow ebbs of the waves before he managed to speak. “I can’t get her out of my mind,” his voice spat with venom. Pearl’s sadistic glee, her manic grin, her ever-looming presence burned in his head. Martyn’s grip unknowingly tightened around Scott until he looked the other in the eye. His grip on Scott lessened as he looked away. “What good can I be to protect you, when I can’t defend myself from one person?”

“Who said I needed protecting?” Scott raised an eyebrow, his tone still soft but with a hint of skepticism as he leaned to the side to catch Martyn’s gaze again. He let out a weak chuckle and moved his other hand to rest on Martyn’s cheek. “Besides, you can’t protect me from everything.”

Martyn leaned into the touch, not caring how warm his cheeks felt as Scott’s delicate hand pressed into his skin, lightly grazing over the scar Pearl caused. He closed his eyes as he let out a sigh and drooped his shoulders. “But I want to…,” he muttered. He looked at Scott, his face scrunched with worry. “I don’t want you getting hurt at all, Scott.”

“There’s going to be times where I get hurt, Martyn,” Scott narrowed his eyes and withdrew his hand from Martyn’s cheek. Martyn was wide-eyed, only for Scott to hold the hunter’s other hand. “When that happens, all I’d ask is for you to help me get back on my feet.”

Martyn could feel his nerves freeze up at Scott’s warm hold. His gentle stare and concern on his face nearly caused Martyn’s heart to explode. A million things swirled in his mind as the breeze wafted over. “I can’t help it,” he lowered his head, biting his lip. “You should be protected, with all the chaos going around–”

“What chaos?” Scott cracked a smile and shook his head. He shrugged, letting go of one of Martyn’s hands as he gestured around. “All there is to see is you, me, and the beach. Nothing to worry about, right?”

Nothing to worry about for now, but so many things could happen in the blink of an eye. Martyn could practically hear the sound of the sea princes’ ringing in his ears, the one from his dreams laughing as its mouth opened wide to swallow Scott as he screamed-.... 

No. Martyn needed to be prepared for anything, so nothing bad could ever happen to the people he cared for. Nothing. Never again. 

“I still want to fight for you,” his voice was barely a whisper in the wind, cracking a bit from the emotions that crawled up the back of his throat. But seeing Scott’s attentive look, with the slight tilt of his head, Martyn knew he could hear him. “Can I at least do that?” he pleaded. He needed to-. He needed to. 

“You may,” Scott nodded, giving him a small smile. Then his eyes narrowed as a smirk crept onto his lips. “So- I’d like to see how you fight.”

Martyn opened his mouth to respond- just in time for a woosh of breath to leave him as his back hit the ground. Martyn gasped, blinking for several seconds as he tried to figure out he’d gotten laid flat out on his back… with a certain ginger pinning his shoulders to the sand.

“Yikes…,” Scott teased, his eyebrows rising, complimenting the wide grin on his face.

Martyn sputtered, his face immediately flushing beat red. “I wasn’t ready! Sneak- sneak attack…!”

Scott laid one arm across his chest, propping his other elbow on top of it and laying his cheek in his hand. “Most things will take an opportunity for a sneak attack, when presented with one.” He kicked his feet in the air, as if he was lounging on a couch reading a book. 

Martyn flushed all the way to his ears. “Redo!”

Scott leaned his head down, smiling at Martyn in a way that was almost sickeningly sweet. “Are you waiting for a written invitation?” 

Martyn grabbed Scott by the shoulders and surged upwards, knocking the ginger off of him. Scott laughed as he slipped his grip, ducking under one of Martyn’s arms to wrap his arms around Martyn’s torso. 

Before Martyn’s brain could fully process that, Scott had rolled Martyn over top of him and planted him flat on his back again. 

Working on instinct more than pre-thought, Martyn wrapped his arms around Scott’s shoulders and kicked off the sand. He knocked his thigh against Scott’s hip, bumping him off balance just enough to send them rolling over again.

But Scott didn’t end up on his back underneath Martyn. 

Somehow, mid flip, he’d slithered around Martyn’s torso, ducking his arm again and getting outside of his hold. Martyn ended up with his face in the sand and a knee pressed between his shoulders, shoving him down further.

Martyn was about to push himself up with his arms, using his strength advantage to throw Scott off of him, but Martyn froze when he felt something sharp curl around his throat. 

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even swallow. He could barely even breathe. 

Suddenly the sharp points of crescent bladed scythes were touched against his neck so delicately. Suddenly the sharp claws of a hungry beast wrapped around his throat, pricking the skin above his jugular. One wrong move and she’d slid his throat. One wrong breath and the beast would tear him to ribbons.

A figure above him bent down to whisper in his ear. 

“I win!” Scott chirped brightly. He laughed as he withdrew his fingernails from where he’d curled them around Martyn’s throat. “You really do need more practice. Though I’d be happy to oblige…,” his voice turned sing-songy as he plopped back on the sand, his arms holding him up.

Martyn slowly pushed himself upwards, staring down at the sand where his face had been in utter bafflement. Why had that felt-? Why was he-? Why was his heart beating so fast? Why… did he feel like he’d just been hunted…?

“That- that uh…,” Martyn stammered, not really sure what he wanted to say. “You’re a lot better fighter than I thought you’d be.” He turned his head to look at Scott, pushing himself up so he was sitting on his knees.

“I know,” Scott smiled widely, tipping his head back and forth, “Do I impress you, Martyn?” He smiled and hummed teasingly, his eyes narrowed in a joyful satisfaction. 

“Always,” he breathed, a lot more genuine and heartfelt than he’d meant to. Scott’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Martyn felt his face flush and he looked down at the sand. Well, he was in this far. “I think you’re amazing.” 

“Thank you…,” Scott said with a shy little smile. A light hint of red dusted his cheeks. He looked… really nice like that.

Martyn shook his head, roughly clearing his throat. “Well um, as- as fun as this was… I was actually referring to- to my gun combat more than my hand-to-hand.”

“Uh huh,” Scott answered with a small smirk, not sounding like he believed him. “Well, maybe I could help you with that as well.” 

“You know how to use a gun?” Martyn asked, more than a little shocked. How… how much did he really know about Scott?

Scott opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked to the side, then looked back at Martyn. “Noooo…?” he admitted, grinning sheepishly. He sighed, rolling his eyes a bit, “To be honest I thought you were still flirting, not that that was a serious question. And now, well… I’m just embarrassed.”

“Oh.” Martyn tried to hide his sigh of relief. It was one thing to just not know that Scott was a capable fighter -he was a tavern keeper who dealt with rowdy drunks all the time, Martyn honestly should have expected it- but it was another thing to not know that Scott was a trained gunman. For some reason they felt different. Martyn felt a grin split his face. “Would-... would you like me to teach you…?”

“Teach me what?” Scott’s eyebrows pinched together for a brief moment, then shot up towards his hairline, “How to use a gun?”

“Yeah,” Martyn grinned, “It’ll be like the time I was taught!”

“When were you taught?” Scott tilted his head.

“I think I was… seven? My parents knew I wanted to be a hunter, so they taught me,” Martyn hummed, looking out at the beach. He could remember the eagerness in his voice when he asked his parents to teach him. He only knew of the dangers through them and the people he lived around, but he knew his heart was calling out to the sea more than anything else.  “I needed practice, like everyone else, but I’m a natural. A crack shot, they’d told me!” He laughed. Shooting a target from far away was much easier than fighting with swords or his bare hands. 

Scott blinked, processing Martyn’s words. He slowly turned his head to Martyn, eyes widening in shock as all sense of his playfulness dropped. “You were a child when you learned how to use those?”

“Yeah…? I wanted to be a hunter, Scott, so I learned early.” Martyn looked at Scott and shrugged, feeling the ginger’s gaze on his skin felt… different. Martyn learned how to use guns to be a hunter, not to– oh. Was Scott thinking Martyn would…? Martyn shook his head and raised his hands up. “But I can’t shoot a person. A sea monster is easy because they’re big and stupid, but a person…?”

Scott had a judgemental look on his face as it scrunched up. He pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, resting his head on it as he sighed. “Ending a person’s life is hard, and I’m happy you haven’t shot anyone, but…,” he trailed off. Martyn leaned closer to Scott as he raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think it’s a little concerning?”

“What’s concerning?”

“You learned how to shoot things, how to kill things, as a kid,” Scott looked away, gripping his arms tighter as he watched the waves flow in and out. “Every life has a purpose; from you, to me, and even the beasts in the ocean.”

Martyn narrowed his eyes. Exactly what purpose could those monsters serve? Being ocean terrors? An effective way to kill humans and destroy ships? To bring fear in the hearts of children? To kill Ren- Jimmy? Why were there monsters in the ocean? Why should there be? 

“They’re monsters, Scott.” Martyn hissed, anger rising in his voice.

“They’re animals,” Scott hissed back, his face pinching into an expression that was almost pained. “They’re just animals….” 

“They’re heartless, cruel, and always starving.” Martyn huffed, pulling out his gun to examine it under the sunlight. Horrible beasts. Disgusting monsters. Murderers. “They’re such horrible, unnatural beasts that every mechanic in the world works to develop better guns and weapons to kill them all.” 

He didn’t fully notice the way Scott shied away from the gun in his hand. “You’re lucky you don’t need to leave the kingdom to see those ugly things,” Martyn spat.

“Ugly…,” Scott grumbled, turning his head away, like he was offended by the notion. “Well, I’m sure most of them would think the same about you.”

Martyn blinked, giving Scott a double take. Ugly…? 

Scott let out a sigh as he stretched and uncurled his legs and arms to stretch out in front of him. He picked up a small handful of sand and watched it fall through his fingers. “Every life is precious, every life is running on limited time. I’m not an idiot. I know things die. But there’s no reason to cut it shorter than it needs to be. ” He smiled wistfully, tossing the rest of the sand forward. “The sea is… scary, but maybe if you had an open mind, you’d see there’s more to it than monsters.”

Martyn followed Scott’s gaze and stared. Was there anything more to them? Surely not. The fondness in Scott’s voice was hard to believe- but the man has never even seen any beast to Martyn’s knowledge. The fond tone that Scott spoke about those- those monsters with… it honestly made Martyn angry. Those monsters took away the people he cared about. The people he loved. People he cherished. Jimmy, Ren… and so many other innocent people lost their lives to the sea, Lizzie’s parents…. The ocean took all of them, and there was nothing to blame but the monsters that infested it.

“They’re monsters, nothing more than that,” he spat, emotions in his chest wrenching into a tight knot that made it hard to breathe. He swung his arm out to the side, bringing his gun up in front of his chest as he rose to his knees, almost looming over Scott. “I know what they are, Scott, and I know I’m doing all that I can to protect you and the rest of the kingdom from the beasts that would just as quickly swallow you whole as they would crush you into pieces!”

“There’s no need for you to be so hostile about it,” Scott snapped at Martyn, his eyes narrowing into a cold glare that felt like icy daggers stabbing into Martyn’s face. Scott stood up and brushed all the sand from his clothes with a sigh. “I understand.” He walked closer to the water, just enough for the waves to lap against his shoes and tightened his fist, as if preventing to lash out.

Martyn blinked. “Was I-?” he muttered to himself. 

He looked out at Scott standing in the surf. He looked… sad. The guilty feeling in his chest built up once more. 

All of a sudden, Martyn remembered just how happy Scott looked with his birds fluttering around him, with the canary nuzzling his palm. Oh-. Scott was an animal lover…. No wonder he-.

Martyn was messing everything up. First he’d ignored him, and he was pushing Scott away by getting angry. Martyn quickly stood up and ran across the beach towards Scott, “Oh, Scott, I’m sorry–”

Scott turned to look at him, a flat expression on his face.

Martyn felt his heart twist, “I- I’m sorry. I- I didn’t mean to make you feel….”

“Upset?” Scott supplied.

“Yeah…,” Martyn bowed his head. His hand twitched out, reaching for Scott’s but giving up and retreating before he could take it. Martyn turned his head away and bit his lip. “I-... I made you-....”

Scott stepped closer and held out his hand. “No need for that, silly hunter,” he smiled sweetly. Martyn took it almost immediately, surprising them both. Scott let out a chuckle and bumped his shoulder next to Martyn’s. “I’m not mad,” Scott said softly. Martyn believed him. He looked… sad instead. 

“I don’t want you to–”

“You’re just fine.” Scott assured him with a smirk. “It takes a lot more than a simple disagreement to make me actually upset. We’re okay, right?” 

Martyn bashfully nodded, resulting in a wide smile from Scott. Was he… really okay? Or was he just hiding how he felt? For Martyn’s sake? Martyn hoped it was the former. 

Scott put a hand on his chest, giving Martyn’s hand a small squeeze. “Just… try to keep an open mind, alright? The world can be… stranger than you might think.” He smiled a little bashfully, “I might have- a surprise or two… to share, eventually.”

“Like how you can kick my butt in hand to hand?”

Scott’s face split into a wide grin, his eyes lighting up with laughter. “Just like that.”

Martyn felt himself smiling, a laugh escaping him as he squeezed Scott’s hand. Yeah, they were okay.

[crazylittlejester]

I saw that ask abt why Time died with regrets and turned into the Hero's Shade and I realized I have an angsty headcanon about Time AND Warriors I haven't shared ...

So I headcanon that Wars' mental health deteriorates a lot during the time of the Chain's parting. Like we're talking full blown depression of the kind that takes years to battle and which will change your life forever

The Links don't all go home at the same time. Instead, a portal shows up to take them one by one over the course of several weeks. Time is the 5th to go home. Warriors is the 7th

Which means that Time gets to see Warriors sink deeper and deeper into depression while the first four Links go home and then suddenly he has to leave himself. Time knows Warriors' history with mental health problems, and now he gets to see all of Warriors' worst problems come back when he finally thought they might be gone, and he CAN'T HELP BECAUSE HYLIA DECIDED TO SEND HIM HOME

So Time comes home to his own peaceful farmlife and his worst regret is that he doesn't know what happened to Wars. Did Wars get through his depression? Did he find happiness? Those questions eat at him until he finally turns into the Hero's Shade

(Did already write a fic abt Warriors' depression, might also write one abt how Time turned into Shade. Help, my prompt list is way too long)

not my dumb ass reading this like “OH MY GOD I READ A REALLY GOOD FIC WITH THIS EXACT PREMISE!” just to pause halfway through the ask to go find it and then realize it was in fact you who wrote said fic 😭

BUT OUGH THIS IS SERIOUSLY SO SAD. GOD.

[girlygguk]

fame - jjk (four)

pairing ; idol!jk x idol!oc

synopsis ; christmas has come early this year when park dae-jung scores siren a chance to promote their latest single on a music show. the girls are excited to perform, hanna is wholeheartedly convinced this is going to be their breakthrough, and aera runs into two police officers coming out of the bathroom.

previous chapters ; prologue | one | two | drabble1 | three | four | five

warnings ; explicit language

content ; how aera & jk met, dope era bts <3, the start of it all!!

word count ; 4.2k

a/n: so i know (award)shows are not exactlyy like how i describe them in the story but lets ignore that <3 also it's 2015 in this chap but jk & aera are 18 bc u wont catch me writing abt minors !!

a/n 2: so sorry for there being an insane wait on this chapter!!! next one will be coming way sooner as i split it in half bc i wanted to hurry and give an update!! not long until we're in the main timeline and get to the jaera juice!! tysmm for reading 💓

📅 March 2015 — 3 months before their call...

📍 PARK ENTERTAINMENT Building

"Oh my god!" Han-na's scream grabs me by the throat, dragging me out of my deep, dark, peaceful hibernation. My body jolts upwards with a groan, my eyes struggling to adjust to the light as I try to blink myself to life.

On the other side of our cramped dorm room, Ha-Joon is also coming to consciousness, her dirty blonde hair clinging to her pillow when she rises as if it's trying to haul her back down. "What the—" Joonie is cut off before she can finish her sentence, another wail from Hanna ringing in our ears.

I'm quick to shove the blanket off my body, jumping off my bed with a huff and dashing out of the room. I hear a soft whine behind me, our maknae reluctantly following my actions and trailing after me.

I slam open the door of Hanna and Nali's shared room, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion when all I'm met with is an equally groggy Nali. She's pushing herself off her mattress, no doubt on her way to finding the source of the scream as well. I turn on my heels and head for the last unexplored dorm, twisting the handle and stifling a laugh when Asami comes into view. She's sprawled out on her bed, a baby blue sleeping mask covering her eyes, and soft snores passing through her lips. She's fast asleep while our leader is possibly being brutally murdered. Shame. 

I leave the room with a shake of my head, the two blondes snailing after me down the hall as I follow the sound of our eldest's voice towards the office. My pace increases when I hear the tone of a male voice too. Please be getting beat to a pulp right now, Hanna, because if I walk in on you getting freaky in our shared office, I swear to god—

The creak of the door pulls me out of my submerged mind, and an enormous breath of relief leaves me when all I'm greeted with is an ecstatic leader and our Producer-Director, Park Dae-Jung. Smiles adorned both faces, our director standing tall in black slacks and a navy blue button-up, looking like he was halfway through his day already, whereas I was currently leaning against the door for support. My sisters and I sported similar outfits, pyjama shorts and simple tees—except for Hanna, of course. The early bird was dressed in a cropped singlet, her belly button poking out just above the waistband of the grey sweatpants that coated her long legs.

Relief washed over our huddle of three when our worry for Hanna's safety disappeared. Joonie wastes no time, spinning promptly on her heels and retracing her steps directly back to bed. Her eyes are basically shut as she walks, muttering something about it finally getting to the good part of her dream.

Hanna's "wait!" causes a giggle to bubble in the base of my throat, watching as our youngest stops in her tracks before letting out a muffled cry. "She's gonna make us start practice early! Look at what she's wearing, aiiiiiishhhhh!" She wails before being as dramatic as ever and stamping her sock-covered right foot against the ground.

The cackle that left me was loud, overpowering Nali's breathy laugh as she grabbed the hand of our maknae, hauling her into the office with us. I pulled Joonie towards me, wrapping my arms around her waist, and she leaned her head on my chest as we returned our attention to the slumber-ruining villains in the centre of the room.

I take a quick glance at the clock on the wall behind Hanna, and I almost start crying along with Ha-Joon. It's 6:15; we shouldn't be starting practice for nearly two hours. If she even begins to head towards that room, I will be leaving the group effective immediately.

"No, practice will start as scheduled," she rolls her eyes, "but Dae Jung-nim just surprised us with amazing news!" We stare patiently at the girl shaking like a chihuahua, our director turning towards us with a similar grin. Joonie untangles herself from me, and our tired trio deliver a quick bow to him in greeting.

"We're promoting on Inkigayo!" My mouth dropped as I stared at our leader that towered over us, turning my head to look at the girls standing next to me to see they were sporting similar shocked expressions. 

Our director was leaning against the table in the middle of the office with an easy smile, waiting for our reactions. My eyebrows furrowed, "I thought—"

Dae Jung-nim was quick to cut me off, "Times have changed, and we managed to secure you guys a slot. I know you might not want to promote there after they pulled a few of the debut stages, but..."

My sisters and I shook our heads, easing his worries with wide eyes and wider grins, "are you kidding? We would love to!" 

I could physically see the relief wash over him as I spoke, and I think he was downplaying how hard it was to get us on the show. Our director has been in the business for many years and acquired a lot of connections throughout his career. We are 1/2 of Park Dae-Jung's remaining active groups. Well, active-ish. 

Our male seniors, Poison, last had a group comeback almost two years ago now, most of them pursuing solo music and acting projects. They've been around since 2009 and were hugely influential for us as growing trainees, often mentoring us on their days off. Dae Jung-nim is like our Dad away from home, and while I still have vivid memories of him causing ex-trainees to break down in tears, I've come to see his sweet side. He's a big softie, really.

"I'm glad to hear it, girls. The more opportunities we have like this, the more the world will get to see your talent." He nods, hands clasped together humbly. Hanna is oozing with excitement as she jiggles on the spot whilst my other two sisters and I thank the lofty man with sleepy but ample smiles.

"All the info is here," he taps the thin file perched on the desktop, "and I've given Han-na a brief run-over."

My sisters and I part like the red sea as he pats Hanna on the shoulder before heading towards the office door. He flashes us one last sparkling grin before leaving the room, and Nali is the first to break the silence. "The things I would do for and to that man..." She sighs dreamily, head slumped against the wall to her left, and I swat at her arm teasingly.

"God, I'm so excited!" Our leader chirps, ignoring her roommate's crude remark, "This will be our breakthrough moment!"

Spoiler alert, it wasn't.

Suddenly, Joon brushes past me and treks further into the office towards the desk our promo file is sitting on, and I assume she's just going to peruse through it for a bit. I watch in interest as our youngest ignores the file entirely, her hand stopping over Hanna's phone that rests next to the folder. She taps the screen with purpose, the device blaring a painful 6:20 AM at her before she bites back a snarl and heads for the door.

"So about that early practice—" Joonie cuts off Hanna's teasing with a screech, already halfway down the hall towards her comfy bed. Nali and I share a knowing look, our eyes slowly, so so slowly, shifting towards our leader.

"Just go already."

That was all we needed for the blonde and me to fast-track out the damn door and back to our dorms to salvage the rest of our sleep.

"I'm waking you up at 8 o'clock sharp!" Our leader's voice booms from the room we just left, Nali and I not even reacting as we part ways to our separate dorms.

The sound of Joonie's heavy breathing hits my ears as soon as I enter my room, and I chuckle in astonishment at how she fell back asleep within seconds. Then, suddenly, it all makes sense as I flop onto my bed. The warm, cozy cover hugs me as my head sinks into my soft, cool pillow. As the darkness engulfs me in seconds, all I can think about is how Joonie is a fucking genius.

Jang Han-na is a, if not the prime example of a perfectionist. She believes in planning, lists, sticking to routines and scheduling every waking moment of her life. She is a born leader, my longest friend, and I love the girl to death. I couldn't name a better fit for our mother bear title, truly. But at times like this, I can't help but imagine my hands wrung around her neck. Not in a sexy way. You know when you're trying to stop the air from entering someone's lungs? That type of way.

It's been four days since our director graced us with the delightful news that we're going to be able to promote our latest lead single on Inkigayo. If you told me that right now, we'd be on our sixth hour of rehearsal for the fourth day in a row; I would've told Dae Jung-nim to shove the offer down his freshly pressed slacks.

I love to practice. I really do. I will never take dancing with my sisters for granted. It's always a guaranteed laugh when somebody messes up, and we watch Hanna lose her shit, though it's even better when she's the one who messes up. But this isn't funny anymore. I'm hot. I'm bothered. And I cannot stand to listen to our song play one more goddamn time in this boiling dance practice room.

My eyes lift from the ground in my heaved-over stance, a pained laugh passing through my lips as I see my four members sprawled out in various exhausted positions. Asami, specifically, catches my eye; her limbs are spread out on the floor like a starfish, her jaw to the ceiling as she heaves out heavy, strained breaths and furrowed brows to tie it all together. I almost lose it when our song dares to fade out and is about to replay automatically when Joonie's voice echoes throughout the hot box. "I will break your phone, unnie. I really will." Her threat is acknowledged by the oldest as she rolls over from her spot on the floor with a grunt and crawls over to her phone. Hanna lifts a hand to tap over the screen blindly, a satisfied sigh leaving her when the opening line cuts off mid-sentence before flopping back onto the ground again.

"I'll go get us some water," I offer, standing straight after unbending my knees and heading for the door.

"Are you kidding?" Joonie's voice causes me to turn back to the girls, my hand resting on the doorknob as I shoot her a confused look. "You are not even tired. You're so annoying!" She cries before rolling over on her side, turning to face the wall dramatically as the older members chuckle. 

I shake my head at the melodramatic teen, a smile threatening to break through on my lips, "I am tired. Just not as much as you." My teasing results in our maknae attempting to pull off her shoe and launch it at me before she tiredly moans and gives up, falling back with a huff.

I exit the room with an amused giggle, making sure to leave the door open and let the hallway's cooled air pour into the studio.

SIREN'S SONG: Rumour from Produce48 (no bc siren would eat this up fr) + SIREN'S STAGE OUTFITS (Left to Right) Ha-Joon, Asami, Aera, Han-na, Nali

The warm air of the hand dryer does well to bring some heat to my cold, shaky hands in the bathroom of Inkigayo. Apparently, Joonie has decided that my hands are dry enough and dashes out of the room, the door swinging behind her as she abandons me. Feeling my eyes roll to the back of my head, I take a quick glance at the mirror and tuck in the part of my white blouse that's not sitting right under my belt before following after the hyperactive girl.

"Joonie, hold up," I whine as I push through the bathroom door, seeing her waiting against the wall opposite the toilets.

"I just wanted to get out of there. It smells like thirty different perfumes." She chuckles before pushing off the wall and starts to head in the direction of our members. I only make it a step towards her before a masculine voice joins our conversation.

"Hello. Are you alright?"

I turn my head towards the voice to see two guys in pilot? policeman? uniforms staring at me curiously. "I'm sorry?" I reply, my tone not doing anything to hide my confusion.

The strangled gasp of Joon from behind me reaches my ear before she almost trips over her own feet, jogging to my side. "Oh my annyeonghaseyo!" She splutters once she's next to me. Her head drops into an instant bow, and I catch on quickly, turning back to the two guys before bowing even lower.

They return the gesture with big smiles before the taller one with dirty blonde hair and a dimple I want to poke turns to me, "Did you need something?"

I feel his friend's gaze on me as I tilt slightly to look up at him before responding, "What do you mean?" What a confusing fucking interaction.

"You yelled out my name."

"Oh!" Oh I see. "Sorry, I was calling out to Joonie," I say as I gesture to the blonde on my left.

"His name is Joonie. Namjoon. Namjoon and Jungkook sunbaenim," she informs me in a low, pointed tone. 

I blink a few times at my younger sister before turning back to the police officers. "Oh, wow! Bangtan Sonyeondan!" I bow again, "I'm a huge fan!" I add as I rise from the bow, and my eyes meet the brunette's when I lift my head. With an amused smile painted on his lips, he nods in a way that says 'clearly' in the most sarcastic tone you could think of. 

"Kim Ha-Joon," she introduces herself politely before gesturing to me, "and this is Hwang Aera. It's great to meet you."

I mean, I am familiar with Bangtan Sonyeondan; I just didn't recognise them instantly. They make great music, and I share a room with Kim Ha-Joon, a boy group fanatic; it's literally impossible to be unfamiliar with most boy groups nowadays because of her. I am, however, more of an Exo fan. I would give up my firstborn for five minutes with Sehun, but that's another conversation. 

I remember the two members she obsesses over in this specific group; one being Park Jimin and the other being the tall glass of water in front of her right now. I'm surprised she hasn't fainted or puked yet.

My eyes drag over their outfits quickly and interestedly before they raise to meet Jungkook's. His eyes are naturally wide and curious, and I find myself wanting to keep staring into them. But, seriously, they're so big that it's almost intimidating. I hate that I like that.

I force myself to eventually look away, though he does not do the same as I feel his gaze on me even when I turn to Hajoon while she speaks. "So excited for your performance! We love your music!" She praises, and I nod in agreement even though I couldn't tell you the first letter of the song they're performing if you held a gun to my head.

"Thank you," Namjoon says humbly, "We're excited to see you perform as well." I almost let a snort escape at his words because it's highly unlikely he even knows who we are, let alone our music. Instead, Ha-Joon accepts the polite response with a toothy grin and fiery red cheeks. It's so cute.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes furiously in my hand, and I mutter a soft apology under my breath before looking down at it, trying my hardest to ignore Jungkook's stare that I feel on my every move and trying even harder not to comment on it out loud.

[5:38 pm] HALMEONI: DID YOU GUYS FALL OVER IN THE BATHROOM OR SOMETHING?

[5:38 pm] HALMEONI: IF SO, GET UP RIGHT NOW AND GET BACK HERE.

[5:39 pm] HALMEONI: WE'RE ON SOON.

"Shoot," I mutter before looking up at Joonie, "we have to go before we get killed." 

She looks away from Namjoon for what I think is the first time since she laid eyes on him, and I see the faintest hint of a pout on her lips as she nods at me. I turn to the pilots, "I'm really sorry about the confusion. But we have to go before our leader comes to find us, and none of us wants that." I bow again for good measure and watch as Namjoon shakes his head with a chuckle and a dimpled smile.

"Good luck," Jungkook calls as I spin on my heels and head towards a heated Hanna. I grab the arm of my starstruck maknae as I retreat, throwing back a polite 'thank you, you too!' as I drag the girl down the hall with me. 

"Thank you SO much!" Joonie yells back, her free arm that isn't in my grasp lifting to give them a big wave. I am too distracted to laugh at her fangirl behaviour, trying to ignore the way the only two goddamn words he spoke during the entire interaction affected me.

Ha-Joon's borderline hyperventilating as we near the backstage area where our members are waiting pulls me out of my head long enough to glance at her and giggle. "You don't even know how shaky I am right now," she gushes, and I look down at my hand on her ghostly, goosebump-covered arm,

"I think I have some sort of idea."

"Jesus, look at their stage," Asami grumbles aloud as the five of us huddle around the monitors that display the performance of the current act. In this case, it's the Bulletproof Boy Scouts—or whatever I just heard the MC announce. Apparently, they have multiple names, and now I'm confused again.

The rest of us nod in unison, astonishment and a little jealousy, as we stare at the beautiful, very expensive-looking stage decoration through the little monitors. I watch as the spotlights flicker green before the camera zooms into the guy in the centre, and it's no other than Mr Oogly from the hallway incident. 

"Ayo, ladies and gentlemen," Jungkook's voice is smooth as he moves confidently, eyes never losing the camera once he finds it. Once he finishes the intro, it cuts to another member, Jimin, if I recall correctly. I glance at Joonie in time to see her eyes widen excitedly when he appears on the screen.

When I look back at the monitor, the rest of the group is running into view, quickly getting into formation before they start dancing to the chorus' instrumental. My eyebrows furrow as they move, taking over the stage like seasoned professionals instead of young rookies. Jesus, they're good.

"What's that one's name, Joonie-yah?" Nali asks wide-eyed as a platinum blonde member makes his way to the middle. 

"It's Suga, unnie," Ha-Joon replies instantly, her eyes not leaving the monitor for a split second.

Our youngest is rapping along (or at least trying to rap along) to Suga's part under her breath, and I watch as he casually devours his lines with a cheeky smile and breath control to be desired. 

"I gotta make it, gotta, gotta make it," 

The next chorus approaches before I know it, and Jungkook slinks his way to the centre before I have time to register how the fuck someone can actually look like the guy who Joonie just informed me was named V.

"Jjeoreo!" They fall back into their choreo during the chorus, and my eyes float from each member before landing right back in the middle. Jungkook's staring into the camera as he sings his lines, and I shake my head in astonishment. He doesn't miss a beat while simultaneously singing his lines live during the intense chorus choreography.

Ha-Joon's singing along to the music is so cute; I pull her over and link my arm with hers. We're bobbing along to the chorus as we watch the group perform through the monitor with vibrant energy and stamina. I hope at least one person in this entire building was as impressed by our performance as Joonie is with theirs; she's basically shaking.

Their song comes to an end, and the loud screams from the crowd drag my sisters and me out of our haze. "Wow," Hanna breathes as we step back from the monitors while the show cuts back to the MCs.

"They're just insane, aren't they?" Joonie sighs dreamily with her head leaning on my shoulder. I nod in agreement and drag the younger girl along as we follow our leader through the backstage area while she says something about photos and a particular staircase.

"I haven't eaten today; I was scared I'd puke it all up. Apparently, all the food here is free. I'll bring back a bunch for all of us," Asami exclaims before breaking off from the herd and heading towards the cafeteria.

Joonie's ears perk up like a puppy at the mention of food, and it doesn't take long for her to detach from my side and jog over to the Japanese girl. They disappear around a corner and throw back an obedient 'yes mum' to Han-na when she tells them to hurry.

I hear a resounding chorus of chatter get louder behind me, coming from the area near where the five of us were just gathered around the monitors. Right where you dismount the stage. I ignored their cheers of glee and tried to speed up a bit to catch up to Hanna and Nali before a voice stopped me in my tracks.

"Hey! Aera, right?"

I watch my two older sisters get further away on their trek to the stupid fucking staircase, and I'm almost offended. I could be getting abducted right now, and they wouldn't even notice. I spin around to face the voice, and his wide starry eyes catch me off guard again. 

Nodding in response, I am about to lean down into a bow once again before he puts up a hand to stop me. Jungkook's smile is cheeky with an undertone of cockiness, abruptly halting my action. 

"It's rude not to bow to your sunbaenims, you know," I inform through hooded eyes, my palms resting on the skin of my bare thighs. Suddenly, I wish I went for trousers today.

"Sunbaenim?" His tone is so cheeky, "We debuted barely a year before you."

His response catches me off guard, and I blink a few times, waiting for his confident facade to crack. It doesn't. "How'd you know when we debuted?"

"Big fan." He says simply with a shrug, no doubt referencing my comment from earlier this afternoon in the hallway.

"Hm," I nod with a pursed-lip smile, glancing over his shoulder and seeing his bandmates looking in our direction. They notice my gaze on them and suddenly spin around into a huddle, pretending to have never looked at me to begin with. 

A laugh catches in my throat at his members' actions before I look back at Jungkook. "Your performance was really good." I praise, watching as his head tilts ever so slightly at the comment, his teeth poking out of his mouth as he smiles. Like a bunny.

"You think so?" 

"Don't say things like that if I don't mean it. You were great." I nod, watching his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallows.

"Thank you. You were incredible as well," Jungkook replies politely, and I brush it off as an obliged response.

"Seriously. You were." He assures, almost as if he could tell I didn't believe him.

"Thank you." 

I find myself looking at his eyes again. You can learn a lot about someone through their eyes, and his are wide and full. He doesn't even try to hide his emotions displayed in their glossiness, and I don't think he wants to. It protrudes confidence and security, and I admire that.

A few moments pass, and my eyes flicker from him to the members behind him before they return. "I have to go take photos in front of a staircase," I say as his eyebrows raise intriguingly, "I'll let you get back."

He nods wordlessly before patting his back pocket, "Could I—" he finally finishes the phone from his trousers, "grab your number?"

My teeth pull at the inside of my bottom lip as I watch him unlock his phone before looking up at me with wide, hopeful eyes. 

"I, uh—" I don't give my number out. To anyone. I lost a lot of friendships in my journey to debut. Work occupied ninety-nine percent of my time and attention. Any relationships I did have prior to Siren basically fizzled out due to our long and odd hours of practice and preparation.

"I won't bother you too much," he smirks, "promise."

My lips purse shut as I take the phone from his grasp before putting my number in his contacts.

"I won't bother you too much." What a fucking liar.

this chapter is dedicated to @ibtiheler for your sweet comments & dms, thank u for supporting the story angel!! i hope ur having an amazing day &lt;3 love you xx

-

tag list — lemme kno if u'd like to be added <3

@0anodite0 @heartjiminie @aloverga @cuntessaiii @adeptiixiao

[idolatrybarbie]

series masterlist | read on ao3

pairing: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader

word count: 9.2k

rating & summary: mature - 18+ only! | You and Marcus haven’t spoken in three years. It isn’t like that—nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. So goes adulthood.

tags: previously established friendship, lies and manipulation, canon-typical crime, mention of guns, mention of alcohol, the United States government comes with its own warning, reader does not speak Portuguese fluently and is written as such

notes: WE'RE HERE. oh my god. ohhh my god. this has taken MONTHS. it's a little gross, a little freaky. take it. read it. love it (please?) more to come. over and out.

“All truths – even the laws of science – are subject to revision, but we operate by them in the meantime because they are necessary and they work.” — The Elements of Journalism, Bill Kovach and Tom Rosenstiel.

You wake up in a cold sweat, adrenaline pumping. Your heart is beating fast in your chest; you almost tumble out of bed with the force from pushing yourself up. The phone rings—Mom’s landline—the trill high and bubbling from the kitchen. Following the noise through the fog of half-sleep, you pad across the quiet house slowly. You reach the phone by the fifth ring, answering on the sixth.

“Hello?” Your voice is raw with sleep.

“I was starting to think you were dead.” Marcus Pike’s voice reaches your ears, flowing down the line like water.

“Marcus?” you ask. Looking out the window above the sink, you see that the sun is not out yet. The sky is pitch black, forcing you to seek out the microwave’s clock. “It’s five o’clock in the morning.”

“Seven in D.C.,” he says.

Right. That cushy, not-so-new gig out in Washington. He went from art theft investigator to a DOJ special agent in what felt like the blink of an eye.

“How did you get this number?”

“Your folks still live in Kendall County,” he says.

“And I live in Hell’s Kitchen,” you counter.

“They’ve got that yearly trip to Mexico. You house sat for them at the start of every summer.”

“Back in college,” you say.

“You still answered, didn’t you?” Marcus asks.

You can’t help when you laugh. “You haven’t changed.”

“Nope,” he says. You picture him in an office somewhere, shaking his head with a satisfied smile. “Neither have you.”

You and Marcus haven’t spoken in three years. It isn’t like that—nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. So goes adulthood. He moved away from Texas by the time you were already out on the east coast. Your job at The Metropolitan Post keeps you busy. Maybe a little too busy, absolutely quashing your personal life.

“Not that it’s unwelcome, Marcus, but—”

“You’re wondering why I’m calling you in Texas at the ass-crack of dawn,” he finishes for you.

“Sort of, yeah.”

He hums into the speaker, taking a moment before he speaks again. “I was wondering if you had time for breakfast?”

“Marcus, that’s a four hour flight,” you say.

“I’m not actually in D.C. right now,” he says.

“Okay…”

“I’m staying in San Antonio.”

“So that’s why you’re calling. You got bored, huh?”

“Something like that,” Marcus says. “Meet me at the Sunshine Diner? It’s on Commerce. Say, seven o’clock?” It’s like he’s rehearsed the line over and over again.

“Marcus—”

“Great.”

“Marcus,” you repeat.

He says your name back to you in that same firm tone.

“What is this about?” you ask. The playfulness can’t hide the weirdness surrounding a surprise trip down here.

“I’ll tell you when I see you, alright? All will be revealed.”

You roll your eyes, curiosity unsatisfied. Clearly he’s unwilling to tell you anything over the phone.

“Sure, fine. Breakfast at seven. I’ll see you there,” you say.

The drive from Boerne to San Antonio is only thirty-two minutes. Those thirty miles stretch to feel like thirty-thousand, but before you know it, you’re parked halfway up West Commerce Street. You see the diner, its sun-faded metal sign taunting you from the driver’s seat. None of the cars on the block look like they could be Pike’s. They’re too old or too dirty to be rentals, a sea of Texan license plates before you.

You sigh to yourself, pulling the handle on the car door as it creaks. “Now or never.”

The sun hasn’t brought enough heat to ground yet, the morning air still tepid as you walk onto concrete. Peering into the diner’s windows, you spot Marcus before he sees you. The absence of a suit over his shoulders throws you off. When you think of him, you picture Special Agent Marcus Pike. Sitting inside at a table alone, he looks more like the guy you used to know.

A bell jingles above you as you open the door to the restaurant. He looks up, face absent of surprise or question. It’s seven on the dot. He knows you like to be punctual. The kind waitress smiles at you when he waves you over, letting you join Marcus at his corner booth. He waits until you slide into the seat opposite him to say anything.

“Hey, stranger.”

“Hey, yourself,” you say. “You still have to answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“A man can’t find the sudden urge to visit the great state of Texas?” he asks.

“Not when that man is you.”

He’s got too many bad memories here for this be a vacation. He has never told you outright, but you aren’t stupid. The personal tragedy of a failed engagement and prospects of greener pastures for his career is enough to draw any man away from home. If Marcus is here, there’s a reason.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.

“That’s what phones are for. Remember this morning?”

“This…isn’t something I can really talk about over the phone.”

You furrow your brow, eyes squinting as you assess his body language. Shoulders tight, hunched close to his body. He runs a hand over the light scruff on his jaw, rubbing the pads of his thumb and forefinger together when his wrist meets the table again.

“What’s wrong?”

“There isn’t anything wrong,” Marcus says.

“You can’t talk about it over the phone, and you look like someone’s got you in a gun sight across the street,” you say. “But sure, nothing’s wrong.”

“Look—”

“What can I get started for you today?”

The waitress from earlier approaches your table with a peppy sway in her hips, dark ponytail swaying gracefully behind her. She pulls out a notepad to go with her stub of a pencil, ready to take down your order.

“Two coffees,” Marcus mumbles. “Two cream, two sugar.”

Then she turns to you. “How do you take it?”

“Black.” You don’t look at her, staring at Marcus as he taps his fingers against the plastic coating on the table.

“I’ll be right back with those.”

When she ambles away, you say, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Instead of giving you an answer, Marcus reaches into his back pocket. What he puts on the table almost makes your heart stop.

“Where did you get that?”

You’re staring at a face—your face—on a second-rate identification pass. A name that doesn’t belong to you sits under your photo in bold black ink alongside credentials you certainly don’t have. There is no Molly Hills that works at the Justice Department. At least, not until you made her up.

“Doesn’t matter,” Marcus says.

“I already got into shit over this, Marcus, so if you’re here to—”

“I’m giving it back.”

You pause. “Giving it back?”

“Well, it’s yours. Figured you might want it.”

“There’s nothing that badge can get me that I’d want anymore.”

You were naive when you made it. Green, ready and willing to do anything to get the story. You’d paid the price, too. Lost your job, lost your place, almost went to federal prison. A lot of trouble for a silly little journalist. A long nightmare you don’t want to relive.

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

Irritation consumes you. “Marcus, did you come here to see me or did you come here to piss me off?”

“I need your help.”

He needs your help? That’s a chance in a million. “Aren’t you the federal agent?” you ask.

“This is something that I can’t do,” he says lowly. You don’t believe him. “I’m serious. This is serious.”

“What is this?”

The waitress returns with your coffees, setting them down in front of you. She asks if you want anything else. Not right now, and she’s gone again.

“There’s something you should look into,” he says, voice low as he brings his mug up to his lips.

“I don’t do that anymore,” you say.

He gives you a look of disbelief. “Of course you do.”

“I sit around on my laptop for nine hours a day sending out push notifications and rearranging the homepage, Marcus. I don’t even write.”

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

He knows about your…issue. It’s what gets you into trouble, always has.

“That’s why you’re really here,” you say.

“I’m here to catch up with a good friend,” he says. Reaching across the table, he takes your hand in his own. “It’s been too long.”

Marcus skirts around the topic from there, ignoring the disappointment etched into your forehead as he tells you about Washington: the job, the cases—all the pertinent details left out, of course. You start to play along, sliding the badge off of the table and into your bag. Even if he won’t tell you, you at least want to try and enjoy his presence. It’s been a lifetime since you’ve had it.

Apparently the job is hard work, but you could’ve figured that. Demanding, he tells you. Not much time for a life on his end of things either. You tell him about New York; about your one bedroom claim to fame on the edge of Clinton, about the house plants you’ve managed to keep alive for some time now. Not once does he bring up your old life, how things used to be. You’re relieved.

Marcus is gone when he finishes his coffee, scooting out of the booth to stand and rearrange his shirt.

“I should get going. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?” he asks. “It was good to see you.”

As he turns on his heel, your words stop him. “For the record, I don’t like this. You’re not being fair, Marcus.”

“I’ll call you soon,” he reasserts. And then he’s gone.

You don’t see which car he gets into. You don’t even care. When it’s been long enough and you get sick of staring at the brown dregs at the bottom of your mug, you fish the badge out of your bag. Putting it on the table again, you examine it. Not even half a decade and you already look so different. Weathered, maybe. In this photo you are so very bright and smiley.

Staring at the piece of plastic, you realize you resent it; you’re disappointed in yourself, begrudging Marcus for bringing it here as some sort of token. A reminder. A chit. You owe him, and this is his way of calling in a favour. With you, the man never has been one for the direct approach.

Turning the badge over in your hands, you notice a scrap of paper lodged behind the plastic. Marcus has written something on it. A series of random numbers and letters.

18USC209-14489.

It reads as gibberish. You toss the thing back into the shadows of your bag and flag down the waitress for another cup of coffee.

You try to ignore it; that lingering pull. It’s more like a sinking feeling than anything. You start making lists to distract yourself. Lists of chores to do, things to buy, times to remember. Keeping your hands busy with dishes, sweeping, tending to the back lawn. You hand-wash the guest room bed sheets to keep your mind from wandering.

Marcus hasn’t called for a couple days. You’re starting to think he never will. Even with him leaving you to this alone, you’re trying to keep the temptation at bay. It’s a game you play with yourself: whenever you’re seconds away from looking up the sequence on the back of the badge, you instead search for the specific statutes of federal law under which you almost went to jail for breaking. You’d say it’s pretty effective.

One week after that coffee, you almost trash the badge altogether. All that hunk of plastic does is take up space, both in your mind and your bag. You can’t look for your keys without your fingers brushing past it. Every time, you pull your hand away like you’ve been burned. As you stand over the sink, waste disposal roaring with life, you prepare to drop the card down the drain.

Screw Marcus. He could ask for any favour, but not this one. He didn’t even have the guts to ask you in the first place—he’d stuck you with it, laying this mystery burden over-top of you, smothered.

After a long while, you turn the disposal off, card still intact. You turn it over and over again in your hand, flipping between the two sides. Brain idle and eyes closed, the pause of silence is ultimately what does you in. The series is burned into the underside of your eyelids, a white shadow against the dark. It looks like a code; a sequence used to file records.

18USC209-14489.

You are bent over your laptop before you can stop yourself, fingers flying across the keys. You type in the first half, results for Title 18 showing up in a fraction of a second. Federal crimes and criminal procedure. Marcus has given you a case.

Looking further, you find chapter two hundred and nine of the code—extradition. Beyond scope, limitations, and a lengthy list of countries that the United States has extradition treaties with, this webpage is useless. The public access government site isn’t going to tell you anything about what the rest of those numbers mean.

That’s when it clicks. The badge. Marcus gave it back. What was it he’d said? This was something he couldn’t do. Something you should look into. That he needs your help. 

Immediately, you know what he’s asking. You don’t like it one bit. Of all the things he could ask of you, spend this life sized favour on, it had to be this?

You open another browser tab, accidentally clicking the bookmark of your email. There’s one new message waiting in your inbox. The address that sent it is professionally scrambled, the body absent of text altogether. Attached to the email is an unnamed file. It takes a moment to load before filling your screen: a one-way plane ticket to Reagan National, tomorrow at noon. You don’t have to know the address to know Marcus is the person who sent it to you. What he wants from you is clear now. The question lies in whether or not you’ll do it.

Except it isn’t really a question. You know it and he does too. The email keeps you up all night, finally caving at two o’clock in the morning. You pack a bag, something small, and call the cheapest hotel in Virginia that you can find. Your parents are due back in just a couple of days. Leaving a note on the fridge for them, you write that a work emergency called you home early. The identical text you send them won’t go through until they get back onto American soil, but it’s all the notice you can give.

The drive to San Antonio Airport is warm, the sun beating down on you through the windshield. In your head, you try your best to convince yourself that this is a good decision. At least the car will be there when they get in from Mexico City. You’re mostly focused on this playing out as a dead end. Maybe whatever Marcus is sending you to find isn’t all that important. The man isn’t exactly a journalist, or a lawyer; there could be no story here. He could be wrong. It’s not like he hasn’t been before.

Keeping your eyes open in the airport feels next to impossible. Even with the overwhelming chatter, the announcements, and the never-ending foot traffic, you almost fall asleep three separate times. A Styrofoam cup of cheap espresso is your only saving grace. You’re sat at the gate when your phone sounds off in your pocket.

Marcus Pike. You answer immediately.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Good morning to you too,” he says.

“Do you think this is funny?” Your hostility over the phone is drawing eyes. You get up from your seat, wheeling your luggage behind you as you search for a quieter corner.

“Quite the opposite. But some of us like joy in our lives, keeps the mood up.”

“I know exactly where you can stick that joy, if you’d like any suggestions,” you say. “What’s waiting for me in D.C.?”

“National Mall, the Dumbarton Oaks Museum, Capitol building…”

“You know what I mean.”

“And if you’ll remember, I already gave you the details on that specifically,” Marcus says. Can’t talk about this over the phone. “I’m calling from work.”

Of course he is. Positing you to violate federal law, and he’s calling you at the office. You’re starting to think he wants you both to go to jail.

“What am I going to find when I get there?” you ask.

“Something important. Something I know you’d want to see.”

“Don’t put this back on me,” you say. “I’m doing this because I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“You and I both know that’s bullshit.”

It’s what he has always said. That you don’t owe him, there’s no favour to be traded here. That he helped you because he’s your friend. You’re not about to go rehashing memory lane fifty feet from the American Airlines help desk, but last time you checked, helping a friend meant moving boxes out of their apartment or sitting a shitty pet—not sparing them from federal prison. You owe him, and for the longest time you thought you always would.

“If I do this, I’m never doing you another favour again,” you whisper. He says your name, almost exasperated. You cut him off quickly. “You can lecture me when I’m in D.C.. Next time, get your own damn cup of sugar.”

Boarding is frustratingly slow. You have to kick some whiny kid out of your seat as his mother gives him a coddling lecture—no sweetheart, you can’t just sit wherever you want. You nod off moments after reaching altitude, not waking until your seat neighbour shakes you by the shoulder.

The older woman is sweet, strands of long hair greying at her temples and forehead.

“I’m sorry to wake you, honey, but we’re here,” she whispers.

“Thanks,” you sigh. Glancing out the porthole window, you can see workers in their fluorescent vests loading luggage onto dollies. Idly, you ask her, “You ever been to Washington?”

“Oh, once. A long time ago. It was lovely,” she says. “How about you?”

You turn to the woman, giving her an easy smile. “Never been,” you lie.

“You’ll love it,” the woman says. “It’s the city of big things, you know. Everything important happens here. Everything good.”

“People really think that, don’t they?”

You’re speaking to yourself, the woman already close to disappearing as she walks with the toddling line of passengers off the plane. You’re the last to de-board, giving the pilot and flight attendants a polite nod as you leave. The air inside of Reagan National Airport is stale. You almost hold your breath the entire time you wait for your bag, taking in a deep gulp when you step outside of its main glass doorway.

Hailing a cab is easy. The ride is a smooth twenty minutes before the stout driver drops you off in front of your hotel. Check-in, the trip up, and swiping your magnetic key card through the door’s lock all blur together. Your surroundings pull into focus when you realize that you’re on your knees. The upper half of your body is hunched over the porcelain toilet in the bathroom as you wretch into the bowl. All that comes up is bile, green and oil slick.

When the vomiting finally stops, you wipe at your mouth and turn on the shower. You avoid the mirror as you strip, stepping under the steady spray. The water is ice cold, beating against your skin like hail. Pulling the shower curtain closed, you sit facing away from the stream. It soaks down your back, running in a dozen bitter rivulets. The cold seeps into your skin, freezing bone-deep.

You lodge your head between your legs to keep the nausea at bay. Your mind stays quiet as the water trickles into your ears and down your face. It feels like hours before you will yourself out, gripping the sides of the tub to stand. You leave the fresh towels where they are in a wicker basket, wet feet padding across tile and hardwood to the queen bed in the middle of the room. Wrapped in crispy white sheets, wet and naked, you squeeze your eyes shut and pray for sleep.

Everything glitters in your dreams. Marcus’ eyes especially, twinkling as they look anywhere but at your face. He sits across from you at this overbearing table—on the side of the good guys. Here, you are logically the bad one. The lawyer your father paid for brushes up against your shoulder as he pulls a stack of paper the rest of the way across the darkened wood. He flips through every stapled page and nods silently. Then he slides it over to you.

You remember this. Even if you can’t decipher the lawyer’s garbled speech, you know that he’s directing you on where to sign.

 It’s a good deal, he’ll tell you later. You’ll be standing in the hall of the courthouse, feeling small and stupid in this cheap suit as you wipe tears from your eyes. Seven years behind bars down to two years of federal probation. The ankle monitor will take some getting used to, but, y’know—

Consciousness comes in a slow roll, eyes opening to stare at the curtains you left open. The puff of a sigh passes your lips as you watch the stars outside the window, the sky still dark. If you look long enough, those glowing dots start to morph into Marcus’ deep brown eyes gazing back at you.

The image unsettles you enough to get out of bed. You pull the curtains closed and dress yourself, transforming into another person over the span of twenty minutes. Your own face slowly disappears under layers of makeup, your clothes a business professional clown costume. You know that you’re ready when you can’t see yourself in the mirror anymore.

The cab is called from a payphone across the street. You give the company your name, Jane Doe, paying in cash when the wheels stop in the middle of Penn Quarter. You walk the four blocks to the Justice Building without feeling any part of your body, sweating in the Washington cold.

The building itself is hard on the eyes, the visitor entrance not far from you now. The line to get in is short. You’re waiting less than ten minutes to get through the security screening. An officer rummages around in your purse for a moment. The badge—your badge, or Marcus’?—burns in your pocket. When he hands you your things again, he smiles. You smile back.

A tour group is forming in settled clumps just beyond the entrance. A woman in a button-down blouse and thick heels gathers the tourists, leading them down a cascading hall. You lump yourself in with the group, folding your coat over your arms as you pretend to listen to her history lesson. Really, you’re eyeing the halls, looking for an elevator.

It doesn’t take long to find one, the group rounding a corner into another hallway. The buttons are calling you as the tour turns down a thin corridor. Taking the opening, you part from the crowd, shoving the cylinder of fabric wrapped around you into the nearest trash can. The coat will be missed, but not dearly.

The elevator arrives in a matter of seconds, sleek metal doors sliding open. You press at the button violently to close them again after picking the third floor. A sigh leaves your nose when they pull shut. You’re acutely aware of the blinking bulb of a camera to your left, watching your every move as the car ascends. Right now, you are fine. You look like any other employee.

Inside the heat of the building, you can feel your limbs again. You swallow back the spit that’s gathering in your mouth. It isn’t anxious hyper-salivation, but accumulating drool. Your heart hammers in your chest, not from fear but from thrill. Some people like to fuck in public, picking up a rush from the real potential of getting caught. You like this, but not for the anticipation of failure in your mission—in the prediction of your success.

There is something wrong with you. Inside of you, maybe. Biological. A dark and inky well, a pocket of spoiled flesh. Marcus has reached in and pressed at it, prodded around with sharp fingers until he could coax the oozing stream of rot out of you. You hate to admit that it felt good—feels good now, as the runoff drives you to the very brink of smart and sane decisions.

You call it professional curiosity. Others might label it being a nosy bitch, too cerebral for your own good. Your eyes are always bigger than your stomach, though. The last time you chased a story, you almost choked. You get a little obsessed sometimes, what can you say? Everyone has their vices. Information is yours.

They have a name for it somewhere. L’appel du vide, you think. The call of the void. It turns people reckless, irrational. But this isn’t really your fault. You didn’t ask to be here. No, you were sent. An agent of someone else’s bidding, a man only a few floors from the one you step onto now.

Marcus knows exactly what he’s doing. It turns you on; it makes you want to kill him. If he is the good guy, and you are decidedly not, then what happens when you start working together? Does that make him bad or you good?

White hats stay on the good guys, but right now you can’t help but feel like Marcus has taken his off. And the million dollar question: why? You hope it’s for a good reason. If not, you really might kill him.

You remember this door, déja vu jolting you back in time. Bringing the badge out of your pocket, you hover your hand above the scanner. If this fails, security will be immediately alerted to a false attempt at access, and it’ll be over. Holding your breath, you tap the card against the bulky scanner. If it doesn’t…

The machine seems to wait, teasing you, before a small light in the corner blinks green. The lock on the handle dislodges for you, a soft click in your ears. You press down on the handle, push forward…and you’re in.

You don’t know how much time you have before someone else enters the file room, getting right to work. Starting at the bottom of the many shelves, you carefully rummage through box after box as you read over their labels. You go through shelves one box at a time, moving from sitting to standing every few minutes. Each file is left exactly how you found it. The last thing you need is anyone asking questions after you leave.

You go through fourty-five boxes in fifteen minutes, exhausting yourself in the process. Scooting into a corner between the wall and the end of a shelf, your head thunks against flaking paint behind you. This room must hold hundreds of boxes. There’s no way you’ll be able to find what you’re looking for in time.

Phone in front of you, you look down at the black screen. Dim LEDs reflect off the screen from the ceiling. That’s when you see it. The box next to your shoulder, the handwritten case file numbers on the front: 18USC209-14489.

You twist around quickly, practically tearing your body in half. Pulling the box off the second-lowest shelf, you keep it in your lap and shovel through the contents. There must be a dozen file folders here, all thick with paper. You start with the lightest one, flipping it open.

It’s mostly photos. Glossy, high quality surveillance images. Various men are featured in each of them, the same group of four rotating every other picture. They all look a little rough and tumble—you know the type. The images show them doing mundane things; walking a dog, sitting in a car, exiting a building at night. You’re still missing something.

Next, you opt for the chunkiest of the manila folders in the box. Everything inside is paperwork. Some of it is formally typed up, but a lot of these are handwritten notes. You start reading, and once you do, you can’t stop. Your eyes roll across the sentences over and over again, skipping over bits redacted in dark ink. You want to make sure you’re getting this exactly right.

Washington, D.C.…proposed extradition to Colombia for the violation of…several criminal charges. War crimes, including…illegal search and seizure of….American dollars…drug cartel.

You have to stop reading, scrubbing a hand over your face. You don’t know exactly how much money that is, the number blacked out, but it certainly isn’t insignificant. Somewhere in the hundreds of millions.

You go back to the photos of the four scruffy men. The U.S. government thinks these men have done it? Seriously. They looked like dads, like men who spend too much time in their garage. The carpenter across the street.

This must be it. Marcus’ big scoop.

You keep reading, flipping through other files. Everything starts to piece together on the floor before you. Four files have names on them— Benjamin Miller, William Miller, Santiago Garcia, and Francisco Morales. You assume the first two to be brothers, their blonde hair and pale skin matching in surveillance photos. 

The other two are a guess. You assume the shorter man with the dark grey-black curls to be Santiago, leaving the last man to be Francisco. He’s clean-shaven in this photo, shirt criminally unbuttoned as he leaves a grocery store.

When you get to the file detailing their (heavily classified) military careers, the suspicion makes more sense. The things these men are capable of scares you to even think about. Still, it doesn’t quite add up for you. The States cooperating with Colombia in and of itself is enough to call the investigation into question. There are very few historical instances of that even happening, and when it has, they have been more than a little self serving. The very last thing that you’re about to do is trust your government.

Getting your phone out, you take as many photos of everything as you can. With the four personal files, you’re going to need your own hard copies. You stand from the floor with them, approaching the copier at the other end of the room. With one quick pass, the machine rejects your badge. No one has been alerted to your intrusion, it just won’t let you into the copier’s system. The I.D. was amateur, made for one thing and one thing only: getting in and out of the building.

An idea comes to you. Terrible, reckless, and stupid, but haven’t we crossed that threshold already? You fumble for your phone again, weighing out two options. You have GPS disabled, roaming on airplane mode to avoid satellite tracking or being pinged by any nearby cell towers. If you try to text Marcus, it will only go through once you reconnect to cell service and it will place you here inside the Justice Building.

The evidence of the text, the location data, using his credentials to log into the photocopier…no. Too risky. Any connection to Marcus here would be bad, leaving a clear digital trail.

That leaves plan B, then.

You reorganize the files into their storage box, already regretting leaving them here. Unsure if your badge will get you back into the file room, you lodge the thin piece of plastic between the door and the latch. When you are sure that it’s jammed open, you head towards the elevator. You hold the files close to your chest as you wait for the car. When the ding hits your ears, you get in, choosing a random button. The elevator takes you up, stopping at the thirteenth floor.

Every hallway is a Greek revival monstrosity, the art deco influences hamfisted into the design everywhere you look. You wonder how Marcus gets on working here, how he likes it this way. You picture the many men that have walked along these halls, all of them the type to pride others on their sense of fairness as they jerk it to the thought of naked Lady Justice behind closed doors.

The kind of men whose life aspirations mirror those of John Ashcroft and hold appreciation for the Patriot Act. Dwelling on it for too long, you lose the sense of where those men end and Marcus begins. But you know him. He’s different.

Breezing past a set of sturdy wooden doors, you come upon an office floor. Cubicles are arranged in a strange game of Tetris, men in suits milling about. You walk straight down the aisle to a photocopier that’s practically calling to you across the room. Keeping your head down, you sandwich the papers into the scanner. You press some buttons, knowing they won’t do anything without badge access. When the thing beeps at you angrily, you make a point to sigh loudly. When it warns you again, you groan. 

Someone taps at your shoulder. You do your best to swallow a sly grin, turning to meet the eyes of a man you don’t know.

“Sounds like the copier is giving you some trouble,” he says.

You shake your head. “Honestly, I think it’s my card. This is the third machine I’ve tried today.”

“Well, here,” the man says. He slides his own badge from his jacket pocket and swipes it over the photocopier’s reader. The machine beeps again, this time in the affirmative. “That should have you all set.”

You’re about to mumble a thank you, batting your eyes at the federal agent, when another man catches his attention.

Behind Special Agent Chivalry stands another man—tall, tan, and all too familiar. Marcus. Over the unknown agent’s shoulder, the two of you make eye contact. He keeps his lips pursed, barely acknowledging your presence.

“Schrader,” Marcus says. “Hate to break it up, but the AUSA’s waiting.”

“Right,” the man who helped you nods, turning to look at you again. “Good luck with your files.”

He’s walking away without a second thought as Marcus behind to share another glance. You can tell by look alone that he is decidedly unhappy about this. You’ll be getting a phone call later, or maybe another message from that cryptic email dressing you down for playing fast and loose with risk. You hope he doesn’t say anything about it at all. Can he? What’s Marcus to do? Bitch you out via carrier pigeon?

None of that matters right now. You begin the process of scanning and copying every single page of the four personal files, starting with the Millers and ending with Garcia. It’s quick work, anxiety ratcheting up the speed of your hands as you open the lid of the copier, flip to a new page, and pull the lid down again. Doing this all out in the open is bold—again, terrible, reckless, and stupid—but that’s what makes it work. No one questions the receptionist at the photocopier. She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Back downstairs, you recoup in the file room. The door shuts behind you with a solid click, the plastic card no longer keeping it open. You stick the four folders back into their box, leaving things exactly as you found them. As for your personal copies, you fold them in half and stuff them into your purse. Making sure everything is in order, you quietly slip out of the file room and take the stairs down. Leaving takes less than five minutes.

Cool air fills your lungs outside, the usual trappings of an east coast autumn. It takes a moment, walking two blocks, for everything to really sink in. You really just did that. Had your cake and ate it too. Committed a federal crime and got out without anyone blinking an eye.

The success affirms you. This is the right thing to be doing, it has to be. Marcus wouldn’t lead you astray. You wouldn’t let yourself fall down the wrong path. Not again.

The city of São Paulo thrums with energy. You can feel it, a pulsing from the ground that shoots up through your legs. The air is hot and damp, the slow curl of spring transforming into summer raising the humidity. The sky is dark but not quite black, light from the many high rises illuminating overhanging clouds.

You pass by nightclub after nightclub with young and beautiful people waiting in line like cattle to get past the door. It’s been a while since your life was like theirs; not as much of an adventure, surely, but carefree.

There’s been a notable absence of laissez-faire for the past four months. The promotion from digital producer to staff writer has you working during the day and chasing this case in your free time. All of that is set to end. No more hunting down leads, trying to find these men who’ve turned up as ghosts instead of people.

Will Miller was impossible to find, and you only got one thirty second phone call—three months ago—with his blonder brother Benny before the line went dead. Francisco Morales hasn’t seemed to exist since November 2019. All that leaves you with is tonight: a contact in Brazil who promises a lead to Santiago Garcia.

The café you enter has more patrons than you’d expect at this time of night. The coffee culture is different here; the people of Brazil enjoy a good steaming cup of caffeine even well into the evening. You take a seat at the table you’ve been instructed to—a round surface with uneven legs and a thin metal stand holding a card to indicate that this is table five. You use your phone to check the time, catching a glimpse of another piece of cold and shiny metal in the process.

There is a gun in your purse that wasn’t there three months ago. It replaced the badge to the Justice Building in the process of looking for these Delta Force soldiers that the world wants to pretend don’t exist. Marcus hasn’t called, and you know that if he can’t protect himself then he certainly can’t protect you. Lord knows if he even wants to anymore.

You pissed him off that day in D.C.. Marcus has a bad side, everyone does, but you never imagined getting on his would be so icy. You are out in the cold, that’s for certain. The gun—one here and one in a safe inside your New York apartment—is the flame that’s kept you from freezing. So far, you haven’t had to use either. Let’s hope things stay that way.

The heat is getting to you. Sweat crawls down your spine, surely leaving a dark stain across the middle of your shirt. It doesn’t matter. The lead is so close you can almost taste it. A few more minutes…

Caught up in your thoughts, it takes a moment for the echoing silence of the café to register. It takes another moment for you to notice the wall of a man that sits down across from you. He’s tall, forehead beading with sweat as his hairline fights against gravity. Opening a dictionary, an image of him is what you’d find to illustrate the definition of gruff. Well-worn. He is exactly the man to do shady back alley deals with nothing-something American journalists. He’s exactly the man you need.

“Olá,” you say.

The man nods at you, then smiles a toothy grin. He says, “Você é mais bonita do que eu imaginava.”

You take a second to translate in your head. You’re prettier than I imagined.

“Obrigado,” you nod, returning the niceties. “Disseste que tinhas informações.”

“Certo,” the man says. The absence of noise leaves your skin cold, goosebumps prickling along your arms. “You are looking for a man named Santiago Garcia.”

“Yes. You said that—”

The heavy clink of a gun against the table halts your words. Everything changes in an instant when he picks it up and points it at your neck from across the table. He is simply itching to pull the trigger. Someone must’ve told him not to.

“You should stop looking for a man named Santiago Garcia,” he says.

“Sir, I—”

“Stop looking for Santiago Garcia. There is nothing for you here, pretty girl. Go home.”

The mystery man holds your gaze for a second longer before he stands from his seat pulling the gun away from you. You watch with wide eyes as he leaves, disappearing into the night.

He didn’t shoot you. The clip could have been empty. You can’t convince your legs to move, to follow him and make him answer your questions with the use of your own very loaded gun. Heart pounding away behind your ribs, you’re frozen in place.

You don’t trust the cab that takes you back to the sweat stain that is your motel, but you don’t really have another option. Your phone, too, is compromised—you’d made the rookie mistake of making contact with your cell. The room door stays bolted once you get inside. Then you take the remote of the complimentary TV to your screen, smashing it to pieces.

Dragging your luggage out from the closet, you toss everything you’ve brought inside. Shattered bits of glass litter the linoleum flooring. You were set to leave tomorrow morning anyway. The departure couldn’t come any sooner.

Tears flood your eyes, fear and pure embarrassment ripping through your chest. How could you be so stupid? So unthinking and hopeful, it disgusts you. You’ve wasted three months of your life on this.

All of that time and work for what? A man from a million lifetimes ago, who one day calls you friend and the next refuses to pick up the phone? Marcus used you and you let him. Leaped at the opportunity. Enjoyed it, even.

When the sun comes up, you vacate the dingy motel room, tossing your old phone battery in the pool on your way out. You don’t cry on the way to the airport, or on the plane back to America. It takes all of your will not to stain the fabric seats of the Queens cabbie that drives you home. You stay bottled and composed.

Inside your place, everything is just as you left it. The wine glass is still in the sink, the dishwasher stashed with clean plates. And yet the world feels different somehow. You feel different.

Dropping your bags at the door, you stalk through the apartment to your room. Under your bed sit boxes of files, all copies of what you took from the Justice Department. You yank them from their place beneath your bed frame, almost spilling paper across the floor.

You haul them to your living room window, stepping onto the rusting fire escape. The first box turns over in your hands. Hundreds of pieces of paper fall into the Dumpster below or get caught in the wind, floating away. You repeat the process with the second box, leaving a mess on the pavement.

In the kitchen, you sit down at the tall glass expanse of your counter. Your mom made you buy a cordless phone for the place when you first moved in, assuring you that it’d come in handy. Right now, you can’t help but agree.

You dial Marcus’ number, knowing it like the back of your hand after months of staring at it with no answer. This time is no different. The phone rings and rings. Marcus doesn’t pick up. You stopped leaving messages a while ago, but this time you wait for the dial tone to end.

“I don’t know who you think you are, or what leverage you may have had… But I’m done. Done, Marcus. You drop this bomb in my lap and walk away when I handle it in a manner you disapprove of? You leave me to follow a trail that’s cold, and set me up to become another corpse in a Brazilian morgue somewhere! I won’t do it anymore. You can take your story and your justice and shove it up your ass.”

You breathe heavy into the phone, collecting yourself. “This is the last phone call from me you’ll ever have to ignore. What a relief that must be,” you say. “Don’t ever contact me again, Marcus.”

It’s icy for late February. D.C. is only the slightest bit warmer than New York at this time of year, the snow melting into grey sludge quicker than the Big Apple. Yet somehow, the White House briefing room is about a million degrees. Fanning yourself with the silk of your blouse, you wait amongst the gaggle of other reporters and journalists for the president’s press secretary. You don’t have a speaking seat yet, but you’ve only been on this assignment for a couple weeks.

You remember watching President Bush unveil the renovated room in the mid-aughts on television, picturing it as a grand theatre. But no, it’s a crammed little room without enough chairs for the number of people they delegate to it, so here you are standing in the back rubbing shoulders with a writer from the Washington Examiner. Still, it’s the White House. How many people do you know who’ve been inside the White House?

You’re watching the press secretary, lithe and airy at the podium in her off-the-rack from Saks Fifth Avenue. She’s getting questions about the president’s new education bill—a topic that your readers couldn’t care less about. Foreign policy, tax legislation, land use laws—you wait for her to get to the good parts. Rich people want to know if the country is going to war so they know where to hedge their bets. They don’t want to hear about inner city kids getting a boost in the classroom.

An hour and twenty minutes pass before you’re released, hearing from the FEMA administrator and the secretary of education. Before you can leave, you hear someone call your name. A woman stands at the edge of the room, almost like she's trying to bleed into the fabric of the curtains and disappear. She's small in stature, the stiff blue fabric of her dress settling awkwardly over her shoulders.

"Do I know you?"

She clears her throat, standing a little taller. You're now noticing the large envelope under her arm.

"I'm an intern for Marcus Pike. He told me to give this to you."

She hands you the envelope, heavy in your hands. Before you can thank her, she disappears into the escaping flood of journalists. You look at it, swiping the pad of your thumb over the sharp corner. Discreetly, you slide it into your purse and follow your colleagues out of the press room.

You know that whatever Marcus has delivered to you via mousy blonde messenger is something you definitely shouldn't have. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, heels clicking against the floor a little too hard, a little too loud. The sky over D.C. is grey as always, but a welcome change of scenery from inside.

This rental car is your office, your living room, and your safe place all at once. Getting into the passenger seat, you lock the doors and put your purse on the center console. You stare at the leather, waiting to see if it explodes or if a SWAT team converges on the vehicle. When nothing happens, you pull the envelope from your bag, undoing the metal clasp at the top.

Inside is paper. A lot of it. A thick stack of fresh white pages stamped with bold, black printer ink. You scan over the first page, trying to figure out what it is you're looking at. At the bottom is a small pink sticky note, Marcus' loopy scrawl written in blue pen: Don't say I never do anything for you.

You bite back a sour laugh, peeling the note up and stuffing it into your pocket. Then your eyes are back to reading the words on the page, piecing together dates and times, people and places. A flight log.

Dozens of them, going back almost five years. A name you've become quite familiar with in the last few months adorns every one. Francisco Morales. Yahtzee.

At the back of the pile are pages and pages of minutes. A series of disciplinary hearings that resulted in a pilot’s license suspension for Morales. From the look of things, it was reinstated shortly after only to be revoked again two years later for the same reason: drug possession.

Francisco was given a mandatory stint in rehab. The facility is redacted from the paperwork, but it doesn’t take you too long to track it down. Some place called New Beginnings Medical Hospice in Austin. Of course, the lady on the phone won’t give you answers.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” she says, no trace of a southern accent in her voice. Must be a Texas transplant. “We cannot give out information on any patients, past or present. We have a confidentiality clause.”

“I hear what you’re saying but—” Oh fuck it. “As I said, I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Morales’ insurance company. We’re having trouble tracking him down for billing of his fees, and this was his last known address.”

You know never said who you were, and certainly not that you were with his insurance company at the beginning of this phone call. You also know the woman on the other end of the line will zero in on the fact that this man apparently owes them money and completely ignore the discrepancy. It’s not your first choice in journalistic strategy, but beggars can’t be choosers here. 

She coughs up the address easily. Somewhere in Lubbock, Texas the answers to all of your questions is sat on his ass in a trailer park. Francisco has been there the whole time. Only four hundred miles from your parents’ place, right under your nose. If you didn’t start laughing as soon as you got off the phone, you’d cry.

You’ve got all you need: the man and the myth. One flight to Preston Smith International, and you might be able to figure out the legend.

The city of Lubbock is small, but not too small. Insignificant enough that someone looking for something, someone like you, would glance over it unblinkingly. You figure that’s why Morales chose it. Property records show that his new lease to the park lot started about eight months ago; two months before Marcus put you on his trail.

Maybe he’s hiding. Maybe—and you try to expel these thoughts as quickly as they materialize—he really did it. Maybe they all did. But Marcus doesn’t think so, and you would like to have more hope in these men than that. Guilty people run, but so do the scared. Those who don’t have much left to lose; who want to hold onto what they have left. It’s not like the government is all right and fair here.

Honestly, you aren’t too sure what to think. You know that you have to know. Whatever happened, whatever story is here, you need to find it. So you found Francisco.

The trailer park is located right at the outskirts of town. You can drive through the populous area end to end in under twenty minutes, but the ride out to the Morales place is a good fourty-five. The warm weather has you sweating, forehead damp as the truck’s windshield does little to hide you from the sun. Adjusting to the temperatures here compared to chilly D.C. gave you a bit of weather whiplash. That’s Texas for you.

There’s not much to look at out here. Grass, a few sparse trees. The past three billboards have advertised some beer brand you’re sure tastes like wheat piss. Your eyes almost glaze over at the scenery. The next billboard coming up finally catches your attention.

LOOKING FOR A SIGN? This is it!

It straightens your spine a little, unglued your shoulders from the driver’s seat as you pay attention to the road. Oddly placed, here in the middle of nowhere. It is, in fact, a sign. Could be something else for you, too.

Rolling into Muddy Creek Mobile Residence, half of the trailers look abandoned. Beer cans and newspaper pile up at the steps, garbage bags left out for the elements and wildlife. Francisco Morales’ registered lot sits at the back of the park. Things look fairly tidy from the outside, meaning someone still lives here. With any luck, it might still be him.

You take a moment to walk around and circle the trailer. Every window has the curtains drawn. Not a single way to see in. A part of you wants to get back in the truck and wait him out. Drive back to the airport entirely.

There’s no way to calm your nerves. After months of buildup and being left on the hook, it’s now or never.

Climbing the few steps up, you sigh to yourself. “Maybe he’ll just…”

You deliver three sharp knocks to the door, then take a step back. The seconds stretch on painfully, wind blowing up dust behind you until finally—

The door jerks open with a creak of its hinges. You recognize the man behind it immediately from the surveillance photos you are holding.

“Hi there,” you say.

“You sellin’ something?” he asks.

“No. Actually Mr. Morales, I was hoping—

“I’m not interested,” he grumbles, moving to shut the door in your face. You jam your foot between it and the doorway before he can.

“Mr. Morales, I’d just like a moment of your time,” you say, the words rushing out of your mouth.

He presses against the other side of the door harder, slowly crushing your toes. “Not interested. Now get your foot out of my goddamn door—”

“Why would the U.S. government have a reason to draw up a warrant for your extradition?” you ask.

You know it’s the only thing that will catch his attention. You’d been hoping to lead into it, lull the man into a sense of personable security before you sprung the trap on him. He stares at you now, the door ajar, his mouth slightly agape. Maybe that’s why they call him Catfish.

“Excuse you?”

“I’m here because the government is currently in communications with the Republic of Colombia about your extradition to South America. Along with,” you pull out your pocket notepad, reading off what you’ve scribbled there, “Santiago Garcia, and William and Benjamin Miller.”

“This isn’t funny.” His voice is low, timbre rough as gravel. “How could you know that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “The fact is that I do. And whatever you did in Colombia? The government knows too.”

“Why are you here?”

You open the file folder under your arm, pulling out the blurred picture. “This is you, right?” Francisco doesn’t have to nod for you both to know it is. “I’d like to help you, if I can.”

[nerd-cat-rambles]

Danganronpa Manga Rant- Leon and Sayaka:

@yukiteruakari told me about a Danganronpa Manga edition, and OH MY GOD!!! Thankyou so much for this bro omg.

I'm only up to "Junkos" impaling, but it's so much better than the one I have.

I'll put some screenshots below, and the link too because so far it's translated to English.

Why the Manga is better, what it could do for the fandom:

It gives Sayaka and Leon so much more development as characters and seeing as Mondos case is next we might get to see what they talked about in the sauna. (<- there are so many fan theories for that one, and I'm excited to finally get more lore.)

It's hard to be a Danganronpa fan in 2024 because it all happened 14, 12, and 7 years ago. So like... Spike aren't going to just start explaining more lore on twitter randomly because they feel like it, Danganronpa is done, but this manga helps us understand the killers motive.

If ALL of the fandom read it I'd probably assume the "Mondo Brother Killer >:(" cliche that some of the fandom define him as would be gone, because it has his POV instead of a Monokuma flashback and a shitty animated clip of him doing it "for no reason" other than being "strong-strong-strong-strong-strong" (from the canon game and animation 2014.)

LeoXSaya Rant, Manga>>>Animation:

And yes, Sayaka was revealed to be a bit more of a "snake" (she isn't btw) but her motives were humane and we only thought she wasn't because Makoto is the protagonist and wouldn't think bad about any of his friends.

It also gives Leon haters a reason to stfu and enjoy his character design and small role while it lasts, and it's better than playing his FTEs because he's just gloating about picking up chicks and being better than everybody at Baseball despite hating in from what I've seen.

Also, the art is just BETTER.

The dialogue is just BETTER!

They gave Sayaka a reason to invite Leon over. Because in the anime and game yes it's "wow Sayaka is so hot" on Leons part, but wouldn't that mean Leon would've been the person to invite her to HIS room instead?

But in the Manga they explain her thought process, anybody who hasn't read it will probably just go "Sayaka's dumb for inviting a STAR ATHLETE to try and kill!" but she's smart because if she had killed him she already had an alibi. "We were friends! We bonded over music and drank tea together!" or something... saying that, Sayaka couldn't WIN because Makoto knew about the room swapping ofc. And she'd leave evidence and whatnot.

*Sighs* The Animation Butchered Our Boys...:

(BOYS BECAUSE THE ANIMATION BUTCHERED SO MANY CHARACTERS AND GAVE THEM PISSY MOTIVES AND SHIT-)

I hate the anime alot, but the thing that PISSED ME OFF THE MOST (about 1-1 of the animation) WAS LEON'S REACTION. He was having a mental breakdown, which was fine and accurate... probably good as well instead of him screaming "stupid" then losing it halfway through the word and realising his fate quietly.

They give him a moment of remorse.

"I didn't want to... I mean she... she was tring to... kill me... right? I just... didn't know what else to do... okay...?" (quote end)

but then he gets mad.

I don't know about you, but on first watch this ruined it for me. "He's just screaming now..." like... it makes me mad for almost no reason.

He was about to have a very humane moment of "I didn't have a choice..." he's looking down at the pedestal thingy in the court, he's defeated, he's sad, he's been caught. He's in despair.

Then he yells at the others "you would've done the same thing in my shoes!"

And you know what the writers did instead of making him cry after that? Anything... would've been better, but this is the dam animation we're talking about...

"I DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE OKAY! THE CRAZY SKANK WAS GOING TO KILL ME, WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?!"

He did have a choice...

The manga gave him a choice, he tried to save Sayaka. Then he ended up killing her, ON ACCIDENT. That line alone contradicts the fact of any of that happening, he and Sayaka had just bonded hours earlier.

Like, this is my opinion and I've never heard anybody talk about this before, BUT THE WRITERS NEEDED TO WRITE LEON BETTER!!! The game wrote Leon fine, but the animation was a second chance at giving him development!

I liked him trying to escape the court room though. That was a nice touch that I don't think was in the game.

BUT BROOOOO HE CALLED SAYAKA A SKANK HOURS AFTER ADMITTING HE WAS CRUSHING ON HER, DANGANRONPA ANIMATION WHERE'S THE LOGIC!

Like, the scene made me so mad on re-watch and I can't pinpoint why!

Like instead of this: https://youtu.be/CbQ6McYz7U0?t=59

(Good animation though imo, the closeup expressed his emotions nicely-)

HAVE THIS THOUGH, THIS IS SO MUCH BETTER!

IT JUST HITS WAY BETTER-

Anyway, that's my rant of the day because why not.

The game itself had issues, but compared to the animation it was just so much better, and makes me want to give it a 7/10 instead of a 6...

[readythefanons]

2.5 minutes of kim being a hater about magic and teleportation

Kim voice lines + music

Duration: 2:28

Kim voice lines from GrandFrance on YouTube (link)

Music: “Future” by Ilya Myagkov from Pixabay

Put together in Audacity

More funky audios with DE voice lines + audio like this please!

comments and transcript below the jump

(screm) This one is just… It exists solely to make me smile. I think it is very funny. Kim being an absolute hater about magic and the supernatural and teleportation… (chef’s kiss) I hadn’t appreciated how many lines he has about the supernatural he had before this. GOD.

Obviously, this piece was composed with the “you just climbed the ladder!” line in mind. Everything else got pulled into make that possible. This is also a piece where I swapped out the music halfway through.

Fun fact: the teleportation sound is actually two sound effects layered over each other, to give it that slow, dramatic build and then the sudden arrival. Kim’s SFX is just one singular effect, though.

I actually love this one so much that I’ve shared it with another human person—I played it for my partner one time because I was so pleased.

My only negative association with this piece is that I thought Kim said, “You just climbed it like a normal person.” I’m sad he doesn’t use those exact words because in my heart, Harry’s reply is “Ah-ha, you said I’m normal.”

==transcript==

We should continue our search, perhaps even get a little desperate.

So, how do we get in there?

Perhaps you can climb them. We're not climbing anything. I'm 43 years old -- and I plan to live to see 70.

Good, good, yes. Cold spells.

Of course. Black magic. The most potent type of magic.

Which school do you subscribe to? Mambo or jambo?

Hangovers do give officers superpowers. Many drink only to receive… the gift.

I didn’t know that was even possible. It must be a great burden.

All the detectives from all the Precincts who experience extrasensory perception go to the Remote Viewers Division. Their work is invaluable to the force.

No. Because they don’t exist. There is no “gift.”

(sigh)

Teleportation is not a thing.

We are dealing with basic physics here. This really has nothing to do with adventure.

Okay, let's say teleportation is a thing. Wouldn't you need some kind of... scientific apparatus to create a teleportation field? You can't just do it without apparatus.

Wow, a real intellectual, it sounds like.

No, detective. The only reading I’ve been doing is right here.

No.

That ladder is not climbable.

Oh, yes, it could hurt a lot.

Honestly? I prefer non-acrobatic solution to this. But… what else can we do?

What do you mean, “Feel?”

Yeah, that doesn’t look good at all.

Please, don’t try to climb the building. There has got to be another, more age-appropriate way in.

Enough of that now, officer.

What the hell are you doing?

Zoom! Bam!

You know, for the record, you didn't teleport there! You just climbed the ladder with your eyes closed. You just climbed it, like a regular person.

Ah… fuck it.

zap

No need to be melodramatic.

Who knows, detective? it’s a… mystery.

[bronx-bomber87]

Holiday weekend gave me no time till now ha We hit our halfway point with the last review just realized. Exciting! ha S1 only has 20 eps. So we're making our way through S1 hehe. Appreciate you all reading and doing this journey with me truly. That being said lets move onto episode 11.

1x11- 'Redwood'

Gotta love Lucy. Little miss sunshine. Only one excited about their OT adventure for the VP. Everyone else sees discomfort and she sees an opportunity. Saying they deal with grumpy people all day anyways might as well get OT. She's amped to have the money to fix her a/c. Tim of course tells her it'll make her soft, she has to be comfortable being uncomfortable. Jackson asking if Tim is serious LOL Oh Jackson you have no idea how serious he is haha

Tim’s face right here. LOL I paused it for a second and it was this shot. If this isn’t them in a moment, especially if the early years. I don’t know what is heh. She’s all smiles and he’s a grumpy bear baha Judging her for all her positivity and sunshine she sends his way. god I love them so much.

They’re getting super loaded up for the day. Lucy all of a sudden looks so very overwhelmed. Tim closes the scene like only Tim can. ‘But hey least you’ll get to ride in comfort’ 😂 such a bristly bear but he’s her bristly bear haha

Tim and Lucy get called to clear out a homeless encampment. Lucy breaks up a fight and is thrown down. Tim notices the dirty needle minute she gets up. The instant worry on Lucy’s face is evident. When she sees that needle sticking out of her leg.... I can’t blame her I would be the same way. The panic and anxiety would consume me. Tim knows this about Lucy and instantly goes in protect/distract mode.

It’s just like in 1x09 when she was stressed about delivering the baby. What did Tim do? Distracted her with a Tim Test. He knows he has to channel her emotions into something else. If he doesn’t she’s going to spiral out of control. The soft but commanding way he talks to her is perfection. Going over step by step what to do in this situation. He can't control what happened but he can control how she reacts.

Trying to keep her even keel with procedure and a game plan. He’s so damn good at this with her. Reminds me of my leader at work. Knows exactly when I’m about to spiral And de-escalates the panic and worry. Tim knows he has to keep her calm before they can head to the hospital. Amazing to watch him instantly command that situation and protect her from herself. You can see the stress on his face when she walks away, but refuses to let her see that.

I do think that stress bleeds over to when they arrive. The way he is incensed at her being told to sit in the lobby. I saw a post one time said sunshine (being Lucy) and sunshine protector. Clearly that’s Tim. If this scene could be boiled down to one sentence. It would be this. He's protecting his sunshine right now. The way he basically eats the nurse alive for her. Phew lord. Protective Tim is a fav of mine. He’s already trying to keep her mentally calm and this delay will only make it worse. She’ll get inside her head and self destruct. Tim demands for her seen/tested ASAP. He's scared the nurse shitless so it happens.

This nurse sure as hell will never forget this procedure after this. Tim basically chewed him up and spit him back out. Poor Lucy is on the verge of a breakdown and Tim makes sure she’s taken care of. Him eating this nurse alive is his way of showing he cares. It's also the best way he can control this situation for Lucy. He’s so very right that she can’t just sit with civilians. She’s nearly in tears when they head to her room, but she knows Tim has her back. Its one less thing to worry about.

Tim comes back to her exam room to see her on her phone. She’s fallen down the Web-Md hole before he could stop her. He goes right back into protect mode, with a side helping of logical/tough love T.O. his usual M.O for Lucy. Especially when she is beyond the point of logic. I feel you Lucy I get the same way. Tim's purpose right now is to right her mental ship.

Her panic spiral is in full force at this point. Poor girl is a mess. The amount of scenarios she's running through is immense. Her panic/anxiety is ruling her. Luckily she has Tim with her. He meets each panic attack/scenario she's having with solid logic. Trying his best to deter her from worst case scenario thinking. Because at the moment that is where she is living. He's trying to shake her out of it.

He adds some tough love in there with his concern. Wouldn't be Tim if he didn't. Letting her know this was the job she signed up for regardless of the outcome. Sometimes it’s just what she needs to get back to reality. That perspective Tim gives her brings Lucy back to dry land emotionally. Giving her a chance to catch her breath. He knows she's drowning right now and he's throwing her an emotional life saver. The only way he knows how.

Then Tim does what he does best. Distracts her with work. Once he's gotten her to a more stable place, he makes a funny jab about her a/c. Trying to get her to smile/laugh. Cracks me up when he replies how he can’t fix all her problems in one day LOL Lucy laughs for the first time since this happened. Huge Victory for Tim. Massive growth for him as well to take the time to make her laugh. Show he cares about her. Its not just him calming down his trainee. He’s got this beautiful mixture of protecting her/empathy/tough love and touch of logic. Just the combo she needs to self regulate and reset.

Like I said earlier he’s so damn good at this with her. Knows exactly what to do in these moments. He only gets better the closer and longer they work together. It’s a thing of beauty to watch develop. In this moment specifically. Just letting her know it’s going to be ok, even if ultimately it won’t be and she gets infected. It will still be Ok. That is a wonderful thing to do for someone who’s in a heightened fight or flight mode. Tim does it masterfully for her.

That looks of relief on her face and that slight smile on his is amazing. He knows he's gotten her through this portion. Lucy is taking a deep breath for the first time since that needle stuck her. They're both in a much better place than when they got here.

I love what a BAMF work duo they are in this scene. Also doesn't hurt Lucy saying she needs Tim. Its not in the way we all are thinking haha but lovely to hear none the less. Honestly them just standing next to one another is a wonder to behold. They exude chemistry.

I do love how his eyes shift to her during it all. Checking in on her even without her knowing it. Constant protection mode this entire episode. Tim makes another joke about he can’t leave her alone for a minute hehe When we know he’s proud of her for catching this woman in first place. She took care of business and saved a man's life.

Ahhhh this scene. The first and probably most popular OTP Tag for them. ‘Doing my job’ Another crack in the wall that is Tim Bradford. The art is the crack growing. The artist Lucy Chen.

That slight smile he gives her before he takes off is everything. His last bit of comfort headed her way before he has to go. Such a huge moment for them. What I've always loved about Chenford and their slow burn is the small things. They add up to the incredible bond that is formed. This is one of those iconic moments for them as a ship. If you’re not paying attention you’ll miss it all together. To say I love them is an understatement baha it’s why I’m doing these reviews. To analyze them from beginning to end. They are a beautiful thing to watch unfold.

~~~~

Side notes. Non chenford

I do enjoy Jackson’s SL in this one a lot. I can relate to family drama and having that invade your work space. To have family ask a lot of you and want you to put something you wanna do on hold for them. It’s a huge burden Jackson had placed on him. He didn’t tell Lopez but told Lucy she needed one last distraction with Tim gone. e’s there when she gets the results she’s ok. Tells her he will call Tim for her. Jackson was always such a solid A+ friend to her.

That is it for ep 11. Woo! As usual feel free to like/comment I'll always reply to comments/reblog whatever your heart desires haha See you in 1x12

[andmaybegayer]

Last Monday of the Week 2024-06-03

Finicky little situations

Listening: I had a hankering for some Clark Powell and went looking through her Bandcamp, and listened to Labyrinth's Heart

This album is really interesting, in that a lot of it ends up in the Psycholonials soundtrack, almost all of it really. Forgotten is the basis for the interstitial chapter music and finale track, Misbegotten has the foundations for one of my favourites, Outlaw.

Clark's more recent stuff is this extremely chill pop-y sounding music, and through association with Psycholonials it is perfect hot summer day background music.

Oh also. Finished S4 of The Magnus Archives. Bold way to end the season, just blam hey hello we're ending the world. See you on the flipside!

I will say that I do not really get where John/Martin is really meant to go, and I know people did not like the last season that much, but I have found it pretty good. It is getting a little too close to exiting the Monster Of The Week mode that I prize so much, but it's still there.

Watching: DeviantOllam's extremely good long talk on fire safety code, ostensibly in the context of using it as a cover for breaking in to buildings but it is honestly mostly just a chance for a bunch of nerds to learn about extremely specialized tools and get more niche facts about the built environment. This is that four hour disney star wars talk for people who have NFC card reprogrammers.

DeviantOllam does some really great talks on a lot on physical security but is also just, very good at talking, he delivers things in a way that gets you invested in it even if you had no idea you would care.

Reading: A little shy of halfway through The Book of Dust by Philip Pullman, the second book in the new trilogy The Secret Commonwealth, which started with La Belle Sauvage. I read La Belle Sauvage a few years ago and had to go refresh on a synopsis.

Philip Pullman is a truly great writer, and now that he has killed god in this universe he can focus on more interesting things, like philosophy of the soul when some (or potentially all) of your soul is also a kitty cat.

Jumping us forward to 20-year old Lyra is a bit of an adjustment. You get so used to thinking over her as the very specific like 12 year old that she is throughout His Dark Materials. She says fuck now! It's also exceedingly funny that she appears to have fallen in with The Rationalists in a world with witches and magic. I guess spoilers?

Ylen naq cna xvaq bs ungvat rnpu bgure vf fhpu n punatr sebz UQZ. Vg vf shaal gung jr nyzbfg vzzrqvngryl trg gbyq rkcyvpvgyl gung guvf vfa'g gung hapbzzba, juvpu frrzf gb or bar bs gur znal gurzrf ehaavat guebhtu guvf obbx. Guvatf gung frrz fvathyne whfg nera'g. Frireny crbcyr pna frcnengr, znal crbcyr ner njner bs guvatf gung frrz gb or gval pbafcvenpvrf. Gur Ylen/Znypbz eryngvbafuvc vf snfpvangvat, vg vf fb qrrcyl hapbzsbegnoyr sbe rirelbar vaibyirq va gung terng jnl gung znxrf vg chfu naq chyy ng rirelguvat nebhaq vg. Gurer ner n ybg bs Pncvgny G Gurzrf orvat frg hc, gur fbeg bs ershgngvba bs na raq bs uvfgbel, zber eryvtvbhf fghss va gur guernq bs Qhfg naq gur PPQ, gur vapernfvat zbqreavmngvba bs gur jbeyq qrfcvgr nyy gur jrveq nanpuebavfgvp genccvatf bs Ylen'f Jbeyq.

Every now and again I remember how impossibly heartbreaking the end of Amber Spyglass is and I'm like holy shit he really did that to his readers. I think it took me about a week to pick up a different book after I finished that.

Playing: Beat dark souls! More extensive talk about that in the #dark souls tag.

The story is of course homeopathic. Like Pyre, the game takes place after all the interesting stuff, but unlike Pyre, there isn't really a strong core of characters to watch through the aftermath. I'm not entirely clear why we were trying to link the flame, other than that the guy in the Asylum told us it was a legend.

Ultimately, unimportant, the gameplay is mostly great! The final bosses are a little weird, they feel weak and their areas all feel like they're missing something, but I quite liked Nito and the Four Kings, and Seath was mostly fine. Hey wait, the furtive pygmy! I forgot about the furtive pygmy, just like they said! Nevermind fuck everything I just said, best game in history.

I will go back and try to NG+, also some people mentioned the DLC which I have no idea how to access, but I will look that up probably. It sounds like there's some good bosses in there.

The combat really is fun, although I maintain that there are lot of combat issues that are really more like UI issues than actual game design issues, things like the parry mechanic being so fiddly and the upgrade system being inscrutable.

Making: LuaLED has me in a hole because I have to do Web Shit and I do not know how to do Web Shit. This is a me issue not a Web issue, I just never really put the time into learning more than the basics of HTML and HTTP.

Tools and Equipment: aerc is a simple email client for the terminal.

I have used various Mail clients over the years and I always find myself gravitating back towards just using whatever web client my provider has because I don't give a shit and I don't get that many emails, but I have recently wanted to handle my work emails from the terminal for reasons, and I tried out aerc. I've previously used Mutt but setting up Mutt is a huge pain in the ass and it has one billion controls that mean nothing if you're not doing mailbox stuff, because it's from ten thousand years ago.

aerc is stripped down and optimized for a few specific use cases, one of the big ones being "handling emailed git patches" which I don't do much but do do sometimes. It's also a pretty nice general text mail client, it's easy to set up and it lets you get into using it very easily.

[hils79]

Hils Watches Moonlight Chicken - Ep 5

I forgot this drama is only 8 episodes long so I'm over halfway through now. Wild. I'll be finished in a couple of days. Feels so quick after a 40 episode cdrama

So we're seeing what Alan and Wen were like before they broke up. I'm starting to have a theory about how this is going to end...

Also, it's weird seeing Mix kiss someone who isn't Earth. I've only seen the two of them together in dramas

Damn that fight scene was brutal but holy shit First and Mix are good actors. I was so focused on what was happening I forgot about the food that's in front of me

Thank god for Gong, who is apparently the only sensible person in this drama

Okay, here's my theory now that we're under the read more tag. I'm worried that the plot of this movie (two people who fall in love but don't end up together because of other factors) is what is going to happen to Jim and Wen. GMM typically doesn't make bittersweet BL dramas but this one is bit more mature than the others. I am bracing myself just in case this movie is foreshadowing.

That's about the highest level of praise you can get from a teenage boy

It's always Engineering or Architecture

Wen's just had a 'oh my kind of step-nephew is in love with a boy' moment. He looks so fond.

They don't live in a small town or anything. I don't think it's unreasonable for Jim to ask for someone who didn't show up at his restaurant and yell at him to deal with his loan application.

Yes, let's have a very thinly veiled conversation in which Wen is compared to a pen

It's just occurred to me that I've seen First play a high school student (The Eclipse), a college student (Not Me) and now a bank manager who I assume is meant to be in his late 20s or early 30s. All of these dramas were filmed in the last 2 years. That's some range!

Come on dude, don't be a total dick. You had better send off his loan application and not just toss it in the bin.

Okay, that's interesting given my comment above. Why DID Jim go to Alan's bank? Is he hoping to get turned down?

It's like he was reading my liveblog and is now answering all of my comments :D

Gong is my new favourite. He's so done with all Wen and Alan's nonsense

He is so right and he should say it

Well, let's see. We were having a nice romantic Christmas moment, then your ex-boyfriend who you still live with and share a bed with showed up. He yelled at you, then he yelled me, then he yelled you some more and shoved you over. Oh, yeah, and this dude is also in charge of whether I can borrow the money I need to save my business.

Okay, if this was closer to the end I'd be more worried that they were going to go with the bittersweet movie ending but given that there's another 3 episodes after this one maybe it'll be okay?

Alan really does like talking in metaphors. Wen was a pen, now Jim is chicken

I was saying today I am enjoying that for the most part characters in this actually use their words instead of just leaping to conclusions and making assumptions. Not always, but way more than most dramas. I'm glad Wen and Alan have finally had the mature conversation that they needed to have for both of them to move on

I still think Alan is going to end up with Gaipa but given that they haven't even met yet that may just be wishful thinking.

A good progressive boy

Bold of you to assume you can just move in with Jim

[jungle-angel]

The One With Royal's Old Firebird: Part 4 (Rhett Abbott x Reader)

Summary: At last, the Firebird is unveiled in all it's glory

Warnings: SMUT (minors are not allowed!!!!!!)

Tagging: @floydsmuse @floydsglasses @attapullman @rhettabbotts @sebsxphia @withahappyrefrain @callmemana @delopsia @lewmagoo @kmc1989 @cowboybarbie @sorchathered

"Alright now what the fuck did you little fuck-monkey's do now?" Royal questioned as he followed Rhett towards the garage.

"Nothin Dad, I swear," Rhett told him, trying to hid his laughter.

Up the gravel walk they went, when the sound of a motor starting in the garage reached their ears along with the rev of an engine. Royal's jaw dropped halfway to the ground when he saw that black '76 Firebird pulling out of the garage and into the morning sun, the golden screaming eagle emblazoned on the front while the black body gleamed in the bright sun.

"HOLY SHIT!!!" Royal laughed. "Ya'll didn't!! Ya'll fuckin didn't!!"

"Oh we did," Rhett told him, unable to hide the shit eating grin on his face.

Kayce, Rip, John and all the rest pulled it up into the turn-around spot in the driveway so Royal could get a good look at it. "Remember that one night you, me and the rest of us idiots pulled out of the parking lot at The Handsome Gambler in this thing and we were all moonin Wayne?" John chuckled.

"Oh God, screamin at him like we were all hot shit too," Royal laughed.

John, Rhett, Rip and Kayce all piled in with Royal, the new car smell still heavy in the seats. "Guess what I dug up too?" John said, handing him the small cassette tape.

"You didn't."

"Oh I fuckin did," John said with a wry grin.

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

You and Cece were both finishing up the dishes from breakfast, the house quiet as you two chattered away. The sun spilled in through the open kitchen windows while the cats lurked about looking for pests. The two little chihuahuas and Chewbacca, who had all been asleep on the living room sofa, suddenly started barking, but at what, you had no clue.

"Hey! Knock it off!" you ordered.

"Oh my God, what the hell is pulling up the driveway?" Cecelia wondered aloud.

You and her gazed out the window to hear tires screeching and the obnoxious sound of "Wango Tango" by Ted Nugent blasting from a radio somewhere. You watched your mother-in-law's jaw drop and her eyes bug halfway out of her head.

"NO!!!" she blurted out. "No! He fucking didn't!! Oh my God!!!"

You thought Cecelia was going to kill whoever it was that had pulled to a screeching halt in the driveway, but were relieved when you heard her laughing as she rushed out the storm door.

"What the hell is this?!" she laughed.

"Hey pretty thang!" Royal called to her, sticking his head out the car window. "Wanna go for a ride?!"

"Cece you sure this is a good idea?" you asked her.

"C'mon honey we're goin for a ride in that thing," she chuckled, guiding you along with her.

The two of you jumped right in and Royal pulled back on the clutch, hitting the gas before spinning the car around and speeding out onto the road.

"Where the hell did you find this thing?" Cecelia shouted excitedly over the music.

"Don't ask me, ask your son," Royal answered.

You, Rhett and John seemed to be holding on for dear life as Royal sped down the stretch of road in the middle of nowhere, praying that Joy, Edgar and Dan weren't on duty.

"Oh wait a sec hold on," Cecelia told him.

"Ya'll see lights Sugar Bear?"

"Nope, somethin else and I ain't lettin it slip by," she told him. "Pull over for a sec."

Royal skidded to a halt on the other side of the road where sure enough, was Wayne Tillerson, trying to fix a busted truck tire. Cecelia stuck herself about halfway out the window and whistled, loud and shrill enough to catch his attention.

"Cecelia?" he called to her.

What no one was expecting was when Cecelia stuck both of her middle fingers right up at him. "Up yours raggedy man!!!!! That's for tryin to hit on me twenty years ago!!!"

Royal revved the engine, the tires burning and screeching until he sped off, leaving nothing but black skids on the pavement and a rather scared Wayne Tillerson in their wake.

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

Rhett came into your shared bedroom, emerging fresh from the shower and still laughing his ass off from his parents' shenanigans. "Did ya'll see the look on Wayne's face when Ma flipped him off?" he asked.

"Oh my God that was priceless!" you exclaimed.

Rhett laughed as he kissed you, leaning in to press sweet little pecks against your lips. Outside it had grown dark but that didn't mean the night was over for the two of you. Rhett opened the windows in his bedroom, finally relieved that it was warm enough for them to stay open. Outside the peepers chirped and croaked while the warm breeze rustled the grasses.

"Oh Good GOD!!!" Rhett exclaimed.

"What? What's up?"

You joined him at the window, choking back a laugh when you saw the Firebird rocking back and forth and the radio playing "Smooth Operator". You and Rhett were trying not to laugh, knowing you two had already christened the damn thing and that Royal and Cece had no idea.

Rhett faked a gagging noise when you two heard the noises coming from the car. Finally, when the noises had died down, you and Rhett had decided that would be the opportune moment.

"HEY YA'LL KNOW WE CHRISTENED THE DAMN THING ALREADY???!!!!!" Rhett shouted down to them.

"What the fu-GODDAMNIT SON!!!" Royal bellowed.

You and Rhett laughed and snickered amongst yourselves as Royal strung together a tapestry of obscenities that as far as you knew, was still hanging over the Abbott ranch.

"We're so gonna get it in the morning," Rhett laughed.

"It'll be worth it though," you told him, pressing a kiss to his lips.