#1940's AU

[flowerwrites06]

lion and the fox V — jjk

Plot: In a turbulent world of crime and intrigue, a fiery journalist makes an unlikely alliance with one of the country’s most notorious bosses.

Pairing(s): Mafia Boss!Jungkook x Journalist!OC (Name: Belle)

Rating: G | PG | M | R 18+

Type: Drabble | Oneshot | Two Parter | Series

Word Count: 5k+ 

Genre: Mafia AU | Vintage (1940′s vibes) AU

Tags & Warnings: crime, violence, sexual content, forced prostitution, mild scenes of harassment, some misogynistic behaviour, mentions of war, heavy mentions of drug use, infidelity.

Authors Note: oh boy it’s been a while, folks hahah I have been buried in some other stuff for a WHILE. I still can’t promise anything for regular updates but I am trying my best and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Disclaimer: Please note that while some historical research has been done for this story, the MAJORITY of it has been altered in some way with creative liberties to match the themes and motifs of the plot.

June 14th 1936

Jungkook and Gaia sat on their marital bed, covered by transparent curtains that was scented with violet powder. It was thick in Jungkook’s throat. He preferred warmer and deep smells that went through him smoothly. Gaia wore a thin nightgown and played with her fingers.

They weren’t expected to do anything with their young age but there was a still a level of awkwardness. A sort of existential moment, realizing that they were now married. The same kind of married their parents were. Granted, their parents’ marriages also weren’t the same kind of married as other people. Normal people who didn’t have an heir to make.

“It’s kind of relieving in a way,” said Gaia, breaking their silence.

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t have to work to find someone now. I just have you.” She stared up at him with her bright, almost transparent green eyes.

Jungkook smiled, his cheeks still puffy and shining. “I guess that’s comforting.” With that, he had relaxed into the headboard and the new chapter of his life.

Present Day

The quiet sunset painted the Jeon-Takahashi household in a gentle gold. During this time, Gaia was in one of the private rooms, wearing her finest silk nightgowns and drinking her favourite whiskey. Her hair wasn’t curled and her eyes looked less like a gem, more like the venom of a serpent.

Gaia would never call Jungkook into this private room and rarely during this hour. The sleeve of her robe and nightdress fell over her shoulder.

Jungkook wore the same shirt he did for work, rolled up to his elbows. He closed the door behind him. “This is most unusual.”

Gaia narrowed her gaze but gave a faint smile. “I just wanted to see you.” Her voice was low. “I had this strong feeling that you might miss me.”

Jungkook chuckled, digging his hands into his pants. “Are you sure you don’t want a favor?”

“Can’t a wife just try to spend some time with her husband? A little closeness in the hours of a pretty sunset?” Gaia sauntered over Jungkook and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressing her nose against his. “Kiss me.”

Jungkook blinked in slight confusion but abided regardless, kissing her softly.

“Do you remember the night we married? Little, fat children placed on the altar.” Gaia held onto his hand and led him over to the table, an array of crystal decanters filled with variations of liquid gold. “We were lucky to have each other. Our marriage turned out more stable than others, considering the circumstances.”

Jungkook wasn’t sure how to respond. He could only stand there stupidly as Gaia sat on the table, pulling him closer so he was perched between her legs.

“You agree, don’t you?” Gaia stared at him with glazed eyes, reaching down to cup his bulge. “That we’re a stable marriage.”

“Of course,” Jungkook whispered it so easily.

Gaia scoffed as she squeezed. Squeezed until it became painful. “Then why…why did you send a spy to watch me?” She unlatched her hand as Jungkook let out a pained breath. Gaia expected him to have a shocked reaction, to defend himself. To do something that stupid people did. Break, crack, something. Anything.

Jungkook did none of that. There was a knowing behind his soft eyes. Desperation to hesitate. “Your lover. We found something on him.”

Jungkook explained it to her.

He spoke his name. Jimin’s name, resounded in the walls of her reality.

The walls of the home her parents made them build.

Jimin was no longer in the bubble Gaia created, no longer the symbol of her freedom. A veil ripped from her eyes.

Tears formed thick. Ugly and naïve. “You’re lying.” Gaia shook her head. “I would know. I would know! I’m not stupid!” She shrieked, gripping onto the first decanter and throwing it across the room, just missing Jungkook’s head.

The thick glass crashed against the wooden walls, darkening it with the new glisten to liquid. “You’re the one who sent the spy on me, how do I know you’re not lying?”

“I didn’t believe it either, okay? It’s not like I had big plans on ruining your affair.” Jungkook gestured to the window. “It was a serious breach on the empire with our rival no less.”

Gaia wanted to argue but even she knew there would still be a risk. A risk for a spy because of course there would be. The only person who wasn’t intimidated enough of her turned out to someone who was extracting information from her. Oh, and the things she told him in the heat of the moment. In the comfortable bubble that she thought she could trust because it was under her control. “I hate you,” she muttered.

Jungkook’s shoulders slumped, not from sadness or shock but a melancholic understanding. This marriage was a mess and it was here, splayed between them in ripped veils, tears and alcohol seeping into the wooden floors. “I have the files for proof—” Another decanter flew near his face, smashing against the door.

“Fuck your proof!” Gaia’s chest rose and fell. “I don’t want any proof. It doesn’t matter, just kill him.” She turned on her heel, desperately swallowing the bitter bile on her tongue. “He’s just one more body in the rivers. You’re good at that, aren’t you, boss?”

Jungkook tried to reach out to touch her shoulder but feared that it may lead to another decanter thrown his way. With a defeated pull in his belly, he curled his fingers into fists and walked out of the room.

Gaia couldn’t do anything but tremble in the coming sobs, scratching deep into the wood of the table before gripping onto the edge and throwing it over. Screams scarred her throat.

-

“In most cases, lovers aren’t suspected,” said Jimin. A part of his composure had broken. Birds blowing their covers was akin to losing a wing. “I don’t even know how I became a connection, Master.” He shook his head.

Peace and Honey was a much better establishment when reporting. Instead, in an emergency situation, Jimin had to stand in the dead center of Master Seokjin’s penthouse apartment in Busan. The cold gust of the air conditioner was rough on his skin but Seokjin seemed to drink it in like summer sun with his loose silk robe.

Seokjin’s face was painfully neutral, too calm for Jimin’s comfort.

From his training days, Jimin had prepared himself for death upon mistakes. If his cover was blown, there was no one to blame but him. It had to be. He just wished the death would be quick.

“This will be a shock to our plans,” said Seokjin. Still holding that terrible neutrality. “But Akira has received her web on Saja Ilbo. The best thing we can do now is spread the word of your exposure to the underground.”

Jimin’s eyes widened. “What?”

Seokjin then smiled and Jimin wanted nothing but to melt into it. A comforting father’s smile, protecting him from judgement. “If we send your cover blown through the underground letters, Akira will thicken it up so it can’t be traced back to Holangi Pa. Even if it does, we have another target. I fear this new mind behind Yeou Pa is out to scare us off but we are an elegant bunch. We’ll keep to our silence and continue on.” Seokjin persisted with his smile. “Enjoy your new vacation, little bird.”

-

Belle’s thigh kept prickling again, yearning for another dose of the painkillers but pushing it down with other thoughts. Reading a book, writing more notes and speculations on the investigation. Anything to keep her mind off it. It had only been an hour since Hoseok had given her a dose. That was enough. The thigh had numbed, it was just her imagination. Her mind tricking her into falling in that hole once more.

She sat on her living room, scratching at her fluffy mat, too on edge to sit on the couch. One knee curled up to her chest while the other injured one was left down. Belle wore her favourite cotton attire too as the night was hotter than usual. Or it was just her.

Either way, Belle stared back at her open book. The words nothing but a jumble in her clouded mind.

A knock resounded in the door, heavy handed and rough.

Belle paused for a moment before standing up, she grabbed onto one of the steel rods near the fireplace. Hoseok wouldn’t have knocked on her door and neither of them had friends that would come this late at night. It didn’t help that they were in the midst of a tension between two very dangerous syndicates.

She padded to the door and opened the slit until the chain forced it to halt. Her heart jumped and relaxed when Belle saw Jungkook’s face. Sad and weary. His black hair was matted and messy, his lips red and glossed much like his eyes. Two crystal glasses and fine whiskey was haphazardly held in his hand.

“I’m not sure if you drink but—” Jungkook hiccupped.

Belle quickly opened the door, pulling him inside and looking out into the streets to check if anyone saw them. His black car was parked outside with three bodyguards who were barely wearing their uniform suits. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for you to be here?”

Jungkook hummed, stumbling across the hallway and just closely tripping onto her kitchen counter. He placed the two crystal glasses and bottle of whiskey. “Didn’t want to be at the house.” His gaze flickered to her, eyes glossing up and down her body. “Were you sleeping?” His shirt was buttoned down to his torso and his tie still dangled around his neck helplessly.

“No, I was just—reading.”

Jungkook hummed as he set the two glasses and poured whiskey right up to the brim, spilling some on the surface. “I told Gaia everything. She took it—” He jutted his lips out before chugging half of the glass of the whiskey. “—the way she takes most things.”

“She deserved the truth.”

Jungkook scoffed. “We rarely tell each other the truth.”

“Yes, but this involves your gangs. Your business.”

“I thought you hated my business. Suddenly, you’re all arms in helping and defending it?” Jungkook raised a brow.

“You’re in my house, you don’t get to question me like some big boss.” Belle stomped over and grabbed onto his glass and whiskey bottle. “This house isn’t a bar either.”

“That’s really expensive.”

“Really?” Belle stared at the bottle. “I wonder how many people died frothing at the mouth just so you could get the money for this.” Was it the same money his father got when those soldiers were drugged? She stared at him, hazel eyes darkened to a deep brown.

“I’m warning you, that stuff costs more than your house.”

“Drunk Jungkook comes out with bitter truths, doesn’t he?” Belle opened the bottle of whiskey and poured it down the sink. Her cheap sink.

Jungkook’s eyes flared with frustration as he stomped over to her. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Don’t insult my house again.” Her only place of comfort. Where she didn’t have to work or keep a shielded knowingness. Where she could feel the unbearable itch of her thigh without needing to look decent and strong. It angered her to see him in this very place. “Unlike your material things, my house was bought with honest-earned money and love.”

“Oh, you think your money is honest-earned?” Jungkook laughed. “Said the reporter who’s currently milking a criminal gang for her own gain.”

Belle slammed the empty bottle against his chest and walked to the counter, wiping the spill, wincing at the scent of alcohol. “If you don’t want me milking your gang then take your fucking typewriter…but I’m not your subordinate nor will I be treated like one. Others might bow down at your visits but I’d rather die than have you think, even for a second, that I’ve pledged some allegiance to you.” She could taste the venom on her own tongue. To some extent, Belle wasn’t so angry at his behaviour but moreso that she didn’t mind it that much. Except he didn’t need to know that.

Jungkook blinked into a quiet realization. “You think that’s why I’m here?”

“This is my life…outside.” The words came out far too vulnerable for her liking. “Outside of everything. You can’t come barging to my neighborhood.” Belle gripped the edge of the counter. “It messes things.”

Jungkook stepped forward. “I just—I wanted to see you. Listen, I don’t want you to be a subordinate, it’s the only reason I came to you.” He touched her shoulder before pulling away. “You’re not part of the gang…and I like that. I like—you.”

Belle hated feeling something other than anger. A strong, warm feeling in her stomach hearing those words.

“Please don’t be angry with me. I’m sorry I came like this, I wanted—I wanted to come sober.” The more Jungkook grew desperate to explain, the more slurred his speech became. He stared down at his shoes and began to push them out, kicking them gently aside. Before that, he rubbed his face in frustration. “I don’t know what to do, Belle. I thought I’d be prepared for this.”

Belle watched his helpless face, not looking like the boss of Yeou Pa but a simple young man who was lost and drowning in his troubles. Her thigh prickled again. When Belle tried to resist comforting Jungkook any further, the pain increased. All her energy was being used pushing herself away from this man. Not falling into the same pool he was drowning in. Jungkook had his soft spots but this was too intimate.

Despite all this, Belle couldn’t help but reach out and touch his hand. She saw his glossed eyes, brown and sweet, stare up at her. “You pretend as if you’re the only one who’s shouldering this. You have a whole operation with you. And I’m not letting someone like Seokjin get away with what he’s done.”

Regardless of what Seokjin’s intentions were, he put real people in real danger. Horrible, irreparable danger. Children who couldn’t be traced back to their parents anymore, innocent people who were left to be used just so Seokjin could tarnish Jungkook’s name. Belle would see him destroyed.

Jungkook’s eyes glazed over her face, down to her lips. He leaned in, gentle and waiting for Belle to back away before he moved any further.

Belle grabbed onto his chin. “Don’t guilt-trip me into comforting you again. If you want to kiss and fuck me, you’ll do it sober. I don’t want a sad man’s pity cum inside me.” She let go of him and padded over to the couch.

“You’re whiplash in a woman’s body, you know that?” Jungkook raised a brow.

“That’s the goal.” Belle draped some blankets on the surface of the couch, stacked pillows on the side. “Sleep here. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

Jungkook sighed. “Fine.” He dragged his socked feet and slumped onto the couch, waiting a few minutes before lifting his legs, which barely hung over the edge. “This is too small.”

“There’s worse places to fall asleep.” Belle placed a blanket over him, desperately trying not to do it too affectionately.

-

“How could you let this happen?!” Don Takahashi, Gaia’s father, had stomped his fat body to the Jeon-Takahashi household in order to scold Gaia on her blunder.

Gaia had already a few drinks in her, making conversations with Father a little easier to bear. They sat in the living room where the fireplace roared to prepare for the chilly winter days and nights. “It was inevitable.”

“No, it was your own stupidity.” He pointed a stumpy finger her way, his dumb face reddened from fury. “Trying to play harem in this important political marriage.”

“You’ve had mistresses, Father, let’s not play morality here.”

Takahashi spluttered. “I did no such thing, I loved your mother.”

“Perhaps. But that didn’t stop you from fucking her friends, or her sisters, or her maids, or anyone you could see walking and talking.”

“You—”

“What? Didn’t think I noticed all that?” Gaia tilted his head. “You don’t get to teach or lecture me of the mistakes made here.”

Takahashi let out a shaking breath. “Even so, you fornicated with a spy. That I was never guilty of.”

“Well done.” Gaia laughed. “Would you like a biscuit for your efforts?”

“That underboss wants me to have a meeting with Jeon. I’ll be damned to bear the humiliation you gave me but I can’t back down either.” Takahashi played with his wedding ring. “You will come back home and hide out until everything blows over.”

Gaia didn’t disagree. She never felt like this was her home anyway. Nor was her childhood home any better but it was a change of scenery. There was a part of her, drowning in alcohol, that wanted to cry. But she wouldn’t do it in front of Father. “You began this.” Gaia narrowed her gaze. “Remember that.”

“I didn’t ask you to cheat on your husband.”

“But you gave me one against my will. I was fifteen, younger than you and Mother when you married. Even younger than Grandmother and Grandfather. You have no right to shame me for what I did to make that bearable.” Her eyes were dry, steamed away from old anger that was long dormant. Jimin was one of the few people who kept it calm and now he was gone.

All she had left was this unchecked fury.

-

The meeting between Hebi and Yeou Pa began in morning. Underground at a local bar where the noise was minimal. It smelled of old wine and aging wood.

Jungkook sat at the table, his back aching from the precarious location of his slumber but his stomach was warm. He slept well somehow and hearing Belle’s quiet preparations for the morning brought a strange elation in his body, boosting his energy for the day.

Don Takahashi sat with the haughtiest of expressions. As if he sniffed something particularly acrid and his face grew stuck that way.

The man was ready for a fight. That wasn’t good.

“Let’s get this over with quickly, Jeon,” Takahashi said.

“With pleasure,” Jungkook replied curtly.

Yoongi let out a sigh, giving a small glance to Rosyne who had her files and contracts ready if things did go well. “Keep it civil.” His tone firm. “Remember, we’ve both been breached.”

Takahashi stayed silent at this.

“Underground letters are circulating already about the spy,” Rosyne explained. “As far as we know, he’s in hiding. Likely the letters were made to clutter up tracking. Unfortunately, Seokjin isn’t stupid and he may well keep it very low and quiet for a few weeks.”

“It’ll be good for us to regroup and figure out how to best protect ourselves,” Yoongi said.

“Perhaps if Don Jeon had kept my daughter happy enough.” Takahashi scoffed. “I should’ve expected people like you wouldn’t be able to handle a Japanese wife. Let alone an heiress.”

Jungkook narrowed his gaze, jaw tightened.

“Civil, Don Takahashi,” Yoongi emphasized.

“You know I’m right. This affair must’ve began because you pulled something.” Takahashi tapped the surface of the table.

“Our marriage was your decision, not ours.” Jungkook shook his head. “The repercussions of that forced decision is on no one’s shoulders but yours and my parents.”

“I married for an alliance. Your parents married for an alliance. It is the way for our syndicates to do this, to ensure peace!” Takahashi looked tight and red. “You can’t go around complaining about love and not enough affection. Now your gang will be in ruin.” He pointed his fat finger at Jungkook. “And that girl of yours.”

Dark and rotten anger peered through Jungkook, so thick that it turned bitter on his tongue. “Excuse me?”

Victory glimmered in Takahashi’s eyes as he gave a slimy smile. “We’ve heard about her. The journalist pet you’ve been keeping. I better hope you haven’t given up this marriage to covet her.”

“The journalist isn’t a spy,” Rosyne said.

“She might as well be. Her family’s not from this country. A gang from somewhere else.”

Jungkook knew that he didn’t know a lot about Belle but he also knew Belle never wanted to get into his good graces. It was him who allowed her into his home. Cracked his skin and ripped it open for her to see. And yet Jungkook barely knew anything about her. He couldn’t show that to Takahashi though. “We know her background and that’s not our concern here.” A half lie but enough to shut him up.

“No, it isn’t. Because if this marriage is to be broken then it’s only you who will suffer the brunt, not my gang.” Takahashi smirked. “This alliance was more a favor than anything else. And I’m willing to be kind and reconsider any divorce.”

“But?” Jungkook asked.

“Get rid of the whore and we can call it an even scandal.”

Oh, Jungkook hadn’t felt anger like this in a long time. A truly long time. His vision blurred, wishing to see nothing but Takahashi’s soft face ripping under his knuckles. “While it may seem like we’re a smaller bunch compared to the grand Hebi Pa, I’d reconsider this self-righteousness, Takahashi.” It took everything in his power not to sputter out those words in growls and grunts but he was no animal. Takahashi always saw him as one but he would not be proven right. Ever.

“Yeou Pa has grown in the past few years and frankly, your syndicate seems to have become more of a nuisance than a help.” He leaned in. Eyes burning with fury but also a sense of adrenaline. Perhaps Seokjin got one thing right. Some of these gangs need to be taken down a peg.

Takahashi’s lips twitched. “You’d be making a big mistake.”

“You’ve already made it,” Jungkook said as he stood to his feet. “We’ll sign the divorce papers at my estate.”

-

Afternoon bloomed in his estate. Hebi Pa’s roaches scattered the entrance but not the perimeter. It was all Jungkook’s people now. People he had carefully built to outmatch Hebi Pa. Yet his confidence wouldn’t last long when he saw Gaia.

They were in his office. The divorce papers rested on a small table. A breakfast table they once sat together at. It wasn’t the most fond of memories but more comfortable. An emptiness that will now be long gone.

Gaia wore a yellow dress fit to the sleeves and a white hat. Gloves on. Shielded.

Rosyne hired a lawyer to confirm the dealings. Gaia was to go back to her home and wished not to take any money from Jungkook despite Takahashi’s insistence that they take something.

Gaia had no intentions to take revenge on Jungkook.

The lawyer shifted the paper to him. Gaia’s signature already etched there. His heart didn’t twist nor did his stomach sink. But still that emptiness overwhelmed him. Something Jungkook had leaned on for years. He hesitated for a moment only. Then signed.

“It’s done, sir,” the lawyer said. “I wish you both good luck.”

As the lawyer left, Rosyne emptied the room of people and closed the doors behind them. Without a word, she knew what needed to be done. Not needed rather wanted. A bow to tie off this thing they had.

“You know I wouldn’t risk it like that,” Gaia said. Business talk first.

“I know.”

“Good. Cause my father doesn’t believe me. He thinks it was a tantrum for being married to you.” Hatred dripped from her tone. “I never hated being married to you.” Still firm and formal but soft. Soft like their mornings.

“Neither did I.” A truth of some kind. Perhaps one that was carefully constructed from their routines but Jungkook resorted to believing it regardless.

“But.”

“But?”

“That isn’t quite enough, is it? Marriage needs a little more than convenience. Whether we like it or not.” For just a split second, Jungkook caught the lull of sadness behind Gaia’s gaze. Whatever this affair with Jimin was, it wasn’t small and it wasn’t just for enjoyment necessarily. Jungkook could see that truth bleed even when Gaia seemed to shut it tight like a holed bandage.

“Sincerely, I hope you find one like that.” Jungkook’s voice couldn’t go any higher. It didn’t want to. “Even if it sounds impossible with all this.”

Gaia gave a flicker of a smile. Sad but a true one, not calculated. “Thank you. I hope you find it too.”

With that, it was done. Jungkook and Gaia were free and unsettled.

-

Evening arrived in dark blooms of blue and black. Jungkook reclused himself in his office, burying himself in papers of regular work. Nothing to do with Seokjin or this mess of an operation. It kept him distracted well enough to gain some courage.

The door clicked open to Belle. She still wore her work dress, pale blue and prim. Fingers intertwined in front of her. “You wanted to see me?”

Jungkook hesitated on the question for a moment. He’d never admit it to Takahashi but part of him was right. He had to be sure. “I want to learn about your history.”

Something flickered in her. “What?”

He had touched a nerve but it wasn’t the quivering fear of a spy’s cover blown. No, it was much worse and Jungkook felt it looming like a dark cloud. Keep going. “It seems the Hebi Pa boss Takahashi believes you’re my lover and he might have some dirt on you. So it’s best you tell me before he uses it against us.” Jungkook kept a formal tone to all his ability despite his stomach wrenching at how Belle’s expression darkened.

“Takahashi wouldn’t know anything about me, he was just trying to scare you.” Belle’s voice turned firm but soft. Eerily soft.

“Humour me.”

Belle scoffed. “First you enter my house and now an interrogation?”

Jungkook tightened his jaw, forced himself not to twitch. “Just answer the question.”

She raised her chin. “You already know about my drug addiction. I’ve slept with married men, been beaten up by their wives. Been in the hospital. . .and the sanitarium for my condition.”

“Were you purchasing our products?” he asked.

“No.” Frustration flickered across her expression again.

“What about further?”

“Further.” Belle raised a brow.

“Your parents, anything that could be taken as dirt.”

Parents. That was it. That was the word that turn her eyes to flame. Jungkook felt the room burn. “You really want to know what happened to my parents?”

Jungkook shifted, struggling to keep her gaze. “Yes.”

“Seokjin and I have a loss in common. Your father ordered pills to be stuffed down my father’s throat so he’d be a better soldier.” Belle looked like a stranger once more as she spoke. “By the time the war was over, he still kept thinking that he had to fight. He couldn’t recognize me or my mother.” He saw her picking at the skin of her palm. “Out of desperation, he went back to you and your gang for more of the pills. When he claimed he didn’t have any money—” she let out a shaky sigh. “—your father’s men beat him.”

Jungkook knew the answer was going to be bad. Knew it was going to open old, terrible wounds that his father dug. Ones that he had to bear after his death. But seeing her stare at him with such deep hatred and disgust made his heart clench. This wasn’t what he wanted.

“Is that good enough? Or do you want more?” Belle asked. Tilted her head in challenge to pry further. She forced him now to look into her eyes and see the person made from his family’s machinations. “Do you want to know that my mother hasn’t left her chair for years? That my grandmother has to pry open her jaw to feed her.”

“Belle—”

“That I’ve had to smile and listen to reprehensible people gush about how much money they made from the widowed and orphaned of the war. Just to get information so one, at least one of them, could escape.” Belle pursed her shaking lips together and took a deep breath.

Jungkook reached out, thumb just barely brushed against her cheek before Belle pushed him away rough enough for him to knock at the edge of the table. His pens crashed to the floor. A ghostly bruised pain on his chest.

Belle stared at him, a raw and broken anger as she began to heave. Tears thick in her eyes but they evaporated and burned. “I’m not here to be your friend. I hate everything you do, everything you remind and represent.” She seethed. “I’m only here because this is the best way to protect as many people from Seokjin and you have no choice but to use my information.”

Jungkook wished it wasn’t the only reason but she was hardened. Whatever softness created between them was burning and pained. “I wish I wasn’t his son.”

“What?” Belle whispered.

“Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t his son.” A raw truth for her raw anger. “Perhaps not sometimes but always. I don’t like this life, Belle. I find no pleasure in it.”

Belle scoffed, disbelieving.

“You don’t have to believe me. But if you can help me take down Seokjin then maybe—” More truths. Belle had to rip her own skin to him, expose every detail. Perhaps Jungkook could do the same. “—we could burn Yeou Pa with it.”

Belle’s brows furrowed. The room stopped burning, just for a moment, for her to think. “Burn Yeou Pa?”

“Not all of it.” Jungkook shook his head. “But enough.”

“What the hell are you on about?”

“I will not ask you to be my friend or my allegiant. I’m simply asking for your help. As an equal.” Jungkook held out his hand. “Help me. And I will get you your promise of destruction.”

Belle still looked suspicious but there was a thoughtfulness behind her gaze. “If this is a trick—”

“—you can freely stab me in the throat.” It was terrifying how easy it was to make that a promise. How Jungkook wasn’t even the slightest bit fearful of it.

Blinking slowly, she stared down at his hand. Paused. Then held onto it. “An empire for an empire.”  

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[thereadingfangirl]

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Disclaimer: due to some suspicious and disgusting events happening on this site involving a minor, I feel the obligation to reinforce that most, if not all, of these stories are 18+. They contain content that is NOT suitable for minors, so please do not interact! Mature themes will/may be discussed in these stories that is definitely not appropriate for minors. I do not claim to be the author of any of these works, merely a fan

TaccoBelle's Book Club

Simmer: Jim’s Midnight Grill -line cook! Eddie Munson x Shy Fem! Reader

Author: @upsidedownwithsteve

Summary: welcome to hawkins' number one diner! where the staff don't wanna be there and the linecook is a grumpy metal head who likes to argue with his boss and ignore everyone else. but the new waitress can't hack the rude customers and the regulars can be a little... much.

What to expect: “serving up indiana heatwaves, slow burns, walk in freezer breakdowns, late night talks, shared shakes and food as a love language. order extra spice for $4.

141K, a linecook!au with eddie munson and shy fem!reader.”

My thoughts: I absolutely found this fic by chance, and boy am I glad I did! The writing for this fic is absolutely amazing, the way I feel every single emotion the author wrote was crazy! Eddie is this story is such a little grump and the contrast of the shy teacher was so adorable, my favorite moments were when she was being defiant towards him and he didn’t know how to act because no one had ever stood up against him in his kitchen 🥹 totally recommend, this is a slow burn and I thrive in slow burns, can’t wait to read more from this author!

The Breakfast Club - Eddie Munson X Cheerleader!Reader

Author: @radioactiveparker

Summary: Five high school students from different walks of life endure a Saturday detention under a power-hungry principal. Each has a chance to tell his or her story, making the others see them a little differently. And when the day ends, they question whether school will ever be the same. (A retelling of The Breakfast Club, written and directed by John Hughes.)

What to expect: Enemies to lovers / All Characters Are 18+ / Strong Language / Sex References / Mentions of Abuse (physical and emotional) / Cheating / Bad Relationships / Dysfunctional Families / Arguing / Materialism / Kleptomania / Stereotyping / Sexual Orientations / Drug Use / Mentions of Alcohol / Smoking / Pyromania and Fire / References to Demonianism and Satanism / References to Religious Beliefs / Social Alienation / Angst / Hurt-Comfort / Use of Y/N (like once or twice) / Eddie is a complete asshole

“A/N: This mini series is set in its own little world, so it does not follow the Stranger Things timeline, and I have taken some creative liberties with most characters. Yes, they are all still in high school (final year and 18+), and yes, some of the events don't match up - just forget everything you knew about Stranger Things, it's easier that way haha.”

My thoughts: I am in absolute love with this series and can’t wait for updates ! I am so obsessed with the Breaksfast Club narrative, the enemies to lovers, the popular girl x school freak. It’s so enticing and I am a sucker for it! But what the author does that I am loving is that they set themselves apart from the original movie, js the interaction of the reader with other characters, I won’t spoil it, but it’s a little heartbreaking 💔 from the little that I have read from the 3 chapters so far, it is great!

Not Very Noble

Author: @allthingsjoeq

Summary: Your kingdom is placed under threat of liquidation, the villagers crying out for help as each day they enter greater poverty. As their princess you have been chosen to amend the broken monarchy, creating a truce between the neighbouring royals, and fulfilling a marriage decided by the King. A low-ranking knight and Princess both from reverse backgrounds thrusted together against choice, they descend into a journey of Hate, Lust and Love all while caught in between a circle of lies.  

What to expect: Knight Eddie x Princess Reader Disclaimer: Enemies to Lovers, Angst, eventual fluff, light smut to come. Royal and medieval references but they may not all be 100% accurate.

My thoughts: I have a huge fascination with Medieval things, and think there isn’t nearly enough Eddie Munson Medieval themed AU’s and I think that’s a problem! This in particular is so well written, so beautifully put, it made me weep, and cry like a big baby from reading this, and it’s not even complete yet!!!!!! Y’all KNOW how much I buss down for an Enemies to Lovers trope 😩 I really hope they update this soon because I am patiently waiting 🥹

Not Wholly Evil

Author: @uglypastels

Summary: as the daughter of the Governor, there is quite a heavy prize set on your safe return home, and the captain will not let anything come between him and his bounty.

What to expect: "semi dark fic" - READ the warnings:. (gun/sword)violence. blood. minor character death. allusions to suicide. kidnapping. imprisonment. alcohol. open and deep sea. pirates are pigs: frequent mentions of non-con and allusions to assault, but it does not actually occur. malnourishment. abuse. manhandling.

My thoughts: I LOVE me some pirate au, I think it is so incredibly fitting for Eddie to be set in this role. It is still on-going so it only has 2 chapters, but that was enough to make me sign up for the tag list!! It’s is beautifully written, the descriptions are so good it makes me feel like I am IN the Hellfire ship. Super excited to see where this is take me, and I hope they update it soon because it’s my new obsession!

Turtle dove and the crow

Author: @blue-mossbird

Summary: You’ve known Edward Munson since he moved into the farm next door with his uncle - eight years old, odd, and utterly intriguing to you. For ten years, you’ve known him, and over that time, he’s become your best friend. But now, in the dreamy haze of August heat, you begin to know him in a different way. And in this process of knowing and becoming known, lives will be irrevocably changed.

What to expect: 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending. oral (f!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink.

My thoughts: holy shit my dudes, I think I found my new hyper fixation, to add to the list of stories I will check daily for updates! This is only the first episode and it already has me in a death grip 🫥 I am in love with 1940’s due to Bucky Barnes, and mixing Eddie in with that aesthetic threw me for a loop!! This is not the fic for you if you want cannon content, it is clearly set in another world, a different decade, and seems to me like it’s Eddie’s personality adapted for a 1940’s farm boy view, and I think I’m in love. Plus my fantasy of being a southern Belle (that’s my name if you didn’t know) is in an all time high with this. I can already picture all of the angst and all the crying in my bed at 2am this story will bring me, and I’m so excited 🤩

June Baby

Author: @luveline

Summary: you’re a single mom living three trailers down. eddie thinks you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. queue smiley face oatmeal, grossly misused power tools, desserts on the living room floor, a haircut, and an abundance of nerd metaphors

What to expect: teen mom!reader, fem!reader, r is Junie’s birth mother, fluff, hurt/comfort, Eddie ends up being a total girl dad (<3), mutual pining, yearning, etc, tw for not having much money, general loneliness, mentions of a shitty/traumatic pregnancy, general mom struggles :(, slow-burn friends to lovers, you wash Eddie’s hair!!!! this was low-key requested by anon

My thoughts: Honest to god, this is one o the best writing I have ever read on this app. The way Jade uses her words to describe the scenes, ughhhhhhh I can't explain, but Jade writes like a scene of a movie. It does not feel like the supporting characters don't feel like they seize to exist as soon as the main characters move on to a different scene. I love how the supporting characters are all incredibly detailed, feel like real people, and have real people reactions to things; weird, I know, haha. I love how much I adore this story so much. it does not feel like a simple fic, like I would invest in a start-up for this to be published into an actual book. It is so good, so sweet. I absolutely adore this story. It makes my heart do three summersaults per second every time Jade posts a new chapter, the characters have my fucking heart 🥺

Meet The Munsons

Author: @mypoisonedvine

Summary: you were barely acquaintances in high school, but his reputation as a delinquent and freak didn't exactly endear you to him. now he's moving in. at the risk of being too literal: oh, brother.

What to expect: kind of incest, but not really? male masturbation, swearing, mentions/implications of a deceased parent, reader is a tad judgmental but that's what character development is for!

My thoughts: I have read and re-read this story about three times. If I'm not mistaken, this is the only complete one on this list. I LOVE IT SO MUCH!! it made me so giddy. a grown woman giggling and kicking my feet like a little girl. I love the evolution of the characters and the way, slowly but surely, their feelings start to slip out, and by the end, you are totally like, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST HOLD HANDS, I BEG OF YOU. Not gonna lie, the "kind of incest" threw me off at first, but then you find out that they aren't actually related in no way possible; the reader's mom marries Uncle Wayne, and they are not raised together, so their not that weird situation of raised like siblings, which would make it really weird when they make out pretty heavily. Can't believe I'm defending incest.

The "Yes" Policy

Author: @pinkrelish

Summary: After a lifetime of questionable decisions, you moved from the big city to the sleepy town of Hawkins with your best friend and took the first job you saw: answering phones for the most boring auto shop in the dullest place on Earth. It wasn't exactly the adventure you wanted it to be.. but attempting to win over the jaded mechanic who insisted on ignoring your existence proved entertaining.

What to expect: slow burn, eventual smut, strangers to lovers, flirting, mutual pining, angst, drug/alcohol mention/use, depictions of poverty, sort of grumpy x sunshine, but Eddie's just tired, reader and Eddie are mid-late 20's

My thoughts: This fic singlehandedly made me fall in love with the sunshine x grumpy trope, the thought of Eddie being a girl dad makes my heart double in size. Him being a single dad, Wayne being grandpapi is too cute! them doing their best to provide the best for their little princess, and the relationship between Miss Mouse and Adrie has my heart.

To Have and To Scold

Author: @icallhimjoey

Summary: Your best friends are getting married, and who else can they ask to be their best man and maid of honour but you and Joe? It's just that... you don't really get along all that well, do you? At least, that's what you think.

What to expect: CW / disclaimer: sort of enemies to sort of lovers (very vague, im sorry, but you'll see), language, drinking, rpf, fem!reader

My thoughts: I don’t usually like reading real person fics, like when the character is actually a real life person, I much prefer a fictional character because otherwise sometimes I get weirded out. That being said, I decided to give this fic a try, and I must say that I was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed the story. I picked it up and couldn’t put the phone down till I finished! The characters are engaging, and story is so sweet 🫶🏼

Bad Idea

Author: @lunarzstarz

Summary: Not wanting to leave for college with your virginity still intact, you turn to your last resort that you know can only end terribly…

What to expect: NSFW 18+ minors dni, drugs, first Times, oral (F receiving), fingering, protected sex, nicknames (Princess/Sweetheart), Eddie being a goof but also an asshole (Slightly proofread) Fuckboy!EddieMunson x Virgin!Fem!Reader

My thoughts: smut, plain smut. And I love it. Eddie is kind of a dickhead, not gonna lie, but then he starts to show signs of falling for the reader, regular shmegular lowkey toxic trope, but I love it!!!!

Crayons and Cassettes

Author: @comfort-writing

Summary: You are a kindergarten teacher. Eddie’s daughter, Sage, is in your class. She bonds with you instantly, and Eddie is trying not to do the same.

What to expect: his fic will be 18+ in later chapters, so minors DNI! In this chapter, it is mentioned that rumors about Eddie still linger. no use of y/n. I can think of nothing else for this chapter because it’s just an introductory one, but please let me know if I missed anything!

My thoughts: I have not finished this fic yet, but s far it is amazing!! Eddie is so nervous and so sweet, but still nerdy, and charming.

Honey I'm Home

Author: @trashmouth-richie

Summary: you were desperate for a roommate after Nancy got married and moved out. An ad in the paper goes unanswered until someone comes knocking on the door.

What to expect: enemies to lovers trope, eventual smut, language, crude behavior, Eddie is a fucking menace.

My thoughts: I honestly fell in love with this story, it is so mysterious, and so touching, funny, endearing, and most of all, a big tease. I fell in love with these characters, and their personalities, how they are together, and how the interact with one another. The idea of an older protective Eddie, that is conflicted with the thoughts of seeing Tooty as a little girl, but now she is a grown woman is mesmerizing to read, and Richie does an amazing job at writing it all so well.

Disjointed

Author: @boomhauer

Summary: Nurse!Reader is reunited with her high school crush in the emergency room. Faced with a lifetime worth of debt, she helps Eddie in the only way she can.

What to expect: Fake marriage. Friends to lovers. Medical trauma. Lemon/Smut. Angst. Slow burn. No Vecna!!

My thoughts: This a new type of fic for me, I had never read anything in the nursing realm, an amazing first! I appreciate the reality of it all, from what I understand the author has personally experienced some of these scenarios, and im guessing has been/is a nurse practitioner, so makes for an extremely believable, and amusing plot!!

Twenty Four Hours

Author: @ghost-proofbaby

What to expect: modern!Eddie Munson x fem!reader, uses female pronouns on occasion. strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni

Summary: in which Eddie Munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty-four hours consecutively together? modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader

My Thoughts: I love Enemies to Lovers trope!! This fic is full of stunning writing, amazing visual descriptions of feelings, and hot-ass characters! this made me cry on multiple occasions, in a good way! Though I am a crybaby. Eddie is such a sweetheart in this, and mean in some chapters, but it's all for the feels!!

Smoke Signals

Author: @eddies-house

What to expect: Grumpy!Eddie Munson x shy!reader, uses female pronouns on occasion, strong language, eventual smut, PTSD, trauma, talks about trauma, mentions of death, mentions of bullying, minors dni, set in a town other than Hawkings

Summary: Relocating to the small town of Knife’s Edge in hopes of leaving your old life behind and starting brand new solves all of your problems, right? Wrong. It only creates more and one of them may live right next door. Side effects may include blaring music at 3AM, a scowling neighbor, and one too many shots of tequila on several occasions. (That The Bourbon will not be comping.)

My Thoughts: I love Enemies to Lovers trope! That much isn't any news to you guys! This fic is so lovely written, I love how real the characters feel, and how immersed I was in reading this, I am so related to the character because I too am a crybaby. Eddie is such a sweetheart in this, I just want Bambi to hug and kiss him 🥹, and mean in some chapters, but it isn't in a toxic sort of way.

Begin Again

Author: @abibliophobiaa

What to expect: Eddie’s post-S4 trauma; panic attacks; nightmares; family member loss; grief; alcohol use; mild smut in later chapters, so 18+; additional warnings to be added. Eddie Munson x afab!reader, sunshine!reader x grumpy!eddie vibes

Summary: The year is 1988. After the loss of a beloved family member, you find yourself inheriting an old coffee shop. The quiet bartender at the Hideout across the street just so happens to catch your eye.

My Thoughts: you know that I love sunshine!reader x grumpy!eddie vibes! This fic is so nicely written, It has long chapters which I fiend for, I absolutely adore it when a fic has 20K words in one chapter, it only has 4 of them because it takes place as a chapter for each season, which is generous btw, wish I'd thought of this!

Beast of Burden

Author: @neonghostlights

What to expect: Fuckboy!Werewolf!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader Eddie gets called a man-whore (not by reader), mates, cussing, mention of almost hitting an animal with your car (doesn't happen but almost does), parental and grandparent death (readers whole family is dead) 18+ only, minors dni

Summary: (doesn't really have a summary, but this post the author made pretty much sums up) "I’m thinking about fuckboy!werewolf Eddie. Let’s say he’s gotten around with every girl in Hawkins because he never thought he’d have a mate. That was until you, a human, showed up and proved him wrong. Now he has to find a way to prove himself to you."

My Thoughts: yeah! fucking sue me, I like werewolf fanfictions! I can't really blame it all on Twilight, except I absolutely will blame it all on Twilight. But I swear this is really cute, and I live for it!

[saintedcooper]

It's Complicated (Francis Ch3 | Frank Castle x Reader 1940s AU)

Chapter Summary: After the attack, you awaken with some pain and a lot of questions.

Series Summary: New York, 1949. You’re a waitress trying to find your place in the world and get your footing at your new job. That is, when you’re not being very distracted by the handsome, mysterious writer who frequents the diner.

Previous Chapters: 1 / 2

Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader

Content Warnings: memories of past violence as seen in previous chapter, hot man cooking you healing food (dangerous stuff).

Length: 2,908 words

cross-posted to AO3.

Your dreams are full of dark tunnels and winding paths. Shadowy figures shape-shift into terrifying creatures that you can’t escape. All you hear is the sound of your running feet and your heart pounding like a drum.

You turn down a dark path and stop. There’s a figure in this one but it’s clear, not shadowy like the others. It’s bathed in white light and glowing. It’s a man with his back to you, dressed in slacks and a white shirt with suspenders crossing his back.

As you move closer, the man turns. It’s Francis. Your eyes go first to the soft smile on his lips before traveling down to the twin guns holstered by his sides.

You start to back up slowly and he frowns.

“Sweetheart?”

As you take another step backward, your foot slips. You rear lands hard on the stone path. You’re trying to pick­ yourself up when you notice bloody scrapes on your legs. You turn your hands over to find they’re there, too.

A frown forms on your face.

How did that happen?

As you observe the scrapes, tiny streaks of red slowly bloom and quickly grow.

A gust of cold air draws your attention to your ripped tights. When you reach down a hand to inspect the ripped fabric, a hand appears in the darkness and wraps around your ankle. It tugs hard, pulling you down as you scream.

With a gasp, you startle awake, your eyes flying open.

Your eyes dart around a familiar room. It’s yours. You sigh a breath of relief as you grab your chest, willing your breath to slow down.

The sun is high in the sky, filling the room with warm light and humid air. Your body is covered in a light sheen of nightmare-induced sweat.

In the distance, you hear Maggie plugging away on the typewriter.

You let the rhythm of the keys fade into the background as your mind wanders to the night before. The alley. Those men. Francis.

Francis.

Why had he been there? Thank god he was, but, it was curious.

If you were being honest, there was always something odd about Francis. Sure, he was gorgeous, but there something dark and mysterious about him. It had never frightened you, it intrigued you.

He was kind, a bit sardonic sometimes, and funny. But he was also dangerous. You knew it when he’d shown up to the diner previously with bruised knuckles and scratches. You knew it the other night when you heard him taking down your attackers.

Francis Castiglione wasn’t like other men.

That's what had drawn you to him at first. But now, that hint of mystery was real and violent.

You’d heard the way he’d laid into those creeps, his fits pummeling their flesh like it was nothing. You’d heard him panting like an over-excited dog, telling them to get up so that he could brutalize them again.

It was one thing to know he had that darkness; it was another to witness it.

You hardly know him. He doesn’t owe you anything but you can’t help having more questions than you know what to do with. If the charming writer who’s been flirting with you for months is also the man you saw last night, which face is the mask? How can you trust anything he’s ever said to you?

Even with your confusion the undercurrent of fear you feel isn’t for you, it’s for him.

What have you gotten yourself into, Francis?

With a sigh, you flip back the sheet to get out of bed. Searing pain around your torso stops you in your tracks and doubles you over with a sharp cry.

The typewriter stops and a few moments later, you hear footsteps hurrying down the hall as you slowly try lower your body back to the bed.

Maggie appears a few moments later with a cool towel and a worried look on her face. The towel still drips with water, proof of how quickly it’d be gathered.

“Thank God you’re awake! You scared me half to death. Are you alright?”

You nod and attempt a reassuring smile. It’s more of a grimace.

Trying to lie back down is too painful, you end up sitting with your back propped up against the headboard and your feet out in front of you.

Maggie wrings the towel out of one of the windows before sitting on the side of your bed and brushing the towel across your forehead.

The cool water on your skin calms you enough to begin to relax. You lean into the towel and close your eyes.

“How do you feel?” Maggie asks.

“Like I got dragged down an alley.”

She sighs. “I’m so sorry, honey. I don’t know what to say. Just thank God you’re alright and that Francis passed by at the right time.”

Your eyes fly open. Francis.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Don't you remember?” Maggie says. “Francis was headed home and heard the commotion. Those men got spooked and scrambled away.”

“Right... And how’d I get here? Back home?”

Maggie flips the towel over and brushes it gently across the rest of your face.

“Well, early that morning, I thought I heard you coming through the door. I heard the keys and the floorboards creaking, then a man mumbling or something.” She laughs. “I thought you were about to get lucky. I came out being nosy, trying to get a look at your fella.”

You watch her face as she continues. She looks off to the side and stops brushing the towel against you.

“That’s when I saw Francis with you in his arms, covered in dirt and dried blood. Knocked out. I think I must have screamed because I remember him telling me to be quiet and asking about all kinds of supplies. I cleaned you up while he cleaned and dressed your wounds. Then he put you in the bed and left so that I could change your clothes.”

She sighs. “I’ve never been so scared or so certain. It was like I just knew what to do.”

You’d liked Maggie from the moment she stepped onto your doorstep asking about the room you had for rent. You knew a bit about her past but you mostly enjoyed each other’s company in the present. She’s like your wild and free little sister. It feels odd seeing her sad because of you.

You grab her hand and she looks at you.

“Thank you, Margaret.”

She gives you a slight smile as she squeezes your hand.

You finally take a moment to notice that Maggie’s wearing her audition clothes, a smart blouse under a grey wool jacket and matching shirt. “Audition day?”

“Oh!” Maggie stands abruptly from the bed. “I heard you call out just as I was about to leave.”

She gives you a guilty smile.

“I got a call back from that audition last week.” She gnaws on her lip. “I think this is the one.”

It couldn’t be better news. She’s been a struggling artist every day you’ve known her.

“Don’t feel guilty! I’m happy for you. Please, go. I can take care of myself.”

Maggie’s expression of guilt fades quickly into amusement. “You won’t have to.”

“Oh?”

Maggie grins and leaves the room, coming back quickly with a serving tray. The tray she settles around you is loaded up with chicken and rice soup, a hearty slice of bread, a glass of orange juice, and the morning paper.

You gasp. Maggie is a lot of things, but a cook she ain’t.

“Margaret! You cooked?”

She laughs and says in a sing-song voice, “Well, somebody did. Definitely wasn’t me.”

You open your mouth to ask who else it could have been when you hear the floorboards creak in the hallway.

“Hello?” you call out just as the visitor enters your room.

Francis leans up against the door frame. He’s fiddling with his hands and looking up at you under his eyelashes.

“How you doin’, sweetheart? Alright?”

You stare back at him. His knuckles are bruised but he otherwise looks better than the last time you saw him at the diner.

Maggie clears her throat, mouth twisted to the side as she hides a smile. “I should be heading out. Thank you so much for staying with her, Francis.”

“No problem, sweetheart.”

Maggie giggles on her way out of your room. Her footsteps recede until you hear the door open and close.

Looking at Francis, all of the questions floating around your mind earlier rush back in at once. You’re intensely aware of a chasm between the girlish fantasies you’ve entertained about him and the fact that you know so little about this man.

Neither you nor Francis speaks for minutes.

“’s gonna get cold,” he eventually says.

You nod, picking up a spoon. The soup smells delicious. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

“Saturday! I slept an entire day?”

Francis nods. “Yeah. ‘s not uncommon. The shock, the overwhelm. When you’re safe, you just sort of…crash.”

You nod.

Wait, Saturday.

“What about Mister Cranston?”

“Museum guy?”

You nod.

“He was by yesterday. Pushy little guy. Grilled me for two hours about that night like I wasn’t the hero here.”

You smile. “How’s he gettin’ on at the museum? I hate the idea of leaving him alone. It’s a big project, he needs help with it.”

Francis wags a finger at you. “He said those would be some of the first words outta your mouth, worrying about him. He also said don’t worry about him.”

Francis gestures to an envelope on your bedside table. “He brought your pay by early.”

You scoff. Typical Mister C. You’re supposed to be paid on Saturdays for the work done that week. You’re certain that check includes pay for two days of work you didn’t do.

You turn your attention back into the soup. Some old, faint voice belonging to your mother pops into your head. “If you must eat in front of a man, dainty bites. No man wants a barn animal.”

But at your first bite of the soup, all ceremony goes out the window. The soup is delicious. There’s flavorful chicken, rice, and vegetables swimming in a rich and full broth. You wolf it down as fast as you can and quickly find yourself slurping up the broth after eating most of the bowl’s contents.

Francis’ laughter draws you out of your search for the last drops of the broth in the bowl.

“There’s more where that came from, ya know.”

You wipe your mouth, a sheepish smile on your lips.

“I haven’t eaten in two days, thank you very much.”

Francis finally steps away from the door, seeming more relaxed now. He sits on the bed, just past your feet.

You wait for him to speak, but he seems to be searching for words. He opens his mouth a few times, an “uh” or “um” coming out before he shuts it again.

You’d try to help him out but you don’t know what to say either. Instead, you grab the newspaper and start flipping through it. You’re hardly paying attention, just skimming to have something to do.

Then, an article at the bottom of the page catches your eye. As you start to read it, your breath quickens.

“WHO PUNISHES THE PUNISHER?”

Over the past several months, the criminal inhabitants of New York City have had a new kind of law enforcement to answer to. A nameless, masked vigilante—colloquially referred to as The Punisher—has been terrorizing the criminal sect, leaving in his wake a trail of dead and mangled bodies.

The Punisher has become a polarizing figure in the city, with many locals grateful to have a criminal who’s on their side, but with others wondering, “Just who does this guy think he is?”

Jeannie Serrano was a witness to The Punisher’s most recent outing in Hell’s Kitchen, during which he saved an unidentified girl from two ruffians in an alley two days ago. Neither man survived the attack.

Serrano says: “I heard a commotion in the alley on the side of the apartment. I went to the side window to check it out and there was a girl running from two men. She’s just screaming her head off and I ran to call the police but then I heard the men start yelling. I went back and there and saw some guy pummeling the creeps. You ask me, they got what they were asking for. Trying to interfere with a girl like that. It’s not right. I’m glad he did it. Maybe now girls can walk the streets without fear. Make those scumbags afraid for a change.”

But other residents aren’t quite as welcoming as Mrs. Serrano. “I don’t like it,” says Brooklyn resident Marvin Akeman. ”Who died and made him the law? Who even is this guy? I know I didn’t elect him, did you? What’s he want? We’re all just suckers sitting around thanking him and who knows what he’s got planned. He could be the worst of the bunch and you’re out here reporting on him like it’s nothing. You ask me, somebody oughta lock him up. See what’s what.”

Polarizing as he may be, if this week’s most recent events are anything to go by, The Punisher has no plans of stopping. Or being caught.

You finish with the article and find yourself just staring. You think back to the morning before the attack. You remembered seeing yet another article about the guy they’re calling The Punisher. He’s been in the news for months now but you haven’t thought much about it. You’re from a small town, you know how it goes. There are some things the law isn’t cut out to handle. You were really surprised there weren’t more people like him in the city, where there’s so much unnecessary danger.

Because you don’t have ill will or fearful feelings about the “Punisher,” you’d never stopped to wonder who he could be. You’d never asked yourself what kind of man might be wrapped up in this.

“What happened to you the other night?” you ask. “When you came to the diner. You looked like you’d just gotten out of a boxing ring. What happened?”

Francis, who had still been trying to figure out what to say to you, knits his eyebrows together and makes a gruff noise under his breath.

He shakes his head. “Nothin’. Just a little disagreement.”

You nod. Your hands subconsciously tighten around the paper in your hands.

“Like the disagreement you had with the men in the alley?”

“Exactly like that.”

An uncertain silence falls between you two. Francis doesn’t break eye contact until you do, looking down at the paper in your hands. As stoic as he can be, Francis is a fidgeter when he’s nervous. You watch out of the sides of your eyes as he cracks his knuckles, picks at his nails, and bounces his heel up and down.

You’re quiet long enough that when you speak again, Francis flinches so slightly you might not have noticed it if you weren’t so focused on him.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you say.

“Hm?” he says with a raise of his eyebrows.

You lift up and twist the paper around to show him the article. His eyes dart down to it and then back up to your face but he remains silent. You’re glad he doesn’t bother lying to you, but it’s clear you’re going to have to drive the conversation.

“D’you know I’m not from the city?”

“Yeah, I remember some of those stories about your growing up in the country,” he says with a grin. “Pretty sure you told me one about pushin’ some idiot’s face down into a cow pat when got fresh with you.”

“Exactly,” you shrug. “Where I come from, a girl had to look out for herself and failin’ that, we had to take care of each other. Maybe it’d be givin’ a face a slap and maybe that wouldn’t cut it.”

Francis nods. “I get that.”

You watch him for a moment that stretches so long he starts to get uneasy. He shifts his weight slightly on the bed and visibly swallows. A first nervously clenches and unclenches once where it rests on his leg. But he never breaks your gaze.

“I watched my gran run more than a couple of bad eggs out of town with her sawed off. Women beaters. Worse. Sometimes you have to take care of things yourself. Maybe I wish it was different but people doin’ what they’ve got to doesn’t bother me. But with you, I don’t know.”

He looks so handsome with his eyebrows knitted together and his lips pursed. You’d almost prefer to keep him confused.

“You don’t exactly owe me anything here, Francis, but I don’t understand it. It’s always gonna be someone but why you?”

Francis nods, seemingly to himself, as his eyes roam around the room. He stands and walks over to one of the windows, leaning his arm against the frame. The sun is still sat high in the sky and he squints against it.

“Sweetheart…,” he says quietly. He’s still gazing out the window, but he darts his head down as if he avoiding meeting your gaze. “’s complicated.”

You gesture at yourself.

“I’ve got time. Uncomplicate it.”

This chapter has been mostly finished for months but life does life and anyway, it's here now! I love writing these two. Let me know how you feel about this chapter. Comments and good-faith feedback are welcome.

mdni banner by @/cafekitsune | divider banner by @/saradika (sorry for the accidental tags! I have no idea what I'm doing!)

[nobody7102]

THIS IS 1940’S BRADLEY NO ONE CAN TELL ME IT NOT

[just-bendy]

How old is henry?

I am in my early 50's, but what happened in the old studio would actually make me in my 100's.

[caitiemessedupthetimeheist]

Anyone know of any stony fics where everything is the same but Tony is in the 40’s? Not time-travel, just him being born earlier and helping with Project Rebirth

[quinndecker]

Still dealing with a bit of burnout so here’s some more dorky bisexuals.

My oc Vinny and @kmilart’s oc Lilithia

[aethon-recs]

2024 Update to Tomarrymort Longfic Recs — 8 additional fics

I wanted to add 8 lovely new longfics that have been published since the last time I put together this rec list — 6 more for the Intermediate reads list and 2 more for Advanced. Hopefully you’ll find something within these additional 950k words of absolutely brilliant Tomarrymort fic to sink your teeth into and enjoy:

Longfic rec list collection:

Tomarrymort Beginner reads are the fics I would use to introduce someone to the ship and help them get a baseline for the variety, themes, and tropes that best represent our ship;

Intermediate reads are for readers that are already familiar/sold on the ship, and are looking for fics that explore interesting new facets of the Tomarrymort dynamic; 

Advanced reads comprise challenging works of some nature, whether the writing features more complex subject matter and/or pushes the boundaries of what’s possible in a piece of fanfic.

Please enjoy these 8 additions to the list, all of which are either completed or still updating as of 2024!

*

Intermediate Longfic Recs

A Light That Never Goes Out by @kippipies (M, 80k, WIP)

Setting: Non-Magical AU Premise: If Harry is the target of a dangerous crime lord called Voldemort and his gang of Death Eaters in a modern mafia AU. Why I rec it: This is a delightful, high-energy caper of a fic in which Harry is a scrappy low-time criminal who accidentally crosses crime boss Voldemort. Naturally, Voldemort sets his sights on getting revenge, but Harry slips through his fingers at the last minute each time. The action scenes in this fic are incredibly dynamic and super fun — I felt like I was watching an action movie at each confrontation between Harry and Voldemort.

And the Living Will Envy the Dead by @k-s-morgan (M, 81k, WIP)

Setting: Time Travel (1940s) Premise: If Harry were flung back in time to Tom’s sixth year and almost immediately reveals he is Tom’s horcrux, setting off a chain reaction of obsession and control.  Why I rec it: An intricately crafted character study of Tom and how he gained control over the rest of Slytherin House by the time Harry meets him at the start of sixth year. Harry’s arrival throws Tom’s plans off-kilter, especially once Harry reveals he was Tom’s horcrux in another timeline. This leads Tom to believe the other version of him had somehow loved Harry, and shows him that it’s possible to form such a connection with Harry here if he wants, despite how dark, cruel, and violent he turned out and how little he cares for others. 

By Any Means by @corpium (E, 74k, WIP)

Setting: Alternate Universe Premise: If Harry has a younger brother Evan who is the Boy-Who-Lived, yet Harry’s overprotective actions towards Evan end up attracting the attention of Voldemort directly onto himself. Why I rec it: This is a really engaging and fast-paced adaptation of canon events if Harry were born 2 years earlier and his younger brother were the one that the prophecy applied to. The relationship between Harry and Evan is really sweet, as they share the burden of growing up at the Dursleys and all the adventures that Harry underwent in canon. There’s also such a fascinating exploration of magic as Harry gradually becomes more powerful as a result of all the trials that he’s put through, eventually becoming powerful enough to attract the attention of Voldemort. 

Pledged by @moontearpensfic (E, 118k, WIP)

Setting: Alternate Universe Premise: If Harry and Tom are best friends that enter together into a Hunger Games-crossed-with-Triwizard Tournament in their seventh year.  Why I rec it: This fic depicts co-dependency to such an intense degree between Harry and Tom. Not only are they inseparable best friends throughout their time at Hogwarts, they also perform a cooperative magic ritual that binds their magic to each other permanently, and allows them to share thoughts and feelings with each other across a mental link. There’s also an intriguing mystery at the heart of this story, as Harry and Tom try to figure out the origins of the Triwizard-style tournament that they enter into in their seventh year. 

Revolution of Configured Stars by @tollingreminiscentbells (E, 153k, WIP)

Setting: Voldemort Wins AU Premise: If Harry was raised in a pureblood family in a universe where Voldemort wins, and ends up attracting the attention of Voldemort in his seventh year at Hogwarts.  Why I rec it: This is such an intricate, incredibly thoughtful depiction of a society where Voldemort won and Harry was raised as a ward of a pureblood family. By the time it’s Harry’s seventh year, he’s a budding Arithmancy scholar who wants to explore whether it’s possible to choose the optimal timeline via arithmantic calculations, which catches the attention of Voldemort. Voldemort and Harry’s relationship unfolds in such a steamy way, and they truly feel like equals who hold each other in high regard, as Voldemort reveals that they have been inextricably linked by fate, whether or not he ended up trying to kill Harry as a baby in this particular timeline. 

the stars, my destination by @milkandmoon-ao3 (M, 15k, WIP)

Setting: Time Travel (Marauders Era) Premise: If Harry is sent back in time as an infant and adopted into the Potter family, growing up and attending Hogwarts alongside James.  Why I rec it: There is a dearth of Harrymort fics set in Marauders Era so it is such a delight to read about Harry’s friendships and rivalries with Marauders Era characters, like being best friends with Regulus and Quidditch rivals with James. As Harry starts his sixth year, the First Wizarding War heats up in the background and begins spilling into their life at Hogwarts as many of their classmates are recruited to fight on either side of it. All the while that he has to keep secret the strange mental connection that he’s had with the Dark Lord all his life. 

*

Advanced Longfic Recs

Hearthstone Abbey (Series) by @ramabear (E, 152k, WIP series)

Setting: Soulmate AU Premise: If second year Harry is plucked away from his canon universe by Voldemort from another universe who is his soulmate. Why I rec it: I wholly melted at all the ways Voldemort takes care of Harry in this fic, better treatment than Harry’s ever gotten in his entire life, and Harry is so lovable and adorable in turn. Voldemort has established himself as a religious figurehead/cult leader in the alternate universe, and it was very interesting to read about his alternate path to power. The soft grooming in this fic was so so delicious, ramping up in intensity as the fic progresses; Voldemort completely dotes on Harry and their dynamic is so sweet and tender, a very nice counterbalance to the sinister and predatory tones that underlie their relationship.

if we were lovers by @reggieblk (E, 277k, complete)

Setting: Non-Magical AU Premise: If Harry and Tom meet in a prestigious drama programme and fall for each other against a backdrop of high stakes threatre productions.  Why I rec it: The character work is so rich and detailed in this coming-of-age story in a modern AU setting. It’s clear there was so much thought that went into all the character interactions here, not only between Harry and Tom, but also the ensemble cast of characters who inject so much heart and humor into this story as well. I love the way that @reggieblk cleverly weaves in elements from Shakespeare’s plays and uses the theatre backdrop to depict how the love story between Harry and Tom unfolds — their developing relationship feels, at the same time, both very immersive and cozy, as well as highly fraught with tension. (As a bonus, there is an absolutely amazing original play in the interlude chapter that was written specifically for this fic!)

*

[kathaynesart]

It is time! I'm so excited to get the chance to go toe to toe with one of my all time favorite AU's in the @tmntaucompetition, Empyrean Weeping by @cupcakeslushie ! EW!Donnie is just a treasure that must be protected. Luckily Replica Donnie is willing to take him under his wing. Since the theme for this round of the competition is 1940's I just had to do them as a pair of a film noir styled Private Eyes with Replica as the seasoned sleuth and EW as his new, young upstart of a partner. Just saying they would probably make a good team!

You can vote HERE!

[sunboki]

— THE ALCHEMIST. a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. historical! au, set in 1940’s Korea, alchemist! au, friends to lovers, fluff, angst

WARNINGS. abusive behavior toward women, impoverished communities, overall sexist beliefs of the time, reader dresses as a man, mentions of death & disease, smoking (not reader or minho), war conflict, making out??

WORD COUNT. 9.6k words

AUG'S NOTES. although it was a bit out of the blue, i had such a great time writing and shaping this universe, thank you to all the love and support thus far<3 also, huge thanks to @comet-falls for instilling the peaky blinders/historical! minho vision in my head with how incredible tooth and claw was, i truly owe it to you :)

SYNOPSIS. Cities stricken with poverty, the lack of male presence in your home while surviving in a male-dominated society leaves meager food on the table and a piling debt. Left no choice but to make a risky decision, you decide that, if biology wanted to fail you, you’d simply try another approach.

alternatively :

In which deception introduces you into an entirely new reality, and The Alchemist.

It’s one thing surviving with the knowledge you can change something, whatever it may be that’s wrong. 

It’s another when that problem isn’t merely changeable, but biological. 

Your problem? You’re a woman. 

Not as easy to fix, right?

.

.

.

With your father lost in the war, fruitlessly straining to support a family of girls, the household is left helpless.

Representation is nonexistent, and merely walking outside frets harassment and laughter struck in your face at the mention of working. 

A woman, working? Hilarious. 

Or, apparently to the men in pubs it certainly is.

Some things you can’t change, yes, but there are always alternatives. And as for now, you’re helplessly searching high and low for that alternative, whatever it may be. 

Selling yourself is possible, though the inability to remain connected to your family eliminates that option. 

When you get so desperate, there’s no incentive in guarding your pride. Because being called derogatory names isn’t as bad as losing them, the people you call home.

October welcomes little warmth, biting your fingertips and sending a tremor of chills cascading down your spine. Minimal sunlight peers through dense clouds, shrouding the atmosphere in a depressing haze. 

You’re on your way to the apothecary, but not to purchase anything. The pennies in your pocket won’t amount to anything in the face of medicinal prices, which happens to be one of your many alternatives. 

Since day one, you’ve had a rock to rely on.

Medicine. 

Lack of money meant improper living conditions, entailing sickness. 

Constantly.

Whether it was your mother, your younger sister, yourself, an infection of some sort occupied your respiratory system, wreaking havoc for wallets and mental health altogether. 

Purchasing necessary medication became impossible the further you drowned in your debt, to the point drastic measures needed to be taken in order to prevent death from infesting itself in the household as well.

Then came the question. If you couldn’t purchase the medicine itself, why not collect the ingredients?

Alternatives.

Behind the apothecary you discovered mint hedges that, if mixed with wormwood and balm, could aid in curing Sun-ja’s current sickness, colic. 

Although, you’d have to be swift in your efforts, ensuring the shop owner didn’t notice your presence.

Too many times had you nearly been caught, risking a good beating from the red-haired, burly man regarded as Mr. Myeong.

Fiery red hair complimented an equally unruly personality you aimed not to cross by. Ever.

Yet, unlike Mr. Myeong, his wife was the polar opposite, an ideal magnet. She was petite and soft-spoken, but out of her appealing traits, you found her resilience to be most attractive.

Mrs. Myeong is stubborn. She’s strong in what she believes, sporting an unquestionably vocal opinion that can’t be quenched.

The woman is, likely, the only woman capable of sealing her husband’s mouth shut.  

Hidden between thorn ridden weeds sits your desired leaves, abundant in supply.

You clutch your satchel closer, plucking as quickly as possible whilst crouched to the ground, maneuvering through tickling grasses and itchy reeds. 

Your mission remains successful, until the wretched sound of a doorknob rips your head upward, the red-haired man in question standing nonplussed, arms crossed. 

He wears a cocked brow, examining what you’re desperately trying to veil away.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Stealing, are we?” Black boot clad frame thumping closer, you immediately prepare to run, hair standing on end like an agitated feline.

Instead, his huge hand swoops down to grab your collar, other evidently ready to land a harsh slap to your face.

Instinctively cringing, you brace for the stinging impact.

That is, before a saccharine, lullaby-worthy voice rings from the cracked doorway, belonging to none other than Mrs. Myeong.

“Honey! Have you seen the new envelope that came in?” 

Heels clicking whilst padding over cobblestone to where you two stand, her husband fixates you with a stern, threatening glare. 

Finally dropping your frame to the ground, you slump forward, pulse pounding loud enough you fear your chest may implode. 

Mrs. Myeong, though wearing a taut expression, ushers him off, delivering a curt nod your way, intentional brows furrowed in place. 

‘Thank you’ You wish to say, but hold your tongue, watching them disappear inside.

Another time.

Walking home was rather uneventful (much to your delight), left to enjoy the crisp, cool air sifting through your lungs in steady rhythm, the lazy billows of cigar smoke dwindling from gaping doorways.

Calm. 

Nothing calm ever lasts long.

Stashing the house key back into your decrepit leather draw bag, your footsteps still upon entering, struck terror-filled.

Your mother, strawn across the floor, hacks amongst her rampant coughs, body convulsing in desperate shivers, skin drenched a ghastly blue.

Sprinting to her side, you kneel down, rolling the woman over to find her face utterly battered, new black eye beginning to swell, cheek bruised a mawkish purple against hollowed cheekbones. 

Sharks.

To your left Sun-ja hides in the corner, rags for a blanket pulled to her chest, shielded between the wall and a tipped cabinet. 

Over and over they’ve begun visiting, to the point your mother became recognizable by her continuous black eye, her torn clothing and stooped posture. 

Exhausted, she was exhausted. 

Yet, she took the beatings. The torturous punches. Jarring slaps, traumatic insults, tarnishing. Your mother took it so you wouldn’t, so you and Sun-ja could live.

And it’s at that moment you make up your mind, discover this occasion’s alternative. 

“Cut it off.” 

“Cut.. Cut it off?” Hyunjin gapes, fingers stalling their descent down a strand of your hair. 

You smile, grimacing the longer consideration poises.

No point in thinking too much.

“Yep. Give me the most boy-ish haircut you can.” You emphasize, gesturing toward his scissors expectantly. 

Hyunjin, your personally appointed hairstylist, doesn’t seem too convinced. He’s debating, expertly reading your features.

Currently, you’re holed up in his room, a miniature apartment located near the furthest section of town, close to the coast.

In wee hours of morning you boarded the train here, inhaling salty, ocean-smelling breeze. Back in your old residence you met him, your neighbor Hwang Hyunjin. It’s a miracle you still stayed in contact, bond aging like the finest of wines over countless years. 

Enough to where you trusted him to help you enact this alternative of yours. 

Starting with a haircut.

The man stares at you through the mirror, dark, inky hair matting the longer he runs his hands through it. 

Thoughtfully trying to figure out your reasoning, he evidently catches on the moment you witness his eyes roll, releasing a heaving sigh.

“You cannot be serious.”

A torrential truth keeps you from responding, gaze directed at your feet. 

“Y/n,” He uttered, eyes filling with a concern you avoid meeting, avoid regarding in a whole. “You don’t have to do this, the war is going to end soon and your father will come ba—“

“He’s dead.”

Silence engulfs the room.

Collecting yourself, you scorn his frown.

“He’s dead and gone. Now I need to protect them, provide for them.“ 

You deny the shakiness of your voice.

“So, Hyunjin. Cut off my hair.”

Accordingly, he does without another word. Snip by snip, tress by tress falling below, scattering the tile floor in endless strands.

By the time you see yourself, it’s hard to recognize the person in the reflection. Never had you considered your hair a viable source of identity, but now that it’s so sparse, the effect is eminent. 

Failing to see yourself in your own reflection beckons a different kind of sadness. For the person you’ve introduced yourself as reigns no more. She’s been replaced.

Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, embrace just as comforting as you remembered. His hand reaches to caress your cropped hair, rocking back and forth on his heels, chin resting on your head. 

“Be careful, okay?”

Nodding into his shoulder, you wipe salty streaks from your cheeks. 

Hurts.

“And if you need a place to take shelter, I’ll be here.”

Steadying in his hug again, you pull back, cherishing his kindness with a chaste kiss to the cheek. 

“Thank you, really.”

Shaking his head at your gratitude, urging you out and lingering by the doorway till your figure retreats in the distance.

Next stop, Mrs. Myeong. 

If anyone has any idea how to source the clothing you’re needing, your best chance would be thanks to her. 

An hour later you arrive in familiar avenues, creeping out of sight into the apothecary in hopes the woman you’re looking for is working the counter. 

Much to your pleasure, after a few unsuccessful attempts do you grasp her attention, edging forward under the guise of a regular hoping to converse. 

“I need your help.”

Initially, she carries that sternness, wordlessly lifting your hooded head a bit to notice the latest adjustment. Shock written over her face, Mrs. Myeong drags you along with her, closing the door to a back room.   

“My child, what is going on?�� She whispers, tone urgent. You can’t help but feel fond of the affectionate nickname.

“I need male clothing and,” You hesitate, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. “something to bind my chest with.”

Similar to Hyunjin, she steps back, assessing the situation at hand. Spending a brief few seconds roaming your figure, the woman works hastily toward fetching a petticoat, meticulously fitting each article atop your stock-still frame.

“You’re conceited,” she grumbles. “And foolish.” Carefully peeling off your upper-wear, she’s managed to cut a piece of thick cloth to use as a make-shift binder, assembling the fabric over your breast. 

The experience, although strange, wasn’t as painful as anticipated.

“But be careful, and stay in contact.”

Your response is hushed.

“Breathe in,” The older woman instructs, securing her creation with a threaded pin before moving onto other aspects, like a proper coat and pants. 

Mr. Myeong’s trousers, though having to be sewn to fit, make do, and you’re reminded to return tomorrow for shoes. Otherwise, the attire is completed, paired with a curved hat to finish. 

Sure, the entire male concept is foreign, but given time, you’ll gradually acclimate.

Oh, right. 

Your alternative?

Since medicine is what you know, you’ll stick with that. Difference being medicine is a men’s occupation, and so, if you can’t be a female working in the field, why not become male? 

Well, somewhat become male.

It’s a risky wager, easily placing your life on the line in the process. 

For your mother and Sun-ja, however, it’s your turn to take the beating. Your turn to endure.

Observation is a virtue. It can save and preserve, heed to oncoming danger, and simultaneously (and discreetly) supply useful information.

Today, seated on a bench in Daegu Station, your first observation is the abundance of people scurrying like mice.

Some tall, some short. Distinct moles, eyes. Upturned and downturned lips. Mustaches, beards. Much to see.

Your legs cross and uncross, Mr. Myeong’s oversized heeled shoes beginning to sink at your ankles. Hat strung low enough to peer out without attracting attention, your gaze is magnetically drawn to a magazine held on the adjacent side of the train tracks, title on display.   

Prized Alchemist Lee Minho suspected of being the lone survivor of the Red Plagu—

Ignorant to your surroundings, your senses posed numb to the incoming train, blocking off the last few words of the title from view the moment it soars past—nearly sweeping the fedora off your head. 

By the time the last few train cars passed, the man honing said magazine had disappeared, and you were left wondering if the experience was merely a figment of your imagination.  

Although, you did have one lead. A name.

Lee Minho. 

Where you’d find him remained unknown, deciding to rely on a magazine parlor first and foremost for more intel.  

To no surprise, nearly every magazine rack lay lined with haughty opinions regarding the war and its evident cruelty.

Many onlookers of both Americans, Koreans, and foreigners alike chatter amongst themselves about their own take between gossiping hands and fumes of tobacco.

In this town, located far off in the business district by a ship port, people are everywhere.

Wives of sailors, families of soldiers off at war. Women honing gleaning parasols and ivory gloves reaching to their elbows.

Languages you’ve never heard before utter their enunciated syllables, vocabulary petulant with accent—all shrouded in dismay.   

Roaming the store endlessly to no avail, you prepare to adventure back through dusty streets and battered wooden stall-shops before a peculiar name pauses your footsteps. 

His name, The Alchemist, Lee Minho.

“Bring ‘em home I tell ‘ya,” An aged man by the deepened grooves of his face, hollow cheekbones and bunched wrinkles grumbles.

A fat cigar hangs loosely from thin lips, pale baker boy cap adorning a bald head. 

Some sentences estranged, you identify his sentences as French, heavy in dialect, throaty and broad.

And although your fluency stay patchy, exposure from French immigrants who’ve relocated near home allow minimal understanding as to what they’re talking about.

“Say, did you hear that Lee Minho chap was a Red Plague?” His counterpart offered past his own leering cigar, foot tapping incessantly.

The other hacks his bewilderment, feeble fist pounding on an equally feeble chest.

“The Alchemist?” 

The man’s astonishment returned with a nod, you lean closer, pretending to be consumed in an article. 

“Said he was only nineteen when it happened. Shipped ‘em off only for disease to kill them all. One survived, now people are speculatin’ it’s him.”

Either of them sigh out long drags.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Is all the other huffs in disbelief, and upon recognizing the conversation approaching an end, you stir to action, willing your voice to deepen an octave.

Attempting to appeal in your broken French, you stall the two, cautiously claiming you’re in need of his whereabouts for an esteemed business transaction to which, through confused stares, you’re given loose directions.

Loose, but feasible.

80 Kent Avenue, dark blue doors.

Directions that, according to the sudden blank of streetlights, would have to wait until tomorrow. As for now, the world beckoned you to rest, and any progress would prove futile and rather impossible in the dark.

Luckily, a run-down Inn gifted good few hours of shut-eye before dawn peered through the windowsills and you were begrudgingly forced to your feet. 

Fitting the binder snug across your body and fastening your trench coat through minuscule belt loops, you’re taught with much haste the stark difference of men’s prestige entitlement. 

First access to everything, the ability to have their way with a woman whether she willingly obliges or not, and just about ten billion other things someone of your hidden status couldn’t fathom.

A man’s world is a world only possible through disguise. Yours just happens to be a last resort.

Charming the mistress at the front desk was unexpectedly effortless, not to mention how easily she spilled the details as to where Kent Avenue would be located.

Another noticeable attribute of your new appearance, no one asked as to where you were going nor your intentions, they merely dipped their heads and wished you off.

Adjustments.

Adjustments that, if you’d been born different, would be normal.

Kent Avenue lay twisted in shadows. The surrounding area brims in barely flickering labels and creaking doorways leading to who knows where. Quaint isn’t the word for it. More ancient, all-knowing. 

This place has been here for centuries with many stories to tell, most just haven’t heard them yet.

Significantly dark blue doors make the Alchemist’s residence easily noticeable, starkly contrasting with wooded architecture. Massive doorknobs engraved with lions, windows shielded by moth-eaten curtains. Grand, in its own form.

You swore each door stood eight feet tall, the left in particular left slightly ajar.

Wait, ajar?

Doing a double take to ensure your vision wasn’t playing tricks on you, you inch forward, widening the dark gap exponentially until all you faced was a black abyss—apart from the miniature lamp beaming yellow light in a far corner.

Carefully tiptoeing into said black abyss, the further you explore, the greater the visibility increases. Leather cushioned furniture, clean, polished desks. The desk the lone lamp rests upon is a chestnut wooden, ink feathers residing in the upper corner.

Somehow, the matter grants envy, resentment grating your nerves. This man lives comfortably while other’s are beaten for possessing nothing. Maybe it’s a petty, unnecessary thought; and maybe you’re foolish, but all odds are against you, your disposition seems righteous.

Getting too lost in your head turned out foolish as well.

“What’s this?” A voice behind you whispers, voice ghosting chills tickling your neck at an alarming pace. 

Whipping around, eyes struck wide in shock, the person responsible for the remark comes into view, his stature opposing the tone muttered in your ear seconds ago.     

Not a plump business man like you imagined, not adorning a spectacle, no pipe in sight. Instead, one lone button right below the chest fits snug white sleeves cuffed by his elbows, black vest hugging a slim torso.

Conniving, cat-like eyes analyze your expressions while dark brown hair parts to the side, loose strands covering his right eyebrow. And when he reaches up to brush a few frayed tresses to the side you note sleek gloves covering long, pale fingers. 

If anything, this man is more similar to a Vampire.

“Trespassing, are we?”

Collect yourself. This is your opportunity.

Swiftly brushing off your clothes, you clear your throat.

“I have an offer.”

“An offer?” A smile belonging to that of a Cheshire cat adorns his lips, one leg propping itself over the other, fingers intertwining in front of him.

Ensuring your voice is clear and concise (while keeping the deeper, male-ish tone), you state your claim, despising how utterly debilitating it feels being caught under his observative stare. 

Like he sees through you.

“I would be a valuable asset to your studies in alchemy. I know about herbs and their uses better than anyone else, and where they’re located.”

Sure, the bargain might’ve sounded arrogant, but you were technically cosplaying as a man when most men of your time couldn’t shut up about themselves, arrogance was the least of your problems. 

Gnawing at his cheek as you spoke, he pauses a moment, then laughs.

Amused. 

Dark lashes dust above equally dark eyes, nearly black as they study you.

“You want to be my apprentice? Is that it?”

You remain close-lipped.

“I’ll tell you one thing, kid. This world is all about money,” He raises a cane from where he reclined, using the end to tip your chin up and meet his eyes. 

“No?” 

To which you simply stare back at him, refusing to avert eye-contact. 

“I’m sure that’s what you’re here for anyways.” Rising from his place, he sighs heartily. “But see, I’m a greedy man, not a good man.” 

Abruptly, his countenance falls flat. 

“And my job isn’t fun, so you’re out of luck.” 

Immediately, you’re frantic, trying your hardest to ignore his obvious statement to leave. The last thing you need is to run out of luck, run out of options.

And so, you hastily wrack your mind for a solution, an excuse, whatever keeps you in this dimly lit room.

“You- You were part of the Red Plague, weren’t you?” Spitting out words from the depths of your racing mind, The Alchemist stops, fixing you with an unreadable look.

Red Plague as in, the group of young men enlisted during the war that all died of a deadly disease but one. One who, many speculate is the man before you.

Breathe in.

“I may not know much about you, but I know what it’s like to want to save somebody.”

Breathe out.

Now it was his turn to stand there, and for a second you swore you saw a flash of sympathy cross his face.

You wet your lips. “I’ll run your errands and wash your clothing, I’ll clean this place spotless. Plus, it’s not like I’m a woman asking for a job, so please, give me a chance.” 

Slowly, The Alchemist raises a brow, laugh disbelieving.

“Since when did being a woman have anything to do with this?” 

Huh?

How.. odd.

If anything, the majority would wholeheartedly agree, likely hiring you on the spot with how impalpable such a jest seemed.

He would’ve laughed, maybe slapped your back. Would’ve wrapped an arm around your shoulders, proclaimed you his friend.

Yet, you almost feel flattered. Flattered in a strange, unrealistic manner. 

Basking in a deplorable quietness, The Alchemist sighs, combing a gloved hand through silken strands. 

“I have a spare room around that corner.” He points, leather gloves narrowly highlighted by orange lighting.  “Make yourself useful, hm?”

And like that, even if it was a long shot, you landed it. More specifically, landed a job. 

How preposterous. 

How exciting. 

Yet, it began hesitantly. As if he was initially testing your usefulness. Sending you on runs to the nearby gardens, having you make sure a concoction didn’t derange itself while he fetched better flasks. Easy things.

However, you didn’t complain. A boring job was better than no job, and as long as a few coins were emptied into your pocket afterward, you’d continue to work without whining.  

Burdock, oregano. Motherwort that would erupt billows of chemically-infused air when added to oils or sugars.  

Then you noticed The Alchemist. His quirks, his  characteristics. 

He shifts between a long trench coat or tight vests, his hair is always styled a certain way, though some days, when he just wakes up, he has this tiny bird nest of hair atop his head, it’s charming. 

He yawns a lot. 

He wears heeled shoes, maybe from his shorter height, maybe preference. 

And rather peculiarly, the longer you stay in his lair, the greater you notice the many scars littering his forearms, collarbones. Miniature cuts and imprints left on porcelain skin. 

Those observations, conjoined with his reactions, make for a truly interesting character. 

Reactions being his dislike toward loud noises, the matter in which his shoulders scrunch at a loud clap outside, eyes blown wide, fearful. 

The longer you stay in his lair, the more you notice him, nonetheless his fears. Whether suspicion clarifies anything in specific, there’s no denying he’s a man of war. 

Lee Minho has secrets, and as badly as your nosiness itches to uncover them, you, as you had promised earlier, will keep your lips sealed. 

And it makes you wonder, what’s life like on your side of the street? What throng of unfairness left you awash, left you both suffering? 

You wonder about your oppositions and similarities in different points of each other’s lives. Minutes, decades before you ever met.

Certain stones shall stay unturned, but you hope, maybe one day, those questions will be answered.  

Interestingly enough, he never asked about your name; not even when you gingerly introduced yourself as your last name, a rather awkward fit.

Likewise, you don’t complain. There’s only two of you in the house after all.

A week in, you’re finally introduced to something new. 

The Alchemist plans to have you tag along with him to Port Nova, a docking station located on the outskirts of Busan.

Business thrives in ship ports, the sole source of connectivity for a growing country like Korea. Each day, millions of shipments come in from countries you can’t name, so you’re not surprised in the slightest he’s headed there for a transaction. 

You are surprised he decided to have you tag along.

Even more so that, as you hop off the transit, hurriedly tailing his left, he veers off a sharp turn, approaching a worn Burlesque Club, glittering sign halfway dangling from its perch on a scarlet red awning. 

English letters spell out Nova Burlesque, a few missing letters left astray to the side, electrical bulbs spasming with sporadic lighting on the dusty ground below.

In the daylight, the place appears ordinary, blending in with its crumbling, desolate surroundings. 

Although, you have no doubt this place utterly delights in the eve, pink-neon inviting enough to lure unaware foreigners upon first arrival. 

“Mr. Lee,” You utter, returned with a short scoff from the man who insisted you refer to him by his name, Minho. 

“Where are we going?”

It’s hesitant, unsure of whether to intervene, but Minho only smirks, whispering a not-very-assuring “You’ll see” you begrudgingly go along with. 

Inside is the last of what you anticipated. 

Oh dear.

You’ve only been to minimal Burlesque Clubs, but the ornery perspective of faux jewelry, a glittery, hallucinatory stage, and the constant rendition of Why Don’t You Do Right whirling on scratchy records isn’t present here. 

Alternatively, there’s stools scattered around a marginally illuminated clearing, some upturned, others occupied by burly men with equally burly beards. 

And in the middle, a boxing ring is situated. The stench of sweat and blood soaks the air in a metallic, pungent aroma.

A brisk realization crosses your mind, a conclusion of a sort.

Play a fool’s game, earn a fool’s reward.

Only you, Hyunjin, and Ms. Myeong know the lengths you’re willing to go to secure your family's well-being, and now, at odds you can’t compromise, you have to do everything in your power to maintain your act.

This is a test.

Sifting behind you, he murmurs a hushed: “Cover your ears.” That you begrudgingly oblige to, cupping either hand over your ears as Minho clutches his leather holster, concealed within the confines of a frequently worn coat.

In a split second, a gunshot is fired to the ceiling, the bullet's shell casing dropping atop the welt of his pointed shoe.

Stunned silence ensues.

Arm still extending the revolver in the air, you haphazardly remove your hands, dragging the hat further over your face as more eyes focus on the both of you. 

“I’m looking for Reiner and Manfred.”

The longer the tension rises, the further you grow self conscious.

“Already?” A man bellows from inside the ring, breaking the awestruck spell whilst gripping his opponent by the collar, fist poised and ready to strike. 

Unusually, they seem to know each other.

Minho merely exhales a loud sigh through his nose, practically two times smaller than his apparent acquaintance. 

Said acquaintances grumbles. 

“Leave it to our champion to interrupt the show.” 

And with that, he hooks the contender in the jaw, sending him pummeling down to the tarnished mat where hoards either cheer or groan, hustling money left and right over the victor.

Champion of the show? You’re adding that to your collection of never ending questions that’ll likely stay unanswered.

From the crowd arises two men. The victor from the ring and another from the crowd, dressed lavishly opposed to his white tank top-wearing counterpart. 

Reiner and Manfred, you assume. 

Serving as a mere shadow in The Alchemist’s wake, the four of you hustle outside, met with a nonplussed Minho and two, mildly confused (and enormously tall) men. 

Foreigners, certainly.

“..Care to introduce the pipsqueak?” Reiner presumably more talkative, piques, beady eyes scouring your figure enough to where you scorn the beads of sweat collecting upon your temple. 

Pipsqueak my foot. 

You stave down the retort, inhabiting Minho’s shadow as the three discuss matters of a hospital transaction. Almost like you weren’t there at all, as it’s always been.

If it weren’t for the technicalities, you would’ve interjected, made your presence known. Except, other than herbal instances, you’re a novice in the business department. You’ll leave that up to your current mentor to arrange.

Again, lips sealed.

Minho, ignorant to the previous victor’s question, continues to sign legal documents supplied by the calmer individual, Manfred. You internally thank the gesture.

Well, before Reiner’s sordid gaze becomes too stifling to brush off.

“I’m Mr. Lee’s apprentice, L/N. Nice to meet you,” You initiate, fearlessly reaching out a hand he heartily shakes, features graced with amusement, massive hand practically engulfing yours. 

Pardoning a gruff “Likewise”, he nearly sends you flying from the timbre of his voice alone.

“Say,” Reiner mutters, finally completing the last of the package transfers. “Don’t you think this one seems a bit feminine?”

Your jaw ticks, nervousness shrouding your being like an unrelenting fog. Minho’s fingers close around your elbow, pulling you closer, brows knit.

“Perhaps you need your eyes checked, Reiner,” He offers, tone nonchalant opposed to the vice-like grip latched to your arm.

Heftily chortling, the man only pats your back, causing your entire body to surge forward upon impact.

“Well regardless, it’s a cute little thing ain’t it?”

Manfred simply grunts his acknowledgment while you bite your tongue, coveting your retaliation when he referred to you as “it”.

No use growing angered. The feeling is futile.

Luckily, your irritable arrangement comes to a hasty close, more than gleeful to have an understandably annoyed Minho steer you from Port Nova onto a short train back to Kent Avenue, to your newly established home.

A home, but not really a home. Semi-permanent, unofficial.

Either way, you wouldn’t complain. Despite the constant efforts in diminishing your past identity, you didn’t feel as conscious when around Minho. 

Safer.

As if, in an alternative reality, you could tell him. Your truths, your burdens.

No. You won’t jeopardize this opportunity. You can’t.

At least, not yet.

“I’ll be back Mr. Lee!” You shout, wielding a briefcase bag to your person, nudging the ghoulish door open using your hip.

As usual, you’re headed off on a restocking trip.

Except on this occasion, the restocking consists of hunting down a peculiar herb: Chinese Chrysanthemum. It’s an appealing plant with fluorescent leaves and a constant need for sunlight. 

It’s no surprise he’s sent you to fetch such goods. After two months, you soared in and out of the residence routinely, scouring Korea while Minho hunched over a wildly diverse array of vials and flasks, glasses propped on his slightly hooked nose, hands firmly resting on a wooden exam table.

Studious. He is very studious. 

However, a catch diverts itself from eye view. A catch you hadn’t considered until your two feet stepped from squealing train tracks.

Somehow, although unusually intentional, you wound up in a rather peculiar area. An area you never imagined paying a visit to in your wildest dreams.

In the midst of economic outrage and warring circumstances, you’re standing in one of Korea’s most unstable, informal districts. A place that, according to your overhearing ear, was where your precious Chrysanthemum lodged.

This district had an infamous name. 

The Den.

A fitting name in actuality, where a person didn’t realize they were stuck till it was too late, unable to see where they’re going, living in belief there’s an incentive to the finish line in a race run in circles. 

Also, a place the Sharks who torment your family report to.

You can hear your heart thrumming in your ears, nearly ricocheting out of your chest with its horrid cacophony. 

Calm down. 

Calm down. Think of the goal. 

All you have to do is find a flower. 

Grounding yourself, you pinpoint some viable resources. 

Fertile soil, maybe even sandy, likely in the inner portion of The Den.

Plus, you’re dressed as a man, you might as well act outrageously boisterous.

But you’re not, you’re afraid. Perhaps not external, but inside, your lungs feel as if they’re being violently crushed, sinking deeper in an unsteady submersible to the very bottom of the ocean. And for a second, you truly contemplate going back, telling Minho you’re incapable of the task.

Yet, what would you say? You’re haunted by a vision that hasn’t happened? Fearful for a future event with no guarantee? If you had ever done something so horrid, they would’ve found you ages ago.

This time, you’re in their domain, invading what’s theirs as they’ve done to you. 

Greater. You aren’t who you used to be, in more ways than one.

Genuinely, what is there to lose?

That’s it. You’ll complete the mission and return. No run-ins, no fear barricading your job.

In and out.

Initially, you scout out your surroundings, regarding the faint sound of voices funneling in the distance, the smell of mixtures you hate being able to identify, far off machinery croaking before smoke spurs from rusted screws and bolts.

Amongst the chatter of street vendors and the many, notorious gang members patrolling in and out of abandoned shops, you roam avidly, keeping as low a profile as possible.

Number one priority is to not be noticed. Drawing attention to yourself is a one way ticket to failure, and the last thing you need is to arrive back to Minho empty-handed.

However, through the blinding clouds of smoke billowing from exhaust pipes, a specific building, shrouded in the shadows of charcoal residue, douses your peripheral.

A Greenhouse. 

Bingo.

Quickly looking around, you shrink low to the ground, racing forward to carefully creak open glass double doors and slip inside. 

It feels as if you’re enclosed in a furnace. Mere seconds in and sweat already begins gathering upon your temples.

Though that becomes the least of your concerns after assessing what lies inside. 

Hundreds, maybe even thousands of flowers and herbs. Rare species, some critically endangered, just sitting here.

It’s strange. 

Why would, in the case such an abundance existed, not be used? Why hadn’t this Greenhouse been raptured from the inside out for such valuable items? 

It’s not until a commotion stirs ahead of you that you understand the answer to the question. 

With about five plucked Chinese Chrysanthemums expertly sealed into their coordinating bags, a piercing hiss followed by multiple shouts and hollers cause you to shrink back, gazing around haphazardly.

A hiss?

From your perspective nearly kissing the dirt, your vision allows a minuscule glimpse of multiple backs turned, boisterously amused men gathering around something in the front of the Greenhouse.

You feel the need to know more.

Inching forward tip-toe by tip-toe, amidst the roaring crowd, you spare a look between the sea of legs to find an utterly deplorable sight.

A cat. 

No, not just a cat, cat fighting. They’re watching cats maul each other for the fun of it. As if they aren’t living creatures, but toys for their entertainment. 

And perhaps it’s a foolish decision, perhaps laughable being worried, being angered, but you are and you refuse to leave knowing you could’ve done something to help them.

Hastily scouring the floors, a can of Spam discarded below Foxglove stems proves useful enough, tossing it as far as possible where it whacks against the glass wall, immediately averting their attention. 

This is your chance. 

As dark clouds and incoming rain thunder outside, you don’t waste the opportunity, sprinting forward while the men make toward the direction of the sound and hoisting the first cat you see into your arms. 

Sprinting past narrow pathways and dimly lit streets, you force your eardrums numb to the threats they call after you, mind trained on one thing besides getting as far as possible from here.

To Minho to Minho to Minho.

A hand grabbing your shoulder causes you to shriek, swiftly dragged off where you swear your last breaths will be taken, the feline in your arms scrambling with panic.

“What are you doing?” Your captor furiously whispers, hidden in the low lighting of an apparent alleyway.

Wait. You recognize that voice. 

“Hyunjin?”

How does he recognize you?

Just then does a breeze swipe past your head, sending chills trickling down your rain-soaked neck. 

Your hat is gone. Must’ve fell off while you were running. 

“Wh.. what are you doing?” Slipping from his grasp after the men’s hushed conversation becomes inaudible, you regard the man with an incredulous stare.

“Answer my question first,” He reprimands, and as the cat resounds a pained meow do you assess the dire nature of the situation.

You need to get this cat to Minho, and fast. 

“Can’t- Can’t talk right now I’ve got to go—“

“Wait!”

Though, as your footsteps breach the security of the alley, the placating cry of crows mock your left, hurried footsteps belonging to those occupying the Greenhouse heading toward you in rampant haste.

Hyunjin’s hand holding your wrist, you grace a tight-lipped smile his way. 

 “Let’s not see each other like this again, okay?”

He returns a miniature grin, teeming with mischief.

“Agreed.”

Upon letting go, you race off, attempting to speedily navigate back to the train station whilst torrents of streaming droplets cascade down your face. 

“Good luck!” 

“Thanks, I’ll need it!” You respond back, voice permeated against the rain, eyes frantically searching for a place to evade. 

Finally, a crowd appears, swarming amongst diners and flickering street lights.

Your perfect hideaway. 

Swimming through the hive of people, you catapult yourself into the nearest phone booth in sight, fumbling through deep pockets before cashing a coin into the metal slot and jarring your index over slippery metal numbers.

Praying the combination is correct as you hold the wired telephone to your ear, you’re consumed with utmost relief upon hearing The Alchemist’s voice answer on the other side of the crackling line.

Amidst roaring rainfall drowning the booth, you differentiate shouting a ways off, likely belonging to the men from earlier. 

“Mr- Mr. Lee?”

“Yes? Where are you?”

“Are you.. Are you allergic to cats?”

Never in your life did you think you would be so overjoyed seeing blue doors. 

Clambering inside—the rather upset cat in your arms hissing their dismay—you’re overwhelmed with an unexplainable happiness seeing Minho’s face peer from the guest room. 

Relief.

“L/N wha..” 

Words dying in his throat as he gives you a speechless once over, your urge to hug him dissipates instantly, beckoning a new set of garments upon realizing how utterly drenched your precious disguise is.

Simultaneously shoving the cat his way before rushing to your room, you thankfully strip of your fretfully cold attire, welcomed in the comforting embrace of clean clothing.

A mere five minutes later you exit, greeted by Minho’s stockstill frame. Hand half-raised, evidently about to knock.

You forcefully clear your throat, praying the momentary awkward tension is alleviated.

Luckily, The Alchemist takes it upon himself to break the spell, eyes dancing across the floorboards in order to avoid your own.

“Well, she’s stable. Her vitals are fine, nothing too critical apart from a few cuts here and there. Just shaken up.”

Your stare of astonishment earns a confused tip of his head.

“That fast?”

Said (apparently female) cat rubbing her body along your calf with an obviously delighted purr, you appear nearly concussed, crouching down to pat the soft, striped fur lining her back.

Minho snorts.

“What can I say, I get work done.”

Maybe he is a vampire after all.

Mirroring your crouch, he watches your interaction, similarly feline-like inspection unnoticed till glancing up.

And for a swift moment, you swear he saw through you. Lips parted, eyes scrutinizing. Piecing together the building blocks to a wavering structure you’d strived so hard to build, to protect.

No. You’re overthinking. He couldn’t possibly know.

You failed to notice the forlorn look on his face, one that ushers to ask if you’re okay, fetch a hot beverage to warm your evidently cold hands.

“Might I ask how you ended up bringing this one home?”

Leave it to him to take the title as your greatest ally and worst enemy at the same time.

Ah. Right.

“Y’know I was about to get to that-” 

You pause, deriding the high pitch of your voice into something more appropriate. He cocks a brow.

“As I was saying, it wasn’t my intention to bring her back, but the place she was trapped at, the place with the men- the plants..”

According to his expression, you’ve grown two heads.

…

“Go on.”

“Look, the place I found the Chrysanthemum was having cat fights. Do you remember hearing about the dog fights in Gangwon? It’s the same thing. We can’t just sit still while they’re torturing innocent animals.”

“I don’t know what you got yourself into, but I’m an Alchemist, not a hero,” He sighs, and your hand stalls its petting, face falling while the cat in your lap flicks her tail back and forth expectantly.

He has a point. You got yourself into this, you went into the Greenhouse. It’s not his duty to clean up after your messes, but perhaps you can convince him, even by a small margin.

Play a fools game, earn a fools reward.

You’ll mop the floor of your own mess.

“Minho, please. Just this once and I won’t rope you into anything ever again, okay?” 

Stifling silence making an additional appearance, you nervously await the verdict, perched rather hilariously outside of your bedroom door.

Chewing the skin of his cheek, he scolds himself for falling so susceptible to you, though you won’t ever know that.

“Fine, but you’d better have a plan.”

Ah. Great.

You don’t.

At dawn’s arrival you’re swept upward, fixing a hasty bout of tea and toast prior to dressing in the privacy of your appreciated quarters. 

You don a much-needed hat, hopping aboard the first train of the day with a well-dressed Minho in tow.

Retracing your steps turns out easier than you anticipated, The Alchemist tailing you as you had done him at Port Nova.

Though, just when the task seemed a cake walk, you manage a meager detour, regarding your unimpressed mentor.

“From what I can remember, it’s around here somewhere. But I might be wrong, I stumbled upon it by accident and it looks a bit scary but I think—“

“Stop! Stop- Stop talking. Please.”

You quickly shut your mouth, allowing the man to lead instead till the sight of familiar landmarks becomes a gradual reassurance of your location.

Perhaps now it’s safe to talk.

“Mr. Lee, what did Reiner mean by calling you a champion-“

Shoved against the brick wall, your sentence dies instantly, panickedly glancing in all directions assessing the all too familiar pistol Minho‘s drawn, conspicuous in close proximity. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” He enunciates, tone unusually gruff whilst scanning your surroundings.

Your face warms an involuntary pink you clamber to ward off, drawn to the sight of his tense jaw and the feather-like arrangement of long lashes, focused on something elsewhere.

Your retort dies not only from his beauty, but upon the familiar Greenhouse coming into view.

“Looks like we found where your little friends are playing.”

Though, as the man begins forward, you grab him by the sleeve.

“Wait! We can’t just waltz in.”

His hand, slipping from the warmth of his pocket, cups your chin, unbearably close to your face to the point you can feel his breath on your nose. 

Curse the butterflies.

“Well there’s no need for an introduction, so let’s listen this time, shall we?”

Left at a loss for words either from your slack mouth or the concerning amount of sweat building upon your palms, you don’t argue back, lingering right outside the door, craning to hear voices. 

By the sound of it, at least four people are inside at the moment, and the longer you stay out here, the more ample time becomes for additional threats to show up. 

As if reading your mind, he slips through the rugged door, gesturing for you to follow while silently navigating through dense, humid underbrush and overgrown foliage.

However, your quiet voyage is quelled when a twig, unbeknownst to the two of you, cracks under the pressure of his foot. 

“Shit,” He mutters, cringing back at the immediate quietness that ensued.

The Alchemist curses as well.

Interesting.

Amidst the men bearing closer, Minho turns to you, tone urgent. 

“When I get up, you run and free the cats. Don’t look back, just go.”

Nodding hastily, you reacquaint yourself with the area, ensuring a dead set beeline to where the cats were held without interruptions. 

Minho, a split second before you can ask a question, whips the gun from his coat pocket, the sound of bullets whipping through the air enough indication it’s time you go.

Finnicking hands make it hard to unscrew the wired cages, surges of adrenaline helping speed up the rescue as you double check every feline has escaped.

Heeding to instruction, you don’t look for The Alchemist, solely driven to freeing the cats and fleeing the scene. No more problems. 

Almost an exact replica to your last visit here, a hand drags you off right as you exit the Greenhouse doors, back pressed against his (whom you realized was Minho, not Hyunjin, thanks to the leather gloves) front. 

And perhaps from running, perhaps from something else, you can feel his heartbeat, oscillating in a nonstop orchestra that sends your own heart pounding from the confines of your rib cage. 

Stifling a shaky inhale you’d held in as the last of the perpetrators scattered elsewhere, you instantly step back, denying every urge to coddle him like a child, fretfully check him for injury. 

A certain fondness lay reserved for Lee Minho, a fondness you can’t discern of at the moment. 

“C’mon, quick, Soonie might get scared if we’re gone for too long,” He ushers, crashing your tunneling train of thought right off its rails in the process. 

“Yeah-“

You stop.

“Soonie?”

“Yeah, Soonie.”

“You named her?”

“..Yes.”

It’s a genuine struggle hiding your laugh.

“I didn’t find you the type to take in cats.”

“Today you’ve been proven wrong, apparently.”

A sort of giddiness you never experienced fills your chest, wishing nothing more than to look back at the man and swoon. 

How could you not? He was very much dexterous, and attractive without a doubt, that much was known to anyone who laid eyes on The Alchemist.  

Your trek home proved relatively easy, able to skillfully get to the station away from prying eyes and trod along a mixture of gravel and dusty roads without issue.

Silently celebrating your success, you nudge your counterpart's hip, the unimpressed side-eye he grants doing little to dull your happiness.

“Aren’t you an Alchemist? How come you’re oddly good with a gun?”

He clicks his tongue.

“Aren’t you my apprentice? How come you’re getting yourself into trouble when your only instruction was to fetch herbs?”

You conceal a smile he obviously catches, glare failing to quiet your bubbling laughter, his own lips tugging upward.

“It was necessary Mr. Lee! And you know you love Soonie.”

“Unfortunately.”

Nearly a month into her residence, and Soonie has become an effervescent force to be reckoned with. Although initially sassy and wary, she’s transformed into the most affectionate cat you’d ever met.

You have to give it to her, she’s grown on the both of you, a lot.

Plus, you might just have to thank her for unleashing Minho’s tender side, whether that’s the two of them cuddling on the couch while he naps or him picking her up and treating her like a baby while you watch from afar. 

Over the course of the five months you’ve been here, you’ve sent countless checks back home—enough to where dues could finally be paid and the hope for a good life came into view.

Everything seems right, seems ideal. 

But of course, on an equally ideal Thursday evening, a thousand pounds of bricks drops right on top of your head. 

“How long were you planning to keep it from me?” 

He, Lee Minho, The Alchemist, voices.

Simultaneously, your stomach plummets to your feet, peeking over your shoulder to find his back facing you, hunched over a straus flask. 

Then the bomb drops.

“You being a woman, that is.” 

Abruptly pausing, you don’t reply, worried you’d say the wrong thing, unintentionally summon the catalyst to this arising catastrophe. 

Yet, you can’t stay quiet for too long. And a fear lingered inside, a fear that if he looked at you, you would break.

“Forever.” 

Doing just what you dreaded, he turns to you, wearing a horribly serious expression. 

You avoid eye-contact. 

“Because you thought I would fire you?”

A nod. 

“And that’s why you said that, when you first came to me? That you weren’t a woman asking for a job?” 

Another nod. 

He sighs, pulling glasses from atop a hooked nose. You remain staring at the floor.

“I don’t decide who to hire based on what they are. If you can do your job and do it well, you’re worthy enough to work.”

Minho spoke softly, the dim, orange lighting of his lamplight doing little to shake how overwhelming the occasion is, how it feels as if your disguise is wearing, thinning to an impossible degree. 

Except, your world isn’t ending like you thought it would if someone found out, so why do you feel so heartbroken? So overstimulated with realization?

“How did you..” you trail off, raging tears longing to spill. 

No, you can’t afford to cry now. You’ve held out so far, it will stay that way. 

Should stay that way.

Minho dips his head lower in order to fully see you in all your lip-chewing, anxiety-ridden glory. The ghost of a smile rests upon his lips. 

“It was impossible not to tell. You’re unusually tiny, those shoes are massive, and, um, I do the laundry.” 

Watching his once bemused expression dissipate, you mark this as the first time you’ve ever seen him genuinely flustered—and, upon realizing he’d likely seen more than necessary as well, you’re also diminished to a bright red. 

The room wilts in stillness before he exhales, stepping a bit closer to where you linger by the bookshelf, your heels tapping against the frame. 

Tone minimizing itself terribly gentle, The Alchemist carefully collects your cheeks in his hands, urging you to see him, see those terribly thoughtful brown eyes granting a terribly kind disposition. 

“It’s been scary, hasn’t it?” 

Well, you had held out thus far.

Cracking into pieces, you melt like droplets of honey in his fingertips. He perfectly catches them in the jar. 

Out of anyone in this world, you can’t help but be grateful he was the one who found out, found you.

Chest bubbling with breaking sobs, Minho’s thumbs caress your under eyes, swiping away the many salty droplets in their continuous descent. 

Own hands shakily reaching up to hold his resting on your face, you stand there, soaking in his wooded, earthy scent and the soft hums he occasionally emits as if a reminder he’s still there, listening to your cries without intent to leave.

“Mr.. Mr. Lee… It was so scary, I’m so tired Mr. Lee,” You hiccup, mentally berating the endlessly freefalling tears, how your once staved emotions reduced your strong, dutiful voice into nothing but a stuttering mess.

Carefully swiping drool from your chin, he leans forward, planting a kiss on your forehead.

“I don’t know why you did it, but I promise it’ll be okay, we’ll be okay.”

Then another kiss to your forehead, staying there until your sniffling and breathing calms.

Gathering yourself if only slightly, you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him into a warm hug he gradually accepts after a beat of shock. 

“Thank you, Minho.” 

And just when he thought the shock faded, he’s struck again from the sound of his name leaving your mouth.

Minho. 

Mr. Lee had been charming, but Minho, it was different. A good kind of different. 

He particularly favored the way it sounded falling off your lips, two syllables he’d replay over and over, savoring each a little bit more than the last.

More so, he wished to substitute his nagging thoughts with you, have you narrate the phrases bouncing inside his skull.

Perhaps then everything wouldn’t be so loud, if he had your voice to nullify the battlefield.

Unfortunately forced to separate, Minho adjusts his tie, clearing his throat in a manner you can’t help but feel nervous about. 

You like this flustered Minho.

“I’ll.. I’ll run you a bath.” 

You wince at the rawness of your skin when your face wrinkles in a chuckle.

“Do I smell?” 

Minho, frantically scrambling for an excuse, rubs his temples, exasperation evident in the grooves of his face, the curve and dip of prominent cheekbones portraying a mature visage.

“No I-“ He grumbles. “It helps calm you down.” 

Merely able to halfway staunch your irrevocable glee, you call his name as he begins stepping out, ears an adorable pink.

“Y/N. My name is Y/N. L/N is my last name.”

Not allowing you view of his front-side, you listen to his whispering with delight, testing the newly discovered title on his tongue as if to memorize it.

Ah, you’re falling in love.

Or maybe you’ve already fallen.

Hastily closing the door behind himself and letting you get situated in the bath, it’s not long into your relaxing that you notice a shadow seeping through the door’s crack, a figure standing there, debating.

“Minho?” You announce amusedly, watching the shadow jump and causing you to bite your frothing laugh whilst choosing what to say next. 

“Would you like to join me?”

The Alchemist audibly chokes on his saliva outside the door. 

Sparing a few seconds for him to collect his oxygen, you hadn’t been prepared for when he replies a quiet: “Another time”.

Your eyebrows shoot up with surprise. 

Daring. 

Then his shadow, after furious shuffling, disappears, serving as a reminder of your extended time spent bathing. 

Assembling the copper drain and pulling foreign nightwear over dampened skin, opposed to your usual rush to your room, you allow the chilling air to grant its harsh greeting, leaving the steamy room in its wake.

No more secrets. What a breath of fresh air.

Minho, still cooped up at his desk like routine, barely moves when you place your hands on his shoulders, adorning those charismatic glasses, lips pursed thoughtfully.

“You should go get some rest Mr– Minho,” You beckon, response a sleepy blink of his eyes, obviously exhausted.

“...I really wanted to kiss you.”

The remark drifting off as a murmur, you crane to hear him, wondering if your mind was playing tricks on you. 

“Hm?” Humming, you lightly push his back toward his quarters, the man begrudgingly following your inaudible orders. 

At least he’s cooperating.

Abruptly, he turns around, evading your hands that ease his back forward, sporting a pout adorable enough you might just lose your mind.

How unfair that someone could behave like this and expect you to not go insane.

“When you started crying.” His eyes flicker to your lips, if only for a moment. “I really wanted to kiss you.”

A portion of your stock-still frame wants to blame his tiredness, but another so badly wants it to be true, wants those words to be irrevocably real.

Fighting the urge to scream with how stupidly childish he’s making you feel, you reject every ounce of sensibility, looping one arm around his neck, using your other hand’s index to tug him closer by the belt loop. 

Trust, the feeling is mutual.

Why waste the opportunity?

“What’s stopping you?” 

The utterance barely graces air, and in milliseconds he’s crashing into your lips, a wordless confession it is real, not a mere figment of your imagination.

Stumbling to loosen his tie whilst keeping your faces impossibly connected, you fall deeper and deeper into the manner he tilts his head, expertly diminishing you into puddy in his touch. 

Back and forth, memorizing your taste on his tongue. 

Clumsy footsteps lead to his sofa, your fingers tangled in his dark strands, his kneading your waist.  

And it’s not until your lungs cry for oxygen that you pull apart, Minho’s bottom lip tugged and bitten, yours swollen with his feverish kisses. 

Both of you avidly messy, you can’t bring yourself to care, too busy enjoying the afterglow, his dazed smile.

“Whoever you want to save,” He starts, carefully smoothing over your skin with his thumb . “I will save them, deal?”

Returning that same lazy smile he directs at you, the both of you lean back on the couch, a twine of legs and limbs flailing in every direction.

Close, closer. 

A part of you aches at the thought, blinking up at such a stunning tragedy. Aches knowing you can’t return the favor, can’t say the same, promise him that same promise. 

Because according to the Red Plague, he’s lost that person, those people. So you remain silent, merely hoping one day they’ll receive proper eternal rest. 

That's something you might be able to promise.

Tipping your chin up to where it sits right above his heart, those brilliant eyes of yours blinking up at him do little for his well-being. 

Has anyone told you you’re beautiful? Because he thinks you are, he knows you are. 

Just this once and I won’t rope you into anything ever again, okay?

Minho grins deeper, brows creasing, expression doused in unadulterated adoration. 

“And yet, you rope me into something else,” He whispers to himself. 

“What was that?”  

“Nothing, let’s run another bath. I’ll join you this time, hm?”

FIC TAGLIST. @linocz @foxinnie8 @wonniesverse

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[thereadingfangirl]

𝟏𝟗𝟑𝟎'𝐬/𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟎'𝐬 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐀𝐔 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬:

Memorable Day by @daydreaming-away-reality

[karabell]

Oooof I know this is super late but this piece took a lot to complete lol

Happy 100 109 Discord members!!

The challenge was to draw the gang as detectives, so I put them all in a 1940’s-inspired detective au!

(I also had to completely guess most of Violets design lol)

Plus a little bonus storyline that I came up with while I was drawing this:

“Entry 39. July 13th, 1941, Charlie Hollow.

The case hasn’t been progressing like we’d hoped. Another person went missing yet again, and just as all the others, only the victim's eye was left at their last known location. The people in town are getting desperate for answers, and we can only tell them to remain calm, to stay inside, and to keep their doors locked.

All my leads have turned up dead ends, and at this point it just feels like this killer is driving us in circles. They leave decoy evidence, and always leave one of the victim’s eyes in a glass jar as the signature of their crime. They are skilled, that’s for sure. They never leave another trace.

Reports from the lab don’t help us, either. None of the victims are related, or show any kind of DNA from another person. All we’ve managed to gather from them was that the cuts that removed the eye from its owner were clean. The killer is definitely handy with a knife. A chef, perhaps?

Our current lead seems promising, at least. We’ve found that there is a connection to the library. The names of the missing people match ones that have been documented as having checked out books. Fairy tales specifically. We’ve found a few of these books in the victims' homes, but there doesn’t seem to be any differences in these books compared to others.

When we’ve asked the librarian, his answers always remained the same. ‘My apologies detective, but I have no evidence I can provide. I offer my sincerest condolences to the families affected’.

It’s not just his practiced excuse that keeps him at the top of my suspect list. There’s always been something…off about him. His actions always seem too choreographed. He never makes a wrong step, or fumbles over his words, or even shows a hint of expression on his face. It’s always the same quirk of his lips forming a smile, the same tilt of his head, the same tone of voice, and the same eyes, ones void of empathy. Eyes that have seen so much in their time, that they’ve become dull. I know the killer is connected to him, and I will do anything and everything to figure it out.”

[faceeeeee]

Modern day gobb au where Bittergiggle dresses in 1940’s men clothing.

[saintedcooper]

It's Dangerous Business Walking Out Your Front Door (Francis Ch2 | Frank Castle x Reader 1940s AU)

New York, 1949. You’re a waitress trying to find your place in the world and get your footing at your new job. That is, when you’re not being very distracted by the handsome, mysterious writer who frequents the diner.

Chapter Summary: It’s your day off from the diner and you’re still trying to process what Francis said to you last night. Luckily, you’ve got your free-spirited roommate and your museum job to keep your mind busy. That is, until your night takes a turn for the worst.

Previous Chapters: 1

Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader

Content Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, attempted sexual assault, mention of an under-fed (not by choice) character

Length: 4,324 words

Author's Note: Switched up the tense for this chapter. I find it flows better and I love the idea of this being a dynamic creation experience. I'd love to hear any feedback in the notes, replies, or asks!

Heed the warnings!

It’s almost fully light out when you step onto the landing of the fourth floor apartment you rent in Hell’s Kitchen. You know that Maggie, your roommate, will still be dead to the world but you still grip your keys tight to your palm to keep from making unnecessary noise.

As the door opens and your nose fills with the warmth of the pot roast you started before leaving for work last night. God, do you love working at the diner but you hate the food. There’s just something about city food nowadays, it doesn’t stick to you like a good meal should.

You pull the keys out and quietly maneuver the door shut. As you start toward the kitchen, a young man slinks out of Maggie’s room, tiptoeing with his shoes in his hand and his hat pressed to his chest. He’s so focused on making a soundless exit that he doesn’t notice you behind him.

“Hello there.”

He freezes and spins his head around to look at you over his shoulder. He makes a shocked face so silly it’d make a Marx Brother proud. The surprise doesn’t stop him from keeping mouse-quiet as a he closes Maggie’s door all the way.

“That’s not very nice, you know, sneaking out on a girl like that. She might get the wrong impression.”

He throws on a big, sugary smile and does a mock bow.

“It’s nothing like that, ma’am,” he says with an accent so phony he’s got to be an actor like Maggie. “Maggie and I were up late rehearsing, that’s all, ma’am. I respect your daughter as a colleague, ma’am. I swear, nothing unsavory happened here.”

Your face sets into a frown, suddenly very aware of how hateable his pinched little face is.

You decide you can’t stand him and your feet hurt too much to waste more time talking to him. You spin on your heels toward the kitchen and call back to him over your shoulder.

“You know she’s not my daughter and you don’t live here. Good morning.”

Truth be told, this kitchen is your favorite place in the world. You adore the entire apartment (more so when you lived in it on your own), but the kitchen is a sanctuary. It’s open and bright with a nice big window over the sink. The trim is a pastel green and the walls are covered in a fruit themed wallpaper you hand-painted.

It’s heaven.

With a tired groan, you set your gloves and purse on the counter.

It was a long night of overthinking about what Francis said to you before he slipped out into the night.

I don’t come here for the food.

Just the thought makes you flush again but you temper it. Sure, he’s gorgeous and funny and kind but…there’s also something mysterious about him.

You never quite got the story about his wife but you know he doesn’t wear a ring. Then again, it wouldn’t be unheard of for a married man to forgo it to get what he wanted, would it?

With a shake of your head, you chastise yourself. He’s not like that, right?

You hop into the chair beside the counter and pull the top off of the slower cooker. The scene of the post roast you’ve been daydreaming about all day permeates your senses as you lean in close and take a deep, indulgent breath. Thank god Maggie’s not around to tease you about the pleased sound that comes out of your mouth as the thick cloud of steam fills up your nostrils.

“That smells delicious, ma’am.”

Your head whips around and there he is again, Maggie’s annoying blond paramour, leaning against the doorframe.

“I’m sure as an actor you’re extremely unfamiliar with the concept of rejection, but that ‘good morning’ meant ‘get lost.’”

He holds up his hands but laughs. When he speaks, his accent is less put-on.

“I understand. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry if I offended you with my assumption. And also that Maggie is a lovely girl but she’s under no illusions about our relationship.”

You shrug. “Alright, sure. Just stop calling me ma’am.”

He nods as you turn back to the cooker to make a plate. When you turn back toward the table, he’s still there, picking at the skin around his nails and shuffling about with uncertainty.

You allow yourself a moment to really take him in. He’s handsome and well-dressed, but skinny. It was easy to miss at first glance, but his skin has a surprising dullness to it and his suit doesn’t quite fit him. But the tell is the way his gaze is fixed on the slow cooker like a wolf’s eyes on a lone, fat lamb.

A true starving artist.

“What’s your name?”

“James, ma’—miss. I’m James Downing, miss.”

“Pleased to meet you, James Downing, now sit.”

He shakes his head eagerly as he all but runs to the kitchen table. “Yes, ma’am!”

You sigh and make him a plate anyway.

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

You awaken hours later to the noise of the city and the smell of coffee drifting under your door. The sun bathing your room in warm light tells you it’s just after 1 o’clock in the afternoon.

You stretch out your limbs with a drawn-out grunt and bounce out of bed.

Today’s your day off from the diner but it’s the start of the week for your favorite job. A few months back when you’d been looking to make extra cash to visit your sister, a friend connected you with a job. She knew you painted and loved history and art. The job was for an assistant to the head restorer at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The restorer is a sweet man in his sixties with a horrible comb over and case of the sweats so bad his shirts constantly appear visibly wet. He’s also unfathomably kind of sees within you what others have always overlooked.

You’ve never considered yourself much of an artist, more of a hobbyist. But that man, with all of his experience and worldliness, seeing in you something worth growing gives you just about all the confidence in the world.

You work three days a week, Thursday through Saturday, alongside him. The job was supposed to be to help with filing, organizing tools, and cleaning up when needed. But he’d been so thrilled to have a painter apply that you hardly ever did any of those things. The office has ended up looking like a disaster more often than not but neither of you care. The work is the reward.

Well, the work is certainly a reward, but the job pays well. Well enough that you don’t really need a roommate anymore. But the city seems big and lonelier lately. Besides, Maggie’s a sweet, overly friendly girl and who knows what trouble she’d get into if you kicked her out.

Speaking of Maggie, her life as an actress is…flexible. She’s sure to make coffee whenever she knows you need to be up for the museum.

When you leave your room, Maggie’s at the table reading the paper. Her eyes are glued to the paper, shifting quickly as she reads a story headlined, “Masked vigilante strikes again! Four mobsters slain.” She absentmindedly jabs a piece of toast at her face, just missing her mouth.

“Well, well, well, Margaret. Late night, you see.”

Maggie flushes and hides her face behind the paper for a moment.

She has a way of inspiring the big sister urges in you, what with her button nose and freckled face framed by a curly mess of red hair.

“Honey, I’m so embarrassed. I heard you two talking in the hall, you know. I was just too ashamed to come out.”

She looks at you over the table and you lift the coffee pot as a question. She nods her head and you pour two mugs.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. I almost socked that James of yours, though, until I realized he was just a silly little puppy.”

Maggie laughs airily. “That’s one way of putting it.”

You slide into the seat across the table from her. “It’s nothing, really. I just fed him and sent him on his way. Think nothing of it.”

Maggie nods to you and goes back to reading her paper. You look at her, uncertain for a few moments.

“I’d like to ask you a question. I asked that boy of yours, too. But you think it’s the sort of thing that requires a woman’s intuition.”

“He is decidedly not my boy,” she giggles while setting the paper down. “But yes, please, go on.”

You fidget in your seat for a moment.

“Well, you know that guy I’ve mentioned from the diner? Francis?”

Maggie grins. “I know.”

“Well, last night he was later than usual and Tom wouldn’t hold open the kitchen. So, when Francis got there, I apologized so much and he eventually told me that– Well, I think he said that maybe I’m the reason he goes to the diner away.”

Maggie coos and claps her hands, bouncing excitedly in her chair. “Ooh, yes! Yes. I never told you but I stopped by once to get a look at him, you know, after you told me. And I swear, he’s just about the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. So, then what happened?”

“That’s just it,” you frown. “He said that and then he just left. How do I know he was serious? Maybe it was just a joke. I mean, he does jest somethings. Why else say something like that and then leave?”

“Honey,” Maggie says, leaning into me. “This is the game. Men and women have been doing this for centuries. Ever hear of cat and mouse? Well, he’s seeing if you wanna play.”

You stare blankly at her.

“What?”

“Sure,” Maggie says. “Tell me exactly what happened and don’t leave anything out.”

You take last night from the top, telling her how upset you were with your sister, how Francis had shown up in a state, and how after everything, he’s said that he doesn’t visit the dinner for the food.

Maggie bites her lip and grins. “My goodness. He’s good.”

“So, what do you do?”

Maggie tilts her head and fiddles with the ends of her hair.

“You don’t date much, huh?”

“Maybe not,” you bristle. “There was never much time for it growing up, taking care of everyone. Now it’s…difficult. People assume things and it seems like every guy I meet wants something from me.”

“Everybody wants to be wanted,” Maggie grins as her gaze softens into the distance. Her voice has that dreamy quality it sometimes takes on when you two talk love and romance.

“Sure,” you say before downing the rest of your coffee in a gulp. “But it’d be nice to be seen.”

She looks back at you and the grin gets bigger, “Francis sees you. He likes you. Maybe he just wants to know you see him, too.”

“Yeah,” you rub at a scuff on the floor with your socked toe. “Maybe. I’m going to get ready for work, okay? You wanna walk through the park with me?”

Maggie lets out a wistful sigh, her eyes soft and full of dreams again. “I’d love to. The park is so lovely this time of year.”

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

Balmy air caresses your bare skin as Maggie and you take your time walking through the park. You each have an Italian ice cup in your hands as you wander through the paths. An outsider might think you had no destination in mind.

“Have you ever been in love?” Maggie asks.

“Depends on who you ask. I say no but there was a boy back home I was supposed to be married to. Our families had it all planned out from the time we were small, but my heart wasn’t in it. Everyone kept saying we were meant to be, they’d call me by his last name. But I never felt it.”

“He like you?”

“Oh yeah,” you scoff. “A little too much if you ask me.”

Maggie nods. “He try to get fresh with you?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” you say with a shrug. “The real problem was that when I did actually meet someone, he’d scare them off. It kept on like that until I moved to the city.”

“At least you had a suitor,” Maggie says quietly. “Even if you didn’t want him, it’s more than I’ve ever had.”

“Margaret, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m completely sure that’s not true,” you laugh.

She whines your name and stomps off to dramatically drape herself across an empty bench.

“Oh, those aren’t suitors they’re boys to play with like a cat playing with the fat rat it killed. I mean I’ve never had a real prospect of love or marriage or any of it. I just fill my time with those boys because they’re everywhere.”

She tosses her empty cup toward the trash and misses. “Throw a rock and hit one, they’re nothing special.”

Maggie stands abruptly, gliding in to the center of the path. She raises her arms above her head and drawls loudly, “I want a man, not a boy. Lord, I desire a man who can sweep me off my feet, show me the world, and save me from the absolute horror of dating one more New York City boy!”

The female half of an elderly couple walking past glares daggers at Maggie. She pulls her grayed, hunchbacked husband in tighter while eyeing Maggie.

“Oh sure, honey! He’s a real catch, keep him close now!” Maggie shouts as the woman drags her husband down the path.

“Margaret!” you laugh as you run over to her. She locks her arm in mine and kisses you on the cheek.

“Yes dear?” she grins.

You two run off in the direction of the museum with your wild laughter lingering briefly in the spaces you leave behind.

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

When Maggie walks you to the door, you realize you’re almost 10 minutes late. You sprint up the stairs and around back, shouting “hi there!” and “hello!” to the museum employees you see along the way.

“So sorry, Mister Cranston!” you shout as you burst through the door. You hang your purse and jacket on the door as you look around for Mister Cranston.

His desk is a mess per usual but empty. You glance around the room for his mess of white-gray hair.

You find a tuft of it moving under a table in the far corner of the room. There’s a gentle sound of shuffling papers as he slowly sifts through something.

“Mister Cranston?”

He pops a hand up over the table, “Over here, dearie!”

You walk around the table to find Mister Cranston sitting with at least a dozen piles of paper, shuffling them between piles and muttering to himself. The hand he raised to you lowers to scratch his head.

“I just don’t get it.”

“Do you need help?”

He gives you a warm, friendly smile. “No, sweetheart. I just wanted to find something so I looked for it in the papers and now I’m just amazed. You know these are the artist’s actual letters? He wrote his sister about this very work we’re restoring. He talked about everything: his technique, his motivations, the muse, his hopes for the piece, regrets about it.”

Mister Cranston sighs and lowers the piece of paper in his hand back into the pile.

“It’s a treasure trove,” he frowns. “Beautiful stuff.”

“Why is that sad, sir?”

“Because. I don’t know that I can do this one. In all of my years I’ve never come across such intricate work. To try and replicate it is…” he sighs again and slowly raises from his seated position.

He shakes his head as he walks away.

“I don’t think I have it in me, dearie.”

“Nonsense. Even if you’ve never done it, everything you’ve done ‘til now has been for this.”

He smiles sadly.

“Besides,” you grin. “You’ve got me. I’m no Rembrandt but I can imitate with the best of them.”

“That you can,” he pats you on the shoulder before making his way to his work station. “Ah, the optimism of youth.”

You scoff. “I don’t know about youth but I am optimistic.”

You pull up your stool next to his table. “So. What are we doing today?”

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

Every Thursday, Mister Cranston begins to pack up his tools at 8:15pm precisely. He relishes the extra time working alongside you when you don’t have the diner to rush off to.

When you’d been referred for the assistant role, half the appeal was that you could do what you loved into the night sometimes. Most people still hire women for day shift office work, assuming they must have children and husbands to hurry home to.

But Mister Cranston has never treated you any differently than anyone else at the museum. Well, aside from trying to set you up with his handsome son, Buck, about once a quarter. And today you were due.

“He’s a handsome devil but handy, that’s hard to come by! Attended university. And get this, he cooks! His ma wouldn’t stand for sending a boy out into the world so helpless he couldn’t cook himself a meal if need be. My mother on the other hand…” he trails off as he wipes at a bit of sweat on his receded hairline.

You nod politely, still engrossed in the painting in front of you. You’d spent ages stripping down the old, discolored painting and now was the truly fun part, getting to rebuild it back to its former glory. It almost felt like you were a real artist.

“I’ve told you before, sir, I enjoy Buck, he’s lovely,” you shrug. “But he’s looking for a wife and I’m not looking to be one.”

“Yeah, well. Can’t blame me for asking.”

He finishes cleaning the last of his tools and tosses them into the supply trunk. He grunts with the effort of closing the heavy old container before turning back to me.

“You almost ready, dear?”

“Hm?” you fight to tear your attention from the section on front of you. “Oh no, don’t worry about me, I’ll just finish this bit up and head on home.”

Mister Cranston frowns.

He says your name with a note of concern, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I know occasionally you’ll stay behind. But the city these days,” he shakes his head woefully. “I don’t like it.”

He moves over to your station and tries to pull the brush out of your hands. “Come along now.”

You giggle and retake control of your hand on the painting, “Mister Cranston, I swear, I’ll be just fine. Hell’s Kitchen is nowhere from where, it’s just a walk through the park and right down–”

“Oh honey, no,” he waves a hand to get your attention. “Please not through the park. At least stick to the streets. Promise me.”

You smile at him, “I promise. Down 5th, across to 45th, no park.”

He sighs and nods, “You’re a strong willed one.”

“S’what mama always said.”

“Right, right,” he walks away mumbling to himself.

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

You lean back in your chair with a satisfied sigh. The painting is turning out better than you expected.

You move around the space, looking at it from different angles.

“Looks damn good,” you smile to yourself.

It’s only in the lull of satisfaction that you realize how much quieter it is. You check your watch, 11:09pm.

“Oh god, Mister C. would kill me!”

You make quick work of your cleanup and put things in their proper place before grabbing your coat and running out the door.

The night security guards know you by now and probably haven’t thought anything as they made their rounds.

Your footsteps echo throughout the silent space.

“Night, Gordon!” you yell out as you hurry for the employee exit.

In the distance, you hear Gordon yelling a good night to you.

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

The city is never silent but it’s quieter as you rush down the streets. Your strides are long and quick as you make your way home. You take 5th and avoid the park as promised, already feeling guilty enough about lying to Mister Cranston about how late you’d stay.

His worry lives through you as you move, unbothered, through the streets of the city.

You finally relax a bit when you make it to 45th.

A block away from the apartment, you come across a construction site. The ground is dug up and water seems to flow freely down the street. Near the mess is a short man sitting in front of a “No Entry” sign and reading a book under the light of his hand lantern. He looks up as you approach.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“Sorry, detour,” he points at the sign, then at the street that leads away from your apartment.

He goes back to his book.

It’s no big deal, having to go around the back and come in through the alley. You did it plenty that month when money was tight and you were avoiding your landlord like the plague. It’s a well-used shortcut during the day.

But as you stand at the mouth of the alleyway, it’s eerie and deserted. It feels different at night.

You stand there staring into a dark space only partially illuminated by two dim torch lamps over the service entry of a store.

You hesitate and start to turn back but there’s no other way in without going a block and a half around. After the trek home, you don’t think your feet could stand it.

With a deep breath, you enter the alleyway moving at breakneck pace.

The sound of your rapid footsteps echoing in the space is a little unsettling but it’s fine. You keep your eyes focused on the light at the end, rapidly expanding in your vision.

You’ve just passed the dumpster less than halfway through the alley when you hear a loud thud against the metal. With a start, you turn around to find a man in dark clothes slinking out of the shadows.

He smiles and a gold tooth catches a faint gleam of light from the lamp. The knife in his hand, shines, too.

“You don’t want any trouble,” he says, stalking toward you. “Just be a good girl and toss me that bag of yours.”

Your brain screams at you to just do what he says but you’re frozen in place, shaking too hard to think or comply with his request. When you open your mouth, a wordless stutter comes out.

As you struggle to form your words or move, another man steps out from the darkness. He’s further back and you can’t make out his form, but the sound of his gun cocking is unmistakable.

“Unless you ain’t got no money,” the second man says, slinking closer gold tooth. “Then…well, what if she ain’t got no money, mack?”

Gold tooth’s smile gets wider. “I don’t know, mack. S’pose we could compromise, bet she’s got something else worth our while.”

His words jolt you, sinking in quickly. You take off toward the end of the alley, screaming your head off.

“Help!” you shout into the quiet night over and over again.

The laughter of the men chasing you echoes through the alley.

You’re almost to the end of the alley when you hear and feel the warm air of a bullet narrowly missing you.

The shock of it seizes your body, you trip and fall across the threshold of the alley, your ribs and chin smashing into the damp concrete.

“Ah,” you groan. You wipe a hand across your chin. When you flip it over, it’s streaked with thin lines of blood. As you stare at your streaked palm, your vision blurs and the lines double.

You’ve almost forgotten where you are when a hand wraps around one of your ankles and yanks you backward into the alley. His other hand starts to pull at your tights. Remembering your surroundings, you scream so hard you can feel a twinge of blood gurgling with the spit in your throat.

Behind you, you hear one of the men shout. As the hand on your leg disappears, a gunshot is fired. You the man who’d grabbed you stand up and then the sound of blows landing. There’s the sharp sound of a blade hitting the ground and the meaty sound of fist pummeling face.

The man collapses back, falling partially on your body with a deflated grunt.

You let out a whimpering cry of pain as you begin to weep. The sobs rack your body as you become aware of the breeze hitting where your tights were slightly ripped. Your arms and face burn where they were scrapped across the ground.

You hear a gruff grunt above you as the man’s weight shifts off of you.

A gentle hand rests on your back. You squeeze your eyes closed and the cries come harder as you weakly kick your legs and hands back.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart, s’alright,” a soft voice calls out as you continue kicking and hitting the man behind you.

Then man lies down on his stomach and gets his face to your eye level. He gently holds your arms in place and calls your name.

“S’alright. You’re safe.”

As the crying subsides, you recognize the voice. You open your eyes to see Francis. He looks worried as he scans over your injuries. You look him over, too. His knuckles are red. He's as scraped up as when you saw him at the diner but he’s otherwise intact.

“You're safe sweetheart.”

You believe him and it makes you cry harder.

He rests a hand on your cheek.

“S’alright now, I promise.”

He cradles your head to his chest.

—–

Oof, I know, poor thing went through it. Thank goodness Francis was there...but why was Francis there 🤔

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