#I NEED TO PAY THE WILDLY EXPENSIVE WATER BILL FUCK

[dandybones]

too much to do not enough brain capacity to do any of it

[callmethehunter]

Maggie and Robert

Here’s a new chapter!  I hope you like it.  Thank you to @firethatgrewsolow​ for feedback and help with editing.  As always, there’s a recap of the previous post, followed by the new material.   RECAP:   After a passionate and funfilled night on the beach with Robert, Maggie now has to face the music…aka her old man, Steve

End of Part 3:   As Robert’s silhouette grew smaller in the distance, she knew that she needed to see him again. She simply HAD to see him before he left for the UK on Saturday.  He was magical.  The passion and connection that she had felt with him during their brief encounter was exactly what was absent with Steve and what she deeply craved.

 When she lost all sight of Robert, her eyes swept over the skies.  The sun was beginning to rise, dispersing the quiet darkness of the night...a night she would treasure always.   She sighed wearily, turning her back to that golden sunrise as she headed back home to a man she did not truly love or even respect.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -Part 4:  Steve and Schemes

Maggie slowly made her way back to the Bahia Mar just as the dawn lightened the skies.  It was as if the sun was awakening from the depths of the sea to continue it’s restless journey.  There was something about the light and the retreating darkness that made her feel exposed, unable to hide from others or from herself. With each step, closer to Steve, her dread mounted. She replayed the moments with Robert, reliving them as she put one foot in front of the other.  It distracted her from the looming anxiety about having to face Steve and explain where she had gone off to the previous evening.

While she believed that honesty was the best recourse, she decided to make an exception in this case. Just this once, she thought.  She rationalized that it was none of Steve’s business how she chose to spend her time, given that they weren’t married and he had no claim on her.  

They had shacked up for convenience sake. Their initial arrangement had been that each of them paid half of all expenses, which then gradually became Steve paying a larger share.  She had quit bartending at the Elbo Room back in January so she could attend community college.  

But Maggie knew his cash flow came from dealing in weed and acid, not from a 9 to 5 job.  In her opinion, it was easy money since the hippies had started congregating at the northern end of Fort Lauderdale Beach where housing was cheaper, granting Steve access to a booming clientele.

It was the age of tuning in and tuning out.  Timothy Leary advocated the use of psychedelics such as acid as a means to spiritual and personal growth. The drugs  practically came with an endorsement, for crying out loud and added to the Free Love movement that was spreading like wildfire especially now that the Pill was in greater use.  In fact the media was touting last summer of 1967 as the Summer of Love.  

Her internal dialogue was interrupted when she heard her name being shouted repeatedly.  She spotted Steve sitting in the shiny red Camaro, his prized possession. It was one of the only vehicles in the lot this early in the day.  He started the loud engine and practically peeled out of the parking space headed towards her.  

Oh fuck!, she cursed under her breath. Here he comes... The smidgeon of peace that had remained from her magical evening with Robert went flying out the window, replaced by a deep annoyance at having to explain herself to Steve.

“What the fuck, Maggie!” Steve barked as he pulled up next to her. “Where have you been all this time? I was worried about you out there trippin’ all by yourself.” He gestured wildly towards the beach. “One minute you were there, then the next time I looked you were gone. Man, I thought you drowned!  I sure hope it was worth it to keep me hanging like that,” he berated her.

Maggie’s tactic when he became this belligerent was to placate him and act contrite. “Steve, I know...I am so sorry you had to go through all that.  That purple microdot was so strong I don’t even know what all I did, I just remember being at the Jetties, and laying down somewhere looking at the sky...probably for hours.  The stars looked as if they were dripping wax from candles on the beach and the colors were so bright!” 

She ventured a glance at his face, which appeared calmer. “You know how it is, babe, I didn’t mean to worry you.” See?  she said to herself, telling half truths was not really lying, she rationalized again. But in her heart she knew that she was skating on thin ice.

“Yea, I know, that shit’s groovy, man, but you can’t just walk off and not tell me what you’re doing or where you’re going for hours!”   The fact that his voice was back to a normal decibel was promising.

 “C’mon man, get in the car. I’m starving thanks to having to sit there all fucking night waiting on you.” As usual, the crisis had become all about him.

“Steve, seriously, who are you kidding? You know damn well you and your friends were partying all night... You barely missed me, seeing as Shannon the chipmunk was hanging on your every word when I left.”  She wasn’t buying his ”holier than thou, concerned boyfriend” crap. It might work on Shannon but it wasn’t going to work on her.

That must have been what happened, because Steve did not respond as he sped down AIA towards the House of Pancakes.  By the time they pulled into the lot, they had toned it down.  Steve had a short memory, probably from all the weed he smoked, and now that they were going to eat, his self-righteous attitude diminished.  After they were seated, he studied the menu, commenting on what he should order.  

Maggie breathed a sigh of relief.  She had been right in only revealing where she’d been and not who she was with...Only the sexiest and most intriguing man she had ever laid eyes on, she said to herself.  Had she divulged that small yet crucial detail, she would not have heard the end of it.  

Yet Steve was the one who had brought up having an open relationship when they shacked up the year before. They were more like friends on equal footing back then but somehow he seemed to have developed a sense of ownership.  Nowadays he acted as if he was her sugar daddy or had some claim on her.   The longer she allowed Steve to finance her life, the longer she would be in this rut. She had become lazy and complacent.  The realization deeply troubled her and she vowed to take action, once and for all.

After ordering a breakfast platter, Steve mentioned he had been looking at a boat that was for sale at the docks near the Bahia Mar.  It was  last year’s model, a 1967 Chris Craft Cavalier, he said, as if that would explain it.  

“Well, tell me more about it.  I don’t know much about boats,” she added, “except that some have cabins and some don’t.”

“Man, I gotta teach you about the finer details of boating! if I can get this dude to go down on the price. I think he will, seeing as I fronted him 100 hits of acid and some weed last week and he still hasn’t paid me.”

“You know what, Steve? One of these days somebody’s gonna screw you over so bad or you’re gonna get busted by the fuzz, man,” she chided him. “You gotta be more careful, people talk…”

“Maggie, shut the fuck up, you don’t know what I do or don’t do.” He spat out bits of the omelett he was chewing, with how forcefully he replied. “I've been doing this shit since I was 16, so for over 10 years now, I ain’t never had a problem...well, except with a Cuban dude that tried to rip me off one time. But anyway,” he continued, “I don’t have to do shit, you hear?”

She hated when he spoke to her with disdain, belittling her intelligence, sometimes right in front of his friends. Most of the time, she sucked it up and went with the flow, letting it roll right off her back.  But lately, this type of behavior angered her and she had been growing increasingly resentful towards his snide remarks.

  “Fuck you, too, Steve” she countered, setting her toast down on the plate, suddenly losing all appetite.

“Whatever...Look, Maggie, do you wanna go see the damn boat or not? You’re lucky I’m even asking for your opinion seeing that we’re gonna be spending a lot of time on it.”

“Oh really?” she replied, “what if I don’t like boating, did you ever think of that? What if I always get sea sick, huh?” she asked but he just looked at her, mouth agape.

“Steve, you know I don’t like it when the water’s really deep, you can’t just assume I’m gonna feel comfortable on that boat day in and day out…”

“Why not?” he asked incredulously. “You should see the cabin, Maggie. It’s got a full sized bed, mini bathroom and little kitchen. It’s sweet, baby, you’re gonna forget all about that you’re on the water...It’s gonna be like being in a camper on land. You’ll love it, baby.”

She cringed at the familiar way he disregarded her feelings, bulldozing over them and then pretending she had been the one to suggest whatever it was he manipulated her into doing.  This was insanity!  He’s never gonna change!, she realized. 

Almost in a defeated tone, she answered “Yea, maybe you’re right, Steve. Let’s go take a look when we leave here.”   

He reached over the table and patted her hand, “Thata girl. We’ll go right after I pay.”

With that, he signaled to the waitress to bring the check, took a wad of cash out of his pocket, and glanced over the bill.  

Maggie looked out the window and realized they were only a few minutes away from Tugboat Annies.

She mustered up all her courage and nonchalantly asked  “Hey, sweetie, if we were to get the boat, could we dock it over by Tugboat Annies? It doesn’t cost as much as the Bahia Mar and you can pull up through the intercoastal, dock it in the back, and you’re right at the bar....There’s actually a really good band playing this weekend,” she continued, “if we had the boat, we’d look so cool pulling up in it, right?”

She knew Steve well. He was a show off and loved to appear important. The idea that the hip people at Tugboat’s would notice his latest purchase was irresistible to him.   His growing smile told her everything she needed to know, and her heart soared as she thought about seeing Robert again.  She ached with longing for him.  That gorgeous blonde, that sexy man. 

She smiled back sweetly at Steve, proud of herself for having turned the tables and being the one who manipulated the outcome, making him feel he was still in control.  

Her self-congratulation faded as a tinge of anxiety surfaced.  Steve was a narcissist, that much was true, but he was no dummy and he was extremely possessive of her time.  How was she going to manage making contact with Robert while Steve was hovering nearby? How was she gonna pull this one off?  

Different scenarios ran through her mind.  She suddenly realized that the answer lay in having distractions... Lots of distractions.  They would put the word out and invite all his cronies out to the concert, in part to celebrate and party on the boat.  People could step out onto the marina behind Tugboat’s and score, getting their stash for the week in the privacy of the boat’s cabin.  She’d wait to suggest that part later… 

After the waitress brought back the change, she grabbed her bag from the back of her chair, stood and followed Steve out of the diner, this time with a light heart and a bounce in her step.

To be continuied at Tugboat Annies....

[baepsaets]

sunny day pt. 4 ~ park jimin

pairing: hybrid!jimin x reader

rating: sfw

word count: 3.5k

summary: you’re a veterinary student specializing in hybrid care when you get a call in the middle of the night that a feral hybrid has broken into the clinic where you work.

a/n: this chapter was a struggle to write but i’m satisfied with the result. i plan on making five pts to this au with a nsfw epilogue, so this is the chapter right before the end. it may take me a hot minute to write pt 5 but i’m going to try to pump it out as quickly as i can, thank you for your understanding, patience, and support! sending love to everyone reading this!

part 01 02 03 04 05 epilogue

It was two weeks before Jung Hoseok was knocking on your door, and you considered yourself lucky—he was a shameless gossip. You were surprised it had taken him this long to show up.

Hoseok was a past favorite. He’d been a stray like Jimin, and you’d treated him before you were even a full-time employee. He was a playful golden retriever breed with a heart like a marshmallow. With him was his past owner, Yoongi—a human like you, he was a classmate of Namjoon’s who he’d contacted to help sponsor Hoseok’s citizenship. Yoongi temporarily adopted him, but the two became so close that they remained roommates afterward.

Hoseok was already bouncing when you answered the door, and Yoongi held up take-out like a peace offering. “I brought lunch.”

Before you could open your mouth, Hoseok pulled you to his chest and squeezed. You let out a muffled sound, but it was drowned out by Hoseok’s, “(Y/N), I’m so happy I haven’t seen you in so long where is he where is he where is he—?”

“She can’t answer if you don’t let her breath, Hope,” Yoongi noted dryly, and then Hoseok released you panting, only looking slightly apologetic.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m just excited.”

You couldn’t help but return his grin. It had been a long time since you’d seen him, and you couldn’t wait to introduce him to Jimin. Since formally adopting him, life with Jimin was better than you could have possibly imagined.

Of course, it wasn’t easy. Owning a hybrid was expensive. You were lucky—Namjoon vaccinated Jimin for free and went out of his way to make sure Jimin had everything he needed, medically speaking. The rest was harder, because owning a hybrid was basically like having a roommate that didn’t pay rent. Your grocery list doubled. Your water bill doubled. You added Jimin to your phone plan and bought him anything he needed, from clothes to necessities.

But none of that mattered whenever it gave you a chance to watch Jimin blossom. His ankle was healing beautifully, and he fit into your life like a glove. You hadn’t realized how lonely you were until you had someone waiting for you at home. You hadn’t realized how little you went out until you had someone to go out with. Just having the opportunity for Jimin smile at you every day felt like an accomplishment, and you knew it’d be selfish to lock him in the house where the only person he saw and knew was you.

“(Y/N)?” Jimin yawned, padding out of the bedroom and into the hallway. He froze when he registered Hoseok’s scent and took a wary step back when he saw both him and Yoongi in the doorway.

“Jimin, this is Hoseok,” you introduced. “He’s a former patient of mine. This is his roommate, Yoongi.”

He nodded and smiled, shyly, “Hi.”

Hoseok sucked in a deep breath though his nose. “Oh, my God, he’s precious.”

He shot forward and gripped Jimin’s hand in his own, gesturing wildly with the other. It made you grin, seeing Hoseok like this—there was a time, in the beginning, where Hoseok was weighted down so heavily with his burden that he couldn’t even smile. You’d wanted Jimin to meet Hoseok because he was someone from a similar background who’d overcame the same obstacles in order to find happiness, something you hoped Jimin could do, too.

Jimin relaxed gradually, as Hoseok often had a quality about him that put people at ease. You watching Hoseok lead Jimin into the living room, still talking quickly.

“You’re not allowed to break him!” you called after them. “His ankle is still fractured!”

You and Yoongi trailed after them and sat down on the couch. “I actually owe you my life,” Yoongi said, setting the take-out down on the coffee table. He watched Jimin and Hoseok talk animatedly across the room. “He has too much fucking energy. Tire him out for me, won’t you?”

The four of you ate and spent the day watching movies. You studied on the couch half the time, ignoring Yoongi’s playful jabs at how you overworked yourself. He was hardly one to talk. It was nice seeing Jimin interact with more people—he was so friendly, so extroverted. It was a side of him you never got to see, because his previous survival depended on being unnoticeable.

It was a relief when Yoongi and Hoseok left, not because you didn’t like them, but because Yoongi was right; Hoseok had a lot of energy. After you collapsed on the couch, Jimin eyed you curiously before slowly sitting next to you.

He scooted closer. And then closer. Until, as you were lying on your side, he curled up on top of you and wrapped an arm around your waist, resting his chin over the curve of your hip. He was warm, and his tail wrapped around your calf as he hummed happily, especially when you began petting his hair.

“Hobi-hyung told me something interesting,” Jimin said, burying his face against the soft skin of your side. You almost flinched; you could feel the weight of his head underneath your breast and tried to ignore it, and his breath through your shirt sent tremors down your spine.

“Yeah? What was it?”

Jimin hesitated. “He’s a dance student. His school has a hybrid-friendly program.”

You stopped stroking his hair, careening your neck to stare at him. “Would you be interested? It’s only May. We could enroll you this fall.”

He exhaled and nosed at the hem of your shirt. “Do you still want me to apply for citizenship?”

You wanted him to do whatever made him comfortable. Not every hybrid wanted citizenship—Taehyung didn’t. Because he was on the police force, he was technically a ward of the state. The police station handled everything for him, while he got a free apartment, a job, healthcare, and more.

Too much work, Taehyung had told you once, when you’d asked him if he’d ever want to apply. I couldn’t ask for more.

“I want you to do whatever you want to do,” you told him. “If that’s apply for citizenship, then we’ll do that. If it’s to enroll in college, then we’ll do that too.”

“Which would be easiest for you?”

“That doesn’t matter,” you murmured, scratching at the skin below the nape of his neck. “You’re not a burden, Jimin. I want you to do something that makes you happy.”

He started purring, nuzzling harder against your skin. You realized he was scenting you, and a sudden warmth filled your stomach. It made you panic, but you quelled your growing discontent and continued stroking through Jimin’s hair, who was steadily growing slack above you. Your heart caught in your throat.

You noticed that this was the hardest part, after spending so much time with Jimin. As the weeks faded into months, and Jimin opened himself up to you, this was definitely the hardest part—not the clinginess, which you admittedly liked. Not the lack of privacy. Not the money, or the emotional stress, or the pressure to provide. Every little nuisance paled in comparison to the fact that you were half in love with Jimin in a not-so-innocent manner, and it was eating you from the inside out.

You wanted from him something he was in no way obligated to give you, and the last thing you wanted was to pressure him into something he didn’t want.

So sometimes you curled away from him while cuddling on the couch. Sometimes you looked away when he smiled or laughed, and ignored his lingering stares. You nursed him to health in more ways than one, opening your home and your heart, as much of it as you could, before you lost yourself and started falling victim to foolish desires. There was a document somewhere, both in your house and in Jin’s office at the shelter, that stated you owned Jimin. It was your responsibility to set boundaries because of it, but it was hard. Jimin was the best person you’d ever met in your life and resisting him was like resisting the warmth and sunshine of spring.

Sometime in the late summer, Jimin woke up sick.

You slept in the same bed, his arm and tail curled around your waist, nosing sleepily against the nape of your neck. You lingered in the comfortable space between sleep and wakefulness, until you felt Jimin stiffen behind you. He rolled away, and before you could register the sudden cold against your back, he threw up over the side of the bed.

You scrambled into action. Taking his hand and leading him to the bathroom, Jimin kept throwing up into the toilet until there was nothing left to throw up, all while you stroked soothingly across his back. His face was red with exertion and embarrassment.

“Are you okay?” you asked. He nodded but closed his eyes, sitting on the edge of your bathtub and rubbing his forehead. You left to grab him a glass of water.

When he emerged from the bathroom he was pale, not completely steady on his feet. He held up his hand to stop you before you could rush to help him and stood frozen in the hallway.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you asked, thoroughly worried. He shook his head again, brushing his sweat-slicked hair away from his forehead.

“I’m sure,” he replied. He took a step forward and tripped over his own feet, stumbling into the wall. You reached out to help him, but then his eyes rolled back in his head, and Jimin collapsed on the floor.

   It took you one minute to get Jimin on the couch and Namjoon on the phone. It took you fives minutes to get Jimin out of your apartment and into the car, and within twenty minutes Namjoon and Jungkook were meeting you outside the clinic and getting Jimin into the emergency room. By the time that happened he was fading in and out of consciousness, eyes glazed over and dizzy. He wasn’t alert but was responsive, barely.

Namjoon ran every scan he could while interrogating you. He asked what Jimin had been eating, how he’d been feeling, if he’d been acting out of the ordinary. Nothing had seemed out of place, but you still felt guilty for not catching any of his strange behavior beforehand. Namjoon left you alone while the scans were processing, allowing you a moment of privacy.

You sat motionless at Jimin’s bedside, holding his clammy hand in your own. Jungkook peaked in to check on you often while Namjoon waited for Jimin’s test results. After one visit he lingered, braced in the doorway while he observed you.

“You two are close,” he noted.

You nodded. “Yeah, we are.”

He mirrored the gesture, glancing around the room furtively. “Are you in love with him?”

You snatched your hand away from Jimin, choking on your own spit. You coughed and sputtered while Jungkook watched in amusement, making no move to help you. After pounding on your chest for a minute you collected yourself enough to glare.

“I—I, uh,” you tried to say, still choking a bit. You held yourself rigid before collapsing into your chair in defeat. “I care about him, so much. Too much.”

Jungkook nodded again, empathetically. “Does he know?”

“No,” you replied, shaking your head miserably.

“Are you going to tell him?”

Your gaze snagged on Jimin, observing how fragile he looked. The hospital bed swallowed him. “I don’t know.”

Another nod. It felt like half of the conversation consisted on Jungkook nodding. You appreciated the gesture, no matter how small it was, because in all the time you’d known him, Jungkook had never initiated an emotional conversation before. “You should, you know.”

“I’m not sure,” you admitted, voice soft. “I’m afraid of taking advantage of him. It’s so hard to gauge—,”

“He has a right to know,” Jungkook interrupted, gentle but firm, and obviously tired of listening to your excuses. You opened your mouth to reply before he glanced down the hall and interrupted you again. “Namjoon’s coming.”

Jungkook left and Namjoon swept into the room. “Can I speak to you in my office?”

Namjoon’s office looked much better since it’d been cleaned. He’d put a very industrial, very intimidating lock on the backdoor that made it almost impossible to use from the outside. Once the two of you were settled, Namjoon took out Jimin’s scan.

“His entire system is out of whack,” he said. “It’s almost like I’m not even looking at a hybrid scan. And to add insult to injury, his body is in pre-heat. Have you talked to him about the regularity of his cycle?”

Your face flushed red, but you pretended he couldn’t notice. “Not yet.”

“Well, he’s about to start it,” replied Namjoon, until he stopped. Paused. His eyes narrowed over something on the scan. “There’s something wrong here, but I can’t tell what. It’s just—different.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead. “I think I might call Jin to see if he’s seen anything like this before.”

Namjoon turned to leave the room, but not before shooting you a warning look. “Don’t go see Jimin. Jungkook told me he’s conscious.” You sat up straight in your chair, but Namjoon pointed his clipboard at you. “I’m serious, (Y/N). If he’s really about to go into heat, I don’t want you to accidently set him off.” 

As much as it killed you, you agreed with him. You sat alone in tortured silence until Namjoon returned, looking mildly surprised. “Jin’s on his way here. He said he wanted to talk to us in person.”

You raised your eyebrows but said nothing. Jin’s shelter was on the other side of the city and wasn’t as well-staffed as the clinic, meaning it was often a chore for him to leave. Somehow it seemed like he got there in half his usual time, and Namjoon alerted you when he smelled Jin walking toward the door, having been directed to the back by the secretary.

Jin was handsome enough that it made you nervous whenever you made eye-contact, and you were immensely grateful that he was a human and couldn’t hear your elevated heartbeat. He slinked into the room quietly, like he was trying to be sly.

Namjoon asked, flatly, “What are you doing?”

Jin startled and pressed a hand to his chest. “You scared me!”

“What are you doing?”

Jin looked sheepish. “I smell like the shelter. I didn’t know if Jimin was in here and didn’t want to make him nervous if he was.” You were touched by his thoughtfulness, but then he reached out his hand and gestured for the scan, suddenly all business. “When you described his symptoms over the phone I knew I had to get here as quickly as possible.”

Your pulse skyrocketed. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Jin hummed and looked down. He wasn’t a medical doctor like Namjoon, but his experience with hybrid care was unparalleled. When he looked back up, his face was grim. “Have you heard of heat blocking?”

“Of course,” you said. Everyone had, it was the most controversial hybrid practice: should people be allowed to block a hybrid’s heat? The obvious answer was no, but even the most obvious answer could be distorted by prejudice and bigotry.

“Well, this is that,” Jin continued. “Except worse. There’s been an underground trend over the past decade—instead of temporarily stopping the heat cycle for a week or two, there’s a particular drug that will stamp out oxytocin production permanently, if left in the body long enough. It’ll stop the heat cycle completely. I think that’s what happened here.”

Namjoon looked horrified. Interrupting a heat cycle was bad enough, but ending it? Not only would that result in infertility and sterility, but the lasting hormonal effect it would have on the hybrid could ruin everything from endorphin production to serotonin.

“It’s not perfected though,” Jin said. “It’ll end the heat cycle, but the hybrid will get violently sick every cycle instead of aroused. Most people don’t think the trade-off is worth it, which is why the practice is dying out.” He shook his head and admitted, “I’ve only seen it once.”

“The fact that you’ve seen it at all is disgusting,” Namjoon growled.

“I think you’ve caught it early enough. There’s a drug you can administer that will counteract the effect, but it’ll take half a year for his heat cycle to normalize.”

“What’ll that mean for Jimin?” you asked. “Will he still get sick? Will he be sterile?”

Jin grimaced. “Sterility can only be determined after the heat cycle has re-started, but he should stop getting sick. They don’t usually faint, but then again, the drug was probably in Jimin’s body a lot longer than usual—he was a stray, so no one bothered to notice him. I’m just curious as to how he was exposed to the drug in the first place.”

You cursed quietly to yourself while Namjoon snarled. The atmosphere was tense and you said, “I need to step outside.”

“That’s fine, we’re leaving too. Namjoon, take me to the storage room. I’ll show you what you’ll need.” Jin scooted to the side and let you pass, but not before whispering in your ear, “Go check on him.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Sneaking into Jimin’s room was easy because Jungkook was tending to a patient down the hall. You closed the door silently behind you. When Jimin saw you, he gasped and said your name like a prayer, like relief. His face was sweaty, sunken, ashen—your heart ripped in half.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, voice hoarse. You crossed the room and laid a comforting hand over his, pulling a chair to the side of his bed.

“It’s okay, we know what’s wrong.”

His eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Yes,” you said, “but we’re not sure how it happened.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, face dropping again. He flipped his hand over until he could thread his fingers through yours, and your heartbeat picked up.

You paused, unsure how to continue. “Have you ever… been drugged by someone?” His gaze darkened. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. What I mean is—?”

“The reason I don’t like shelters,” Jimin interrupted, suddenly. You paused like a deer caught in traffic. “I know you’re curious, but you’ve never asked.”

You sat back to regard him. “It wasn’t my business.”

“I ran away from one, when I was seventeen. My original family dropped me off there because they were moving out of the country. The place they took me to—was terrible,” Jimin whispered. “I don’t think they knew. I don’t think anyone knew. They would beat us, starve us, treat us like shit and beat us again when we complained. It was the worst year of my life.”

You kept silent and waited for him to continue. “The used to inject me with something, and it hurt like hell. I’ll never forget it. While I lived there my heat cycle got out of order, and then it just stopped, until there was nothing but this sickness that lasted for days. I knew it wasn’t normal, but I just—,” he ran a tense hand through his hair. “What was I supposed to do? Even after I escaped, it kept happening. I was just a stray. What if I told somebody and they sent me back? What if they sent me somewhere worse?”

“They were heat blocking you,” you said. “With an illegal drug. It doesn’t fade from your system naturally, you have to flush it out.”

Jimin looked at you. “Is it too late?”

You gripped his hand. “No! God, of course not. Namjoon’s getting a counteractive drug right now.”

He collapsed in relief again. He looked much better than he did initially, due to your presence and the antibiotics Namjoon was giving him. You couldn’t wait until Namjoon could give him the counteractive drug and everything would go back to normal.

“Do you need anything?” you asked, shifting to sit at the edge of the bed.

Jimin paused for a moment sheepishly before glancing at your from below his eyelashes. “Could you…?” he started, gesturing toward the bed.

You stared. “What?”

“Can we cuddle?” Jimin stared at you hopefully, ears turned forward and fluffing out. That bastard knew you loved it when his ears fluffed out.

“No,” you replied flatly, “I’m not getting in the bed with you.”

“Please,” he asked, pouting, and you were gone. So far gone you couldn’t see the end of the tunnel anymore.

“There’s no way we’re both going to fit,” you grumbled, throwing your leg over the side of it anyway. You fit yourself precariously against Jimin’s side, making sure to avoid lying on his I.V. as he purred happily. He buried a hand in your hair, and you relaxed against him as you found your balance.

You ached for Jimin and what he’d been through. You were grateful that he was in your life. The two of you dozed together on the bed, and if Jungkook peaked in and caught the two of you, he decided not to say anything about it.

[homesoutofhuman]

Season of mists: John Wick/reader AU (oneshot) pt 1.

You know it’s cliché. You know it’s ‘basic instagram bitch’ territory. But blame the autumnal wind, still warm as it caresses your face, blame the patchwork of orange and brown leaves that crunch beneath your feet, whatever the cause, you give in to the tempting bright lights of the coffee shop and order a spiced pumpkin latte.

Wincing a little at the cost you exit Starbucks clutching your drink and cross the road to ‘Wick’s Books’ where you’ve worked for the past year. A cab races past almost hitting you and you stumble inside the doors a little shaken. You check your phone, knowing you have to be at your station on time or catch the wrath of your supervisor. Distracted for a moment you don’t see the man approaching and walk straight into him, your expensive coffee splashes from the cup, you must have failed to secure the lid.

The man yelps and you let out a little scream, profusely apologising and fumbling in your pocket for a napkin to help. It’s only when you look up at his face you realise what you’ve done. You’ve gone and spilt coffee on the owner of the very store where you work, Mr John Wick himself. You’ve never actually been introduced to Mr Wick, being only a lowly bookseller you guess your pay-grade does not make you someone he needs to know on a first name basis. You’ve seen him around though, his dark hair and beard, tailored suit and expensive shoes making him an intimidating figure when he passes through the store. He mostly stays away, you presume in meetings with stakeholders who care more about money than books.

Back in the present moment, which is currently turning into a live version of a horror film before your eyes, he is cursing at you and moving swiftly into a nearby bathroom to clean himself up. You follow without thinking, turning the cold tap on and splashing water on the coffee stain.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growls at you, his dark eyes flashing with unconstrained frustration.

“We...I..should check you’re not burnt…” you say, flustered and gesturing towards the area where most of the coffee seems to have gone. Unfortunately, that brings your eyes to his crotch, and you see his well-tailored trousers strain to cover the bulge beneath.

“I’m fine.” he mutters, using your proffered napkins to dry his now damp trousers. “The suit took most of it.”

You breathe out in some relief. “I’m sorry. I...will pay for dry cleaning of course...I’m just glad you’re not hurt.”

Mr Wick pauses in his futile napkin dabbing and looks at you properly for the first time.

“Judging by your black bookseller shirt I’m guessing my dry-cleaning bill would be more than a month’s salary for you.”

You gape. How rude! You know you’ve just spilt hot coffee on him but surely that was uncalled for.

Smarting, and never being one to be able to hold your temper you snap back.

“Well since you’re the one who pays my wages maybe that tells you something…”

As soon as the words leave your mouth you regret them. This man owns the store where you work, your monthly salary may not be much, but it covers the rent on your studio apartment and besides, you love your job, love spending all day amongst books, and sharing that enthusiasm with the customers.

“I...I’m sorry…” you stammer, then notice that Mr Wick has straightened up to his full height, and is looking down at you curiously.

“You’ve got a smart mouth.” he says, his voice changing from the annoyed growl to a lighter tone and you frown with confusion.

Mr Wick shakes his head almost to himself and balls up the now shredded napkin, throwing it in the bin nearby.

“You do realise you’re in the men’s restroom?”

You open your mouth again, this man makes you feel like a fish and it’s not an enjoyable experience. “I’m leaving now…”

You turn to go but freeze when you feel his hand grip your wrist. His fingers are long and thick and smooth probably never did an honest day’s work in his life. But you can feel his strength from the way he holds you, and you have little choice but to turn back.

“What’s your name?” he asks, still holding your wrist. You feel your pulse fluttering wildly at his close proximity. He’s so tall, over 6 feet. Having only seen him at a distance before you never noticed the smooth elegant line of his nose or the fullness of his mouth.

You tell yourself you’re just scared because of his professional power over you, and supply your name, both first and last, in a slightly prim tone.

Mr Wick nods with recognition. “Oh yes. Children’s department right? That’s a good seller.”

You smile shyly at the compliment. “I’m glad...and I am sorry again Mr Wick…”

He shrugs “I guess it could have been worse…”

You see your chance and tug your arm out of his grasp, almost running out of the restroom.

“Be careful!” he yells after you, snorting a bit as you scurry off, inspecting his ruined suit a little balefully. He sniffs the material, pulling a face, what is that smell? Spicy and fruity...huh…

Then he checks his Rolex and curses, realising he is late for his meeting and hurries back outside to the waiting car. He hopes no one will notice that he smells like pie. He figures if he looks extra grumpy and menacing they won’t dare mention it.

You go back to your section, the scolding of your supervisor barely registering in your ears after such an encounter, and you just pray that Mr Wick won’t decide to fire you.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. You put up a new display for Halloween, placing a selection of Harry Potter, Philip Pullman, Meg and Mog for the younger ones, and your own personal favourite, The Worst Witch series by Jill Murphy. Your spend the afternoon cutting out bats to decorate it, and you almost forget your encounter with the mysterious Mr Wick.

Almost but not quite. You can almost feel the ghost of his fingers around your wrist as you cut the card, the black of the bats reminding you of his dark suit, expensive and soft. The thing that you can’t get out of your mind the most though is his eyes. The way they shone with a depth more than you would ever have expected from a money-driven businessman, and to your annoyance, how lovely you found them.

It’s a stupid fantasy to even start, but the store is quiet so unfortunately your traitorous brain has little else to focus on. You’re leaning against the wall near the door waiting for your colleague to finish closing up and you let yourself fall into a daydream. Imagine what Mr Wick’s hands would feel like, not on your wrist but grasping your face and bringing you closer. What his dark eyes would look like, not stormy with anger but burning with passion. His gravely voice telling you how much he wanted you, his lips on yours, hard and vicious but sending every nerve on fire. You close your eyes and shiver, then you hear someone clearing their throat in front of you.

“Keeping you up are we?” says a low voice straight from your daydream and you open your eyes reluctantly, dreading what you already know the universe has decided to curse you with, Mr Wick standing before you for the second time that day.

“I was just….” you gesture to the back of the store where your colleague is locking the doors and Mr Wick smiles.

“Relax I know it’s the end of the day...no customers will catch you having a little nap on the job.”

“I wasn’t….” you start, but then shut your mouth, figuring it’s better to let him think you were sleeping than having an erotic fantasy about him.

Mr Wick looks puzzled and you see his eyes flick to your mouth. You tense up, feeling your stomach flip as he reaches forward with a finger to brush the edge of your lip.

You blink at him, frozen like a deer in headlights, wondering if your fantasy is about to become reality, when he dashes your hopes.

“You had...some...drool?” Mr Wick looks at his finger perplexed and you pray that a serial killer in a mask will come crashing through the window and end you right this moment.

You scrub your mouth and try to smile bashfully. Mr Wick catches your eye and chuckles. The sound is rich and deep and it sends the hairs on the back of your neck standing up. You desperately peer into the back of the store wondering where the hell your colleague got to.

“So...we’re just closing up Mr Wick…”

It’s his turn to blink. “Right.Of course. I just wanted to ask you...that coffee you spilt on me...it smelt...good…”

You stare at him in amazement and figure it must be a trick of the light making him almost look like he’s blushing.

“It was pumpkin spice.” you answer shortly, your brain barely being able to form words with him so close. You watch a wave of pink wash over his high cheekbones before fading back beneath his patchy beard.

“Ah.” he nods, as if it all makes sense.

Your colleague hits the light switch and the store falls into darkness. Mr Wick makes a small noise of alarm and grabs your arm. He really does seem to like to touch you. This time though, you refuse to be manhandled and put your hand on his arm that holds yours. You are gripping onto each other and it gives you the most strange feeling. He leans in closer, trying to see your eyes in the darkness and you feel his breath on your face, warm and smelling of mint.

“Hold onto me…” you almost whisper, even though the store is empty. “I know my way out by memory…”

Mr Wick grips onto your arm, a little harder than necessary, this fingers dig into your skin and you swear you’ll have a bruise if he doesn’t lighten up.

“It’s okay…” you whisper, trying not to giggle at the fact he might be scared of the dark.

“I just...can’t see where I’m fucking going…” he replies, crashing into a table “fuck!”

Hearing him curse is a thrilling thing. You stride through the store, avoiding all the obstacles, confident of your path and pulling your boss along behind you. When you get to the exit the street lamp from outside illuminates the store enough that you can see him again. You reach to open the door for him and he lets his hand fall from your arm.

“Thanks.” he says, a little shyly, and again you are stunned by his change in behaviour from terrifying to almost sweet. “That was impressive…”

“Just one of my many skills…” you retort and then wish you hadn’t spoken as his eyes widen, falling again to your lips.

“More drool?” you try to joke and he shakes his head.

“Just….that mouth of yours…” he murmurs and you press your lips together self-consciously. You know you should learn to shut up.

“I know...smart right?” you say self-deprecatingly.

“Something like that…” he replies, his voice a deep rich rumble and it’s your turn to look startled.

“Mr Wick…” you almost whimper out, not being able to help yourself, you just need to feel his name on your tongue.

“It’s John.” he says in a hoarse voice and you hope he’s not getting a cold.

“John?” you say, stunned and he nods, moving his wide shoulders out through the door, brushing past you as he does so.

“Don’t uh...call me that in front of people but yeah...seems stupid I know your name and you don’t know mine…”

“John…” you murmur again and he stills in the doorway, turning towards you with soft eyes.

“Goodnight Y/N”

Then he is gone like a ghost into the night, leaving you feeling haunted.

---------

A/N this was meant to be a oneshot but I got overexcited, will have to post it in two parts...

[patheticnugbaby]

Hunting Grounds: V

WARNING: Battle scenes, cursing, the general horribleness that is demons.

Real quick, the reason I don’t elaborate much on Solas in the battle scenes is because where Adahla is and who she’s usually going after are vastly different targets than the ones Solas would be going after (as a ice/support/rift mage) and the majority of Adahla’s combat interactions would be with Cassandra as they both specialize in melee combat.

Adahla is exceptionally done and exceptionally angry at the end of all this, not even at Florianne. She hates that this kind of greed, at the expense of the world, could even exist in a person but recognizes that Orlais should judge her (Oh wait, SURPRISE ADAHLA, that’s your job) She is absolutely infuriated that any of these things even happened, largely because of the negligence of the entire court, especially Celene.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy. Cassandra is reciting the Canticle of Trials.

The whistling sound of arrows flying through the air, followed by the dull hum of magic. Silver-blue light shimmered as the arrows shattered on contact with a protective barrier, it almost tickled her skin.

Adahla rolled to the side, landing on her feet and holding out her hand to the rift. The humming intensified to a sharp whine before the rift snapped open with a crack, like thunder. Spears of black-green crystal erupted from the ground, piercing the archer's feet and through their chests. Swirls of green light flooded the courtyard, two of them bursting with the sound of a harsh wind, the others slowly, agonizingly pulling demons through, piece by piece. Gnarled hands and twisted limbs bent horrifically with the awful snapping of breaking bones.

Cassandra charged forward as the archers drew their bows back for another volley, sheltering Adahla behind her shield. A glacial wind gusted up behind her, the lawn turning silver with frost. She heard the screaming of the terror demons, like the voices of children caught in a fire.

Adahla ducked around Cassandra, racing forwards, slashing her dagger across the back of the demon’s knee. Its leg gave with a crack, like the sound of dry, dead wood splitting. She barely dodged the needle claws of the terror, plucking a flask from her bag and hurling it at the creature. The glass shattered as brilliant blue fire poured over the demon like water.

“Maker, my enemies are abundant.” Cassandra’s voice drew the terror’s attention, it twisted to approach her, hissing, “Many are those who rise up against me.” Cassandra blocked its slashing claws with her shield, circling around, baiting the demon back. “But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me.”

“Andruil’enaste,” Adahla murmured, prowling up behind the terror demon, jabbing her knife into its side and ripping the knife around to where its spine would be.

The demon shrieked and whirled, its claws catching on the midriff of her shirt. Cassandra’s blade lopped its horned head off at the neck, a spindly tongue lolling out  from the rest of its mouth. Adahla turned, gripping another flask as she raced towards a rage demon, freshly pulled from the fade. She threw it, icy fog cloaking the demon, turning its molten body black with cold. She slid around to its back, sinking her dagger into its flesh, twisting to crack the brittleness of its frozen hide. Arrows flew just in front of her nose, landing with soft thunks into a human who’d been slipping up to her left side, curved knife gleaming.

The anchor mark on her hand droned louder, pulling at the core of her arm towards the turbulent, bubbling mass of green light that hummed shrilly in her ears. Her hand was drawn to it like a magnet, a wildly snapping rope of green light springing between the anchor and the rift. There was the odd feeling of a string being pulled from the center of her bones and out her palm. The hum grew louder, more insistent before it burst with another clap that rang in her ears. She snapped her hand away, shaking it to alleviate the sting of closing the rift. Her ears flicked at the sound of someone cutting ropes. The Ferelden.

“Andraste’s Tits, what was all that? Were those demons? There aren’t any more blasted demons coming, right?” Adahla wrinkled her nose and barely fought the urge to slap him as she turned around.

“Yes, those were demons. Well spotted,” She snapped, grabbing his hands to look at his wrists, “Are you hurt?”

“No! Maker’s Balls, never saw one that close before,” The Ferelden man yanked his hands away from her, scowling at the bodies in the yard, “I knew Gaspard was a bastard, but I didn’t think he’d feed me to fucking horrors over a damned bill!”

“I’m sorry, Duke Gaspard lured you out here?” She asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Well, his sister, but it had to come from him, didn’t it? And all that garbage she was spewing doesn’t mean anything. Gaspard had to be the mastermind!” The man folded his arms, looking around the courtyard with disdain.

“Right. Sure. Whatever you want to believe,” She sighed, rubbing her hands over her face, “Gaspard hired a Ferelden ‘band?”

“The duke wanted to move on the palace tonight, but he didn’t have enough fancy chevaliers. So he hired me, and my men. Had to offer us triple our usual pay to come to Orlais. Stinking poncy cheesemongers.” He sneered, rubbing his hands together, like he was cold.

“If I ask you to, would you testify against Gaspard in a court?” Adahla muttered through her hands, still pressed tightly to her face.

“I’m game. Anything’s better than this bullshit. You want me to talk to the Empress, or the court, or sing a blasted song in the chantry, I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful. Go to the ballroom, find Commander Cullen. He’s the only one in the room that’ll look Ferelden.” She gently steered him towards the doors, ushering him on his way.

When he was gone she gave a heavy sigh and rubbed her hands over her face, like she could scrub the frustration off. Her left hand still stung a little from closing the rift, she wrapped her arms around herself with a shiver.

“Would you like a coat, Inquisitor?” Solas asked, gesturing at the long slashes through her shirt. “A little close for comfort.”

She looked down, remembering the near miss of the demon’s claws, “Ah. Not yet, the cold will keep me alert.”

Adahla rearranged her satchel and sheathed her dagger, leaving out the same doors they’d come in. As she came into the vestibule she didn’t bother to re-ornament herself, drawing a few shocked gasps from wandering nobles. Her fancy shirt was shredded, the blood of lesser men and demons stained her trousers, four silverite daggers belted tightly to her legs. She knew her hair had started to fall from its elaborate trappings and irritably yanked it out, tearing a shred from her shirt to bind it into a ponytail.

“Inquisitor, are you sure-”

She interrupted Cassandra by pushing open the ballroom doors with both hands, the green flashing of the anchor giving her away. She marched to the opposite side of the room from Florianne. The duchess gave her a nervous look, a flickering at her lips that gave away her surprise.

“Thank the Maker you’re back! The empress will be giving her speech soon. What should we do?” Cullen nearly ran up to her, then his eyes went wide, “Maker, what happened?”

“Never mind that, Cullen. I’m going to have a word with the Grand Duchess.” Adahla growled, pushing past him.

“What?! There’s not time! The empress will begin her speech at any moment!”

She ignored him, prowling down the stairs and across the empty dance floor. A red lion, closing on her prey. Her heart beat slow, calm, ears pinned tight against her skull as the steady warmth of victory rose steady in her chest.

“We owe the court one more show, Your Grace,” She ignored the incredulous gasping of the court, standing confidently at the base of the stairs.

“Inquisitor,” Florianne turned to face her, voice calm but her eyes were wide. Caught.

“The eyes of every noble in Orlais are upon us, Your Grace,” Adahla started to climb the stairs, a feral grin on her lips, “Remember to smile,” She stalked up the stairs, Florianne slowly backing away from her, a cornered rabbit, “This is your party. You wouldn’t want them to think you’d lost control.”

“Who would not be delighted to speak with you, Inquisitor?” Florianne was nearly backed to the wall, slightly curled in on herself.

“‘All I needed was to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike.’” Adahla paused, cocking her head to the side, “Wasn’t that what you said?” She smiled, circling around to the duchess’s left side, “When your archers failed to kill me in the garden, I feared you wouldn’t save me the pleasure of another dance,” Adahla straightened, hands behind her back as she circled Florianne’s back, “It’s so easy to lose your good graces. You even framed your brother for the murder of a Council Emissary.” Adahla circled back to the front of the woman, stepping forward, forcing her to give ground, “It was an ambitious plan. Celene, Gaspard, the entire Council of Heralds... All your enemies under one roof.”

“This is very entertaining, but you do not imagine that anyone believes your wild stories?” Florianne was still backing away, Adahla taking up every inch of marble floor the duchess gave up until her back was pressed to the wall.

“That will be a matter for a judge to decide, Cousin.” Celene’s voice floated down over their heads, Florianne turned, almost desperately, to look at her brother.

“Gaspard? You cannot believe this! You know I would never-” Gaspard backed away from her like she was a mad dog, turning his back and marching up the stairs. Adahla’s tongue flicked out to lick her teeth. “Gaspard?!”

Florianne slid along the wall away from the guards, Adahla slipped behind her to block her retreat. The duchess glanced behind her, eyes wide with fear, Adahla sneered.

“You lost this fight ages ago, Your Grace. You’re just the last to find out.” She watched them drag the woman away, then looked up at the Empress, “Your Imperial Majesty, you and I should speak. Elsewhere.”

Adahla took the steps up two at a time, just behind Gaspard and Briala. She stormed past the guards to Celene’s little balcony, slamming the doors behind her.

“-sister attempted regicide in front of the entire court, Gaspard!”

“You’re the spymaster!” He shot back, turning with an arrogant set in his shoulders, “If anyone knew this atrocity was coming, it was you.”

“You don’t deny your involvement?” Briala needled him with a little smile.

“I do deny it! I knew nothing of Florianne’s plans! But you... You knew it all and did nothing!”

“I don’t know which is bet-”

“Enough!” Adahla snapped, a snarl on her lips, “I did not cut my way through dozens of Tevinter soldiers and a fucking fade rift in the middle of fucking Halamshiral to listen to you two bicker like infants!”

“You dare-!”

“I dare as much as I damn well please, Celene,” Adahla rounded on the empress, “All of you had your heads jammed too far up your own asses to see this coming and you should have seen it coming.”

The silence that followed her tirade was heavy enough to hear the quiet hum of her anchor mark. The three of them nearly looked embarrassed, but they were Orelesian, they didn’t have the decency to look embarrassed at their own inadequacy.

“What would you suggest, Inquisitor?”

Adahla laughed without any humor, the sound sharp as an edge of broken glass, “You are asking me what you should do with your empire?”

“Perhaps it shouldn’t be hers. This happened on her watch,” Gaspard seethed.

“Don’t you dare,” Adahla growled, taking a step up to him, waving the letter she found in his office “You ordered your general to sneak troops into the palace and I found your mercenary captain. He’ll testify that you hired him and his men to sneak infiltrate the palace tonight.”

“Hired thugs? I didn’t expect you to stoop so low, Cousin.”

“Don’t be naive, Celene. The only difference between a mercenary and a common soldier is a uniform.”

“Keep talking, Gaspard-”

“Would you kindly shut up?” Adahla snapped, wrinkling her nose, “The fact than any of you would be considered rule-worthy makes me sick.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re dalish, from the Marches. You wouldn’t understand,” Celene sniffed, then turned to Gaspard, “In light of overwhelming evidence, we have no choice but to declare you an enemy of the empire. You are hereby sentenced to death. Guards!”

Two men marched through the doors, closing them behind them, “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Take this man away. He is to be executed.” Celene spoke in a voice that was cold and hard as iron. Adahla wouldn’t be able to convince her to let him live if she wanted to.

Adahla took a slow breath, softening her voice, “Briala was actually instrumental in the course of my investigations tonight, Your Grace. I wouldn’t have caught Florianne in time without her.”

“You were working together?” Celene took a glance at Briala.

“Of course,” Adahla smiled a little, Briala didn’t miss a beat.

“Thanks to her, I was able to ferret out Gaspard’s and Florianne’s plans for this evening. She was adamant that I investigate for the sake of your personal safety.” Adahla prayed that Celene couldn’t tell that she was lying through her teeth.

“I can scarcely believe you did all this for me.”

“Celene.” Briala smiled, the first warm, genuine smile Adahla had seen the entire night.

“Inquisitor, I must thank you, for all your efforts tonight.” Celene paused, “In time you may become a skilled player in The Game, if you could curb your tongue a little,” Adahla managed not to look too angry at that, “I owe you my life, and Orlais owes you its future.” Celene turned and left the balcony, Adahla and Briala following close behind her, the Empress turned back, her expression almost warm, “You have done so much. For my people and... For us.”

Briala stepped up to Celene’s side, giving her a sidelong glance, “We won’t forget this.”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” Adahla remarked, narrowing her eyes, “I need both of you to do better. If I hear about another purged alienage, another set of pointed ears that met an unfortunate end in the wrong part of the palace I will be back.” She leaned up to the Empress, scowling, “If you muck up Orlais, know that I will bring your rule down around your ears.”

“I... Understand, Inquisitor,” Celene bowed her head a little, then took Briala’s hand. “We must address the nobility.”