#I think we should make trading illegal

[cooneycrossed]

Sobbing rn WEEPING even

[a-bit-of-writing]

24/30 - Blush

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Characters: Astarion x Reader (Female)

Words: 996

Summary: You only wanted a pear. Astarion, of course, made it about you blushing. 

notes: I’m making a collection out of these Astarion x Reader pieces. You can read the first one here -> Negotiate.

Dawn had only just powdered the treetops in rose‑gold when you padded into the clearing, determined to claim breakfast before the others stirred. Gale’s snore rumbled somewhere behind a canvas flap; Lae’zel muttered guttural insults in her sleep. The camp was blissfully yours.

Almost.

Because a white‑haired devil lounged beside the provisions basket like a dragon on its hoard, ankles crossed, fingers laced behind his head, smirk bright enough to rival sunrise.

Of course.

You cocked an eyebrow. “You’re up early.”

“Technically I’m up late, my sweet,” Astarion purred, stretching with feline grace. The motion set his silken shirt gaping wider, pale chest gleaming where two buttons had mysteriously vanished. “The night and I were having such a lovely time I couldn’t bear to part ways.”

“Mm‑hmm.” You crouched by the basket and spotted it: one perfect pear, skin flushed with gold and green, dewdrops still clinging like tiny diamonds. A rare treasure after days of trail rations.

You lifted it carefully.

Astarion’s eyes locked onto the fruit with predatory focus. “I do hope you intend to ask permission.”

“From whom?”

“From its rightful owner, darling. Me.”

You snorted. “Since when do you own the camp’s food?”

“Since I laid an elegant, discerning eye on it last night and declared, ‘That beauty is mine.’” He rose in a languid glide, closing the distance until his voice brushed your ear. “Besides, we both know I have impeccable taste.”

“Please.” You tried to sidestep; he matched you, a waltz without music. The pear sat cool and heavy in your palm - suddenly precious, suddenly bargaining chip.

“What will you give me,” he whispered, “to taste my pear?”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks - swift, traitorous. Of course he noticed; he noticed everything.

Astarion’s crimson gaze glittered. “Oh, there it is. The delightful rush of pink.” He clucked his tongue. “You are way too cute when you blush.”

“I’m not blushing,” you lied, hopelessly.

“Lies, lies, delicious lies.” He leaned forward until a silver strand of hair tickled your cheek. “Careful, love. Keep turning that charming shade and I’ll be forced to write sonnets. Very bad sonnets. The kind that rhyme love with dove.”

“That should be illegal.”

“Oh, it is. But I’m a criminal in so many delightful ways.” His smile curved razor‑sharp. “So, what will you trade?”

You swallowed. “What do you want?”

“Surprise me.” He folded his arms, biceps flexing beneath torn silk. “A secret. A confession. A dare. Something with… flavor.”

You weighed possibilities - and the pear - then exhaled. “Fine. I’ll give you something no one else here knows.”

“Scandalous already.”

You cleared your throat. “When I was twelve, I stole candles from the temple archive so I could read adventure tales after curfew.” A shy laugh escaped. “I hid them under my mattress for months before anyone noticed.”

Astarion blinked, genuine, momentary startle. “You little renegade.” Then his grin returned, wider. “Breaking commandments for literature? Positively sinful.”

“Happy?”

“Ecstatic but I think I deserve visual evidence.” He plucked the pear from your hand before you could react, then rolled it between long fingers, inspecting. “Mm. Smooth. Firm. Juicy.” His eyes flicked to yours. “Reminds me of someone.”

You laughed despite yourself. “You compare me to fruit now?”

“Only the finest.” His thumb stroked the pear’s curve with slow, suggestive care. “Look, she blushes deeper.” He sighed, mock‑smitten. “Honestly, darling, if you keep coloring like that, I’ll have to ask Shadowheart for smelling salts.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Hardly. Your pulse is racing.” He tapped two fingers against your wrist - soft, testing. “See?”

Lightning shot to your skin. You yanked your hand back. “Stop that.”

He chuckled. “Why should I? I quite enjoy seeing you unravel.” Biting lightly into the pear, he let juice run down the corner of his mouth - then caught it with a slow swipe of tongue. “Mmm. Divine.”

You averted your gaze. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?” He took another bite, lips glistening. “Do enlighten me.”

“Being obscene.”

“Obscene? Darling, this is breakfast.” He offered the pear, half‑devoured. “Care for a taste?”

You hesitated. His eyes dared you. Crimson crescents bright with mischief and something hotter. To refuse felt cowardly; to accept felt like stepping onto a blade. So you lifted it to your lips and bit where his mouth had been moments before.

The pear burst sweet on your tongue - sugar and wine. His gaze never left your mouth.

“How is it?” he breathed.

“Good.” You swallowed thickly. “Very… good.”

“‘Good,’ they say.” He tutted. “That’s hardly worthy of poetry.” He leaned close again, voice velvety. “Tell me, did you taste a hint of me? I promise, I’m even sweeter.”

“You’re impossible.”

He laughed, satisfied. “And you, little candle‑thief, are intoxicating.” He brushed a lock of hair behind your ear—fingertips chill, feather‑light. “I should warn you: if you continue blushing like that, someone less chivalrous might take advantage.”

“Chivalrous?” you scoffed.

“Well.” His grin flashed fang. “Chivalrous enough not to steal more than a pear at dawn.” He stepped back, theatrically bowing. “For now.”

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The morning smelled of dew and pear juice and danger disguised as laughter.

Suddenly he tossed the fruit high; you caught it by reflex.

“Keep it,” he said, straightening, voice softer - the faintest crack in the performance. “A souvenir of my generosity.” Then the mask returned. “But remember: every bite binds you deeper into my scandalous poetry cycle. Expect sonnets by supper.”

“Ghastly,” you teased.

“Glorious,” he corrected.

You turned to leave, yet glanced back. Astarion watched you with unreadable eyes, as if committing every blush, every stutter, to memory. For all his flair, the silence between you pulsed with something fragile - electric - real.

You raised the pear in salute. “Thank you.”

His smile gentled, just for a breath. “My pleasure… and soon, perhaps, my privilege.”

You walked away with cheeks on fire, heartbeat drum‑loud, pear juice sticky on your fingers—and the sneaking suspicion that somewhere between candlelit pages and stolen dawns, you had become as priceless to him as any forbidden fruit.

[snail-day]

Anxiety

Inspired by Doechii’s song - I just love the vibe.

Yandere! Insert x Reader

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Online Predation/Stalking, Manipulation, Drugging, Noncon/Dubcon, Somnophilia, Horror themes.

WC: 2.2k

Omegle is one of those sleepover staples - the kind of reckless, giddy indulgence that thrives on a mix of boredom and cheap rosé. A laptop perched on someone’s lap, the glow of the screen painting your faces in artificial blue light. The click of the Next button, over and over, sifting through a sea of faceless strangers, dodging the inevitable perverts with their hands sloppily buried beneath their waists.

Mindless fun. Harmless, even.

Until the screen loads him.

A figure bathed in dim, crimson light. A red room. The air around him is thick, suffocating, pressing against the grainy pixels. You can’t quite make out his face - just the vague shape of a man, shadowed and distant, yet present in a way that sets your teeth on edge.

Then he speaks.

"What are you lovely ladies up to tonight?" a voice that is rich in velvet, curling through the speakers like slow-burning embers. It’s the kind of voice that doesn’t just speak but pulls, ensnaring something primal deep in your chest, forming heat on your cheeks. It drags down your spine, coiling in the pit of your stomach. Your friends giggle, but a strange unease presses into your ribs, spreading like ink. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the heat creeping up your neck because, even through the distortion, you can almost see the sharp angles of a handsome face.

"Ever hear of the dark web?"

Your body tenses instinctively. Of course, you have. Who hasn’t? The dark web is whispered about in internet horror stories, in late-night Reddit threads meant to keep thrill-seekers up at night. It isn’t illegal to access, only the things that happen there are. But the way he says it, a slow purr, a drawl of sorts as if you're all children listening to horror stories at the camp fire and he's trying to see who squirms first. The conversation shifts, turning into something colder, heavier. He begins to explain what a red room really is. A place where live torture is broadcasted. A digital coliseum where faceless crowds pay to watch strangers suffer. A world where death is nothing more than entertainment, where pain is a currency traded in cryptocurrency.

His voice, still smooth as honey, lingers too long on every word- Indulgent. Like he’s savoring the explanation, rolling it over his tongue like a delicacy. Your skin prickles with something beyond fear,

"I think we should skip this one," you murmur to your friends, barely moving your lips. "He’s giving me the creeps."

They laugh. Call you paranoid. Say it’s just a spooky story. That it's hard to get a hot guy like him on Omegle. Even he agrees, though there’s something almost teasing in the way he exhales, voice lowering into something impossibly gentle.

"You scared, little dove?"

The nickname sinks into you, far too intimate for your anxiety.

Hours pass.

Somewhere in the blur of the night, one of your friends - drunk on wine and adrenaline - got his number. Sent him a text.

No response.

You assume that’s the end of it.

The party dwindles, sleep creeping in, and you sink into the stiff, lumpy embrace of your friend’s broken couch. A stuffy apartment, filled with the residual warmth of too many bodies and the distant hum of the fridge kicking on in the kitchen. Your eyelids droop, but the unease remains, needling at the edges of your consciousness.

He had a red room.

But morning comes, and the sun filters in through the blinds, scattering gold across the floor. You wake up. Your heart is still beating. Your skin is still unbroken. You suppose it really was just a spooky story. You suppose he really was harmless.

Keeping your head down as you walk home, the rain slicking your hair to your forehead, turning the pavement into a mirrored sheen of distorted streetlights. Each step feels heavier than the last, a slow, dragging weight pressing against your spine. Maybe it’s the hangover. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Or maybe it’s the echo of his voice still curling in the back of your mind, like smoke refusing to dissipate.

"You scared, little dove?"

The words slither through you, unbidden, curling around your ribs like thorny vines, pricking at your skin. You shake your head, as if you can physically dislodge the thought. It’s nothing. A stranger in a red-lit room. A stupid story. A glitchy connection that made him seem more ominous than he actually was. Still, you walk faster. By the time you reach your apartment, your clothes are damp, the cold pressing into your skin like a second layer. The key trembles slightly in your grasp as you shove it into the lock, twisting it with more force than necessary. The door swings open, the darkness of your empty space yawning before you. Safe.

Yet, as you step inside, a whisper of paranoia clings to you. The air is thick, too still, the silence too absolute. You don’t remember leaving the lights off, but the place is shrouded in shadow, the only illumination coming from the streetlamp outside, its glow filtering through your curtains.

You close the door. Lock it. Once. Twice.

The anxiety should ease, but it doesn’t. Must be the hangover. The questionable Chinese food. Perhaps you're just weak to horror.

You're fine.

With a breath, you move to your bedroom, peeling off your damp clothes and tossing them into the hamper. The exhaustion pulls at you, yet when you collapse onto the mattress, your body refuses to relax.

Your laptop sits on your desk, the black screen reflecting the dim light. The cursor blinks expectantly when you open it, your fingers hesitating over the keys.

Don’t be stupid. You should sleep. You should forget.

But your fingers move before you can stop them, typing Red Room Dark Web into the search bar. The results are predictable - articles debunking myths, forums filled with speculation, cautionary tales of users claiming they’ve seen one, claiming they’ve barely escaped.

A chill ripples down your spine. You shouldn’t be doing this. Yet, before you can convince yourself to stop, a notification pops up. A single, unread message.

Unknown: Still feeling ignorant, little dove?

Your pulse hammers, an erratic rhythm against your ribs. It’s a coincidence. It has to be. You must've just picked up a virus. Your friend works in tech, she must be messing with you.

You force a laugh, but it sounds weak, brittle.

Then another message.

Unknown: You looked so lovely in the rain. Wish you hadn’t walked home alone.

Ice floods your veins. Your head whips toward the window. The pale curtains are drawn, but you swear you feel something - a presence lingering just beyond the glass. Watching. Waiting. The rain drums against the glass in relentless, hollow beats.

That's silly, you're on the third floor. You're safe.

You do the only thing you can think of to cure your anxiety. Clear the browsing data, clear the weird messages, and turn off your laptop. And pray that ignorance truly is bliss.

Yet, after that night, your dreams shift - warped, sultry, laced with an undercurrent of something dark, something forbidden. They are not just lewd; they are visceral, consuming. Heat coils deep in your core, an unbearable, molten ache spreading through your limbs like liquid fire. A ghostly touch slithers over your thighs, fingers tracing invisible patterns against your fevered skin.

You dream of hands - strong, commanding, fingers digging into your flesh with an intimacy that feels earned. A hand muffles your moans, palm pressing against your parted lips, smothering the sweet, desperate sounds escaping your throat. The other hand - oh, the other - grips your hips, forcing you to take more, to stretch around something thick, something impossibly deep. The pleasure is suffocating, overwhelming, drowning you in wave after wave of raw sensation.

A voice - low, velvety, dripping with amusement - whispers against your ear.

"You take me so well, little dove."

The words reverberate through your bones, sinful and possessive, curling like smoke in your mind. Your body trembles, teeters on the edge. You wake with a sharp inhale, your sheets damp, your skin flushed and dewy with sweat. Your pulse flutters wildly beneath your ribs, your thighs still trembling with phantom pleasure. Yet, there is no trace of your dream lover, no proof of his touch - except for the unmistakable wet patch on your panties, sticky with your own arousal.

Your stomach clenches. This isn’t normal. You must be ovulating. That’s all it is. Just a silly little rut, a needy, desperate craving clawing its way through your veins. Nothing more. And what do silly, desperate college girls do when their bodies betray them?

They fix it.

So, with a flick of your thumb, you download Tinder.

The screen glows in the dimness of your bedroom as you scroll, eyes scanning profiles with detached efficiency. A few swipes. A few teasing messages. You’re not looking for love - just release. Just someone to fuck this unbearable heat out of your system.

And then - you find him. A man sculpted by the gods, as if chiseled from marble itself. Sharp jawline, piercing eye, a mature man. A man who promises a good fuck. That smirk of his dripping with sin, with promises of pleasure so deliciously depraved it makes something low in your stomach tighten. His confidence oozes through the screen, his words smooth, teasing, effortlessly seductive.

Perfect.

This should be easy. But as your gaze lingers on his face, on the sharpness of his cheekbones, the familiar curve of his lips - unease prickles at the base of your spine.

Why does he feel… familiar?

A strange déjà vu claws at the edges of your mind, elusive and taunting. No. You’re just anxious.

That man was probably dozens of miles away. You’re just horny - needy and restless with an ache you don’t care to analyze too deeply. Put on your big girl panties, send your location to a friend, and go get this insatiable heat fucked out of your system.

So you do.

His apartment is pristine, a blend of modern luxury and something deeper - something curated. The air is rich with the scent of leather and faint spice, like cologne that lingers long after someone leaves a room. Dim lighting, warm, casting golden shadows over his immaculate furniture.

He’s charming. Handsome. A man sculpted from sin, his presence intoxicating before he even lays a hand on you.

"Wine?" His voice is a soft purr, rolling over you like smoke. "I have this vintage red from my travels."

There’s a teasing lilt beneath the words, something indulgent, like he’s savoring this moment as much as he plans to savor you. Your legs press together as you sink onto his couch, fingers toying with the hem of your dress. A strange warmth spreads through your chest, an anxious energy you can’t quite place.

"You're a bit older than your profile," you murmur, watching his muscles as he pulls the cork from the bottle with an effortless twist. "You said you were twenty-one."

He hums, low and thoughtful.

"Just a few years older. That’s not a problem, is it?" He tilts the bottle, the wine slipping into a delicate crystal glass - deep red, almost black under the dim light. "Now, wine or no?"

Then, a chuckle - low, velvety, teasing.

"You’ll be tasting it on my lips anyway, little dove. I just thought it’d help calm your nerves."

Little dove.

The words curl around your throat like an unseen hand, a phantom touch pressing into your chest. Your fingers tighten slightly against your thigh, a cold sensation trickling down your spine despite the warmth of the room.

That name.

That exact name. Like an echo from another life, a thread connecting something unseen. It's just a coincidence. It's a common pet name. A common pet name older men use.

The glass is cool against your fingertips as you take it from him, willing the thought away, willing yourself to lean into the heat, the distraction. The first sip is unexpected - sickeningly sweet, cloying in a way vintage wine should never be. There’s a fizz on your tongue, fleeting but noticeable, dissolving into something warm that spreads slowly through your limbs.

It doesn’t matter.

Because the moment the glass leaves your lips, so do his.

His mouth claims yours - slow, intoxicating, coaxing rather than taking. His lips part against yours, the taste of wine mixing with something deeper, something familiar. Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling into the soft strands as he pulls you against him, large hands sliding down your spine, gripping, exploring as he pulls you onto his lap, a hardness pressing against your heat.

A breathless moan escapes you as he tugs- gently at first, then firmer - tilting your head, exposing your throat to him. His lips trace along your jaw, down your neck, a slow, teasing descent that sends shivers skittering through your body.

The room feels warmer.

No, hotter. The air thickens, viscous and cloying, pressing into your skin, sinking beneath it. Your mind wavers, distant like a detuned radio caught between stations, static buzzing at the edges of your thoughts.

A soft click.

The atmosphere shifts.

The golden glow of the room vanishes, swallowed whole, replaced by something darker.

A deep, pulsing red.

The breath stutters in your throat, as his tongue claims the struggled sound escaping your lips.

Red room.

Your body stiffens, muscles coiling tight, but the warmth laced through your limbs makes it slow, sluggish, like fighting through water. A slow dread bleeds into the haze of pleasure, creeping, insidious. Your heart pounds against your ribs, but your limbs feel heavy. His lips ghost over your ear, voice dipping into something silkier.

"We’re going to have a lot more fun, little dove."

A tremor ripples through you, a grotesque tangle of heat and dread, sinking deep. His grip tightens around your waist, his fingers sinking in deeper, bruising to the skin.

"Just couldn’t get you out of my mind, little dove. And now that I have you..." His breath is warm against your skin, the words a whisper, a promise, a noose tightening around your fate. "I don’t plan to let you go."

Characters: JJK: Geto, Toji, Sukuna, Kenjaku AOT: Zeke, Eren, Kenny HxH: Chrollo, Hisoka, Illumi

[dailynnt]

FRIENDS WITHIN TOUCHING DISTANCE

⊹ Summary: Jungkook and you, his childhood friend, live together in an apartment, sharing space as roommates. Your relationship, built on years of friendship, is gradually becoming strained by growing sexual tension. You decide to become friends with benefits, trying not to complicate your feelings. But Jungkook's world is not so simple. When you begin to realize that he is hiding something, you open the veil of his double life - a world of mafia, criminal activity, and risk that could ruin not only your deal, but everything you valued in each other.

⊹ Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ Fem!Reader

⊹ Characters: The Reader, Jeon Jungkook, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, Min Yoongi, Kim Seokjin, Kim Namjoon, Jeon Hoseok.

⊹ 🔞 Age restrictions: 18+

⊹ 👩🏼‍❤️‍👨🏻 Relationships: ⚤

⊹ 📘 Number of part: 12/30

⊹ 🖇️ Tags: best friends, friends with benefits, slow longing, sexual tension, protected sex, unprotected sex, alcohol, drunken sex, inexperienced main character, mafia au, illegal trade, deaths of minor characters, weapons, swear words. Tags will be added as the story is written.

⊹👩🏼‍💻 From the author: Almost the Christmas part. There's a lot going on here, and you'll also see Jungkook in action in the mafia stuff. What do you think about it? Did I do a good job with his character? 🥺 An amazing trip to Japan becomes a turning point. Thank you very much to everyone who reads 💜

⊹ 🫂 Dedication: For you, my love @myjungkookthighs. You know that I appreciate you very much and love you🥰💜

⊹ ⚠️ Warning: English is not my native language, so there may be mistakes in the text. Please don't get mad at me too much! Those under 18, please don't read this story!

⊹ 📋 Tag list: @myjungkookthighs, @notsevenwithyou (If anyone wants to be in my tag list let me know)

≣ Chapter Index ↓

Part 12: Christmas trip to Niseko.

Jungkook was sitting in a spacious office with panoramic windows that overlooked Seoul at night. The office of some kind of food company. A pretty good-looking one, judging by the look of the place.

Thick cigarette smoke was gathering under the ceiling, and in front of him, at a massive desk, sat a client of their services.

The man in the expensive suit was constantly adjusting his tie, trying not to make eye contact with Jungkook. Jungkook didn't want to be here, and he had no desire to extort money from this miserable man. But that was his job. He was sitting in the man's office and acting like he owner the place.

"We had a deal!" - Jungkook said, slowly shifting a heavy black metal fist in his hands, a symbol that no refusal would be accepted. His voice sounded indifferent, but with a hint of threat. "You put your money on our fighter, we make sure he wins, and you pay the agreed upon share."

"I... I understand..." - The man began, wiping sweat from his forehead. "But my business is going through a tough time. I just need a little more time..."

Jungkook leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and his voice became even quieter, but no less menacing.

"Your 'hard times' are not our concern. Namjoon has entrusted me with this matter, and I will not leave this office until I get what is due."

The man tried to look calm, but his fingers were trembling. He hesitated for a few more seconds and then walked over to the safe in his office. It was hidden behind a painting on the wall and he took out the wads of bills.

"Everything should be here. I didn't want to delay you... It just happened that..." - The man brought the money to the table and put it down carefully.

Jungkook took the money, counting it carefully before tossing the envelope on the table next to the couch where Jimin was sitting. He silently collected it and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Jimin then took out the letter of commitment and tore it up in front of the man, who was pale with fear.

"Honesty is what keeps Namjoon's business afloat." - Jungkook said as he stood up. "Remember that the next time you want to delay a payment."

Jungkook and Jimin got into a black Mercedes Gelentwagen and pulled out of the parking lot. Their car was followed by a similar black Mercedes Viano. Jungkook drove the car, while Jimin checked his phone.

"How annoying are these assholes." - Jimin broke the silence. Jungkook listened attentively, but he was thinking about his own. "It was only 100 million won, and it took so much time." - Jimin complained.

"Yoongi asked us to do it, otherwise Namjoon would have been angry. You know he likes when to pay on time. Besides, I told you I could go by myself." - Jungkook explained why it was necessary.

"Whatever. I just wanted to walk my ass. It's been a long time since I've done this kind of work." - Jimin said and smiled.

"Then why are you complaining?" - Jungkook asked.

"I'm annoyed by these worthless bastards who still think they can bargain with us." - Jungkook nodded his head in agreement.

"What about the devices? Did you find out what happened to them? Why were they all corrupted?" - Jungkook asked, ending the previous conversation.

"Yes, I found out." - Jimin says slowly while texting someone. Jungkook waits patiently for a reply as he glances over at Jimin. He finishes and locks his phone. He gets comfortable in the seat and speaks. "Doohoon switched the devices when the shipment left Japan. He also forged the documents, so their logistics company was listed. It was stupid, to be honest. He should have just done it through a left-wing small company. But we would have known it was him anyway. With the help of the subsidiary, I figured it out in two minutes."

"I see. Do you know where the working devices are?" - Jungkook asked after listening to Jimin.

"I know. Niseko is on the island of Hokkaido." - He replied. Jungkook was a quick think. He could organize a trip there under the guise of some business with his Japanese partners. Pick up the devices and try to sell them again. And he'd deal with Doohoon as soon as he was done with this case.

"Listen, Jimin." - Jungkook wanted to share his thoughts. "What if I fly to Japan and return these devices and try to sell them? By myself." - Jimin smiles at Jungkook's idea.

"Are you ready to organize all this shit and fly to Japan?" - Jimin asks.

"You got any better ideas? If Namjoon finds out that Doohoon did this, everyone will get hurt. And me the most. I don't want to add another 50 million dollars to my debt." - Jungkook argues. Jimin agreed with Jungkook's statement.

"You're in luck, my dear friend." - Jimin suddenly says. Jungkook tries to understand what his words mean. "Yoongi came to visit yesterday. He told me that Doohoon's father is negotiating with our partners in Japan. He wants them to directly cover the transportation without us. In return, he's offering them a special deal - to transport their goods all over Asia for next to nothing." - Jungkook raises his eyebrows. Like father and like son. Why are they such a pain in the ass?

"Does Namjoon know?" - Jungkook asks.

"Yes. That's why Yoongi is asking me and Taehyung to go to Japan to check this information and meet with Kazuhiro Yamada. I can take you with me so you can do some work with the devices. You can also help us with the negotiations. The more you work on company business, the more you'll be in the boss’s good graces. Besides, it's Christmas next week, so we'll celebrate it by going skiing." - Jimin suggested.

Jungkook is really lucky. This business with the Japanese mafia member has come at the perfect time. He needs to use it to avoid the disaster that awaits him.

He's going to fly to Japan and he's worried that it might take a long time. Maybe 5 days or even a whole week. He can't leave you without him for that long.

He might try to put a guard around you, but you might react aggressively to that. Probably, he should be sent you to your parents for Christmas, but he's not sure if it will be safe either. There, Doohoon will be able to pursue you even more brazenly than here. He will try to gain your parents' trust by referring to school friendships. In addition, he can present himself to your parents as a cool heir to a large company, and then they will definitely lose their vigilance. Under no circumstances should you be left alone.

"Jimin-hyun." - Jungkook calls out. "You do realize that I can't leave Y/N alone in Seoul, given Doohoon’s sick antics. I have to take her with me." - Jimin thought seriously about Jungkook's words.

"Jungkook, it's risky. We won't be alone, and the cause we're traveling for is serious. I don't think Y/N will be safe there with us. Should we put a guard around her? I can order my brother to follow her." - Jungkook presses his lips together. He nervously plays with his lip piercing. No, that's not an option. He'll worry too much. If Doohoon finds out that Jungkook isn't around, he'll act. Jungkook doesn't like him being quiet and deceptively calm as it is.

"No. I’m taking she with. We'll pretend it's a Christmas trip to a ski resort. I'll be calm if she's in front of my eyes." - Jungkook stood his ground. Jimin quickly gave up. He knows Jungkook, if he's worried about something, he'll do it his way.

"Good. Then Y/N will come with us. She'll be happy, I think." - Jimin thought. "Want to sleep in the same room with her to make sure Doohoon isn't stalking her?" - He joked. Jimin looked up from the road and noticed Jungkook's sly smile.

"Good idea, Hyung. I couldn't think of a way to sleep in the same bed with her." - Jungkook replied sarcastically. Jimin laughed.

"Dude, this is a good opportunity to fuck her with romance and not just at home on the couch." - Jimin suggested. His voice is too cheerful.

"I'll think about it." - Jungkook only says.

"Go ahead and admit it to your best friend and favorite, Hyung. You're fucking her." - Jimin tries to find out the truth for the umpteenth time. He doesn't believe in Jungkook's excuses. The way he protects and cares for you speaks for itself.

"Why are you so interested in this? I don't care who you're fucking." - Jungkook replies.

"You live together and look like a couple. You should get together. She's a good girlfriend for you." - Jimin assures.

"A good girlfriend for me..." - Jungkook repeats his friend's words quietly. "But I'm a bad boyfriend for her." - He says with bitterness in his voice.

"She wouldn't turn her back on you if she knew who you really are. That's why I say you're perfect for each other. I've known her for a short time, though. I have a talent for reading people." - Jimin reassures Jungkook. He doesn't answer and continues to drive, heading to “Mono Corp”.

You are blinded by the daylight, which is enhanced by the abundance of snow around you. The frosty air of Niseko greeted you with a sharp gust of wind that made you wrap yourself even tighter in your down jacket. Even the warm scarf wrapped around your head couldn't protect you from the small snowflakes flying into your face.

The snow-covered mountain slopes sparkled around him, and the Art Nouveau buildings blended harmoniously into the winter landscape.

Jungkook confidently stepped to the black minivan, shaking the snow off his heavy boots. His gaze slid across the parking lot in nearly airport, where expensive cars were parked. The other guys followed him out: Jimin was adjusting his hat with a slight smile, Taehyung was holding his camera, taking pictures of the beauty around him, and Hoseok and Jin were having a fun argument about whether they would go skiing or save it for tomorrow.

You remember Jungkook coming home earlier than usual two days ago. He asked you about your plans for Christmas. You suggested that he go to Suwon. But he made you a better offer. Jimin wanted to go to a ski resort in Japan. So he suggested it to Jungkook and a few friends. Jungkook said he would go, but only if you went with them.

You'll be a little confused. Celebrating Christmas in Japan is very cool. But why is Jungkook so insistent that you go? That's suspicious. Maybe he's nervous about Doohoon again? Anyway, Jungkook carefully left you with no choice. So this year, instead of Suwon, you'll be celebrating Christmas in Niseko.

You've never seen anything like it before. Niseko looked like a postcard: a small town with narrow, snow-covered streets that resembled a fairy-tale maze.

The air was piercingly clean and fresh, making every breath seem cold and new. Here and there, neat houses with roofs that bent under the weight of the snow stood on the roadsides, and wooden signs in Japanese added charm to the local flavor.

The city center had a special atmosphere: the noise of coffee shops, the smell of hot chocolate and ginger, and the laughter of tourists and skiers returning from the slopes with red cheeks and shining eyes. Small shops with oriental souvenirs, red lanterns swaying in the wind, and soft light from the lamps created a warm, cozy aura in the middle of a snowstorm.

When you all arrived at the hotel, you felt heart sink. A tall wooden building stylized in traditional Japanese design, but with elements of modern design. The sleek dark glass facade that reflected the surrounding mountains and neon accents created the impression of an ultra-modern building that stood aloof in the snowy landscape. Large panoramic windows offered a view of the snow-capped mountains, which seemed so close that you could touch them with your hand.

Expensive SUVs were parked at the entrance, under a wide canopy, and hotel staff in matching black coats were helping guests with their luggage.

"Not bad." - You muttered, gazing at the luxury that seemed a little cold, but alluring.

The guys left the minivan and you set off to checking into the rooms. It had been a long journey and you were tired.

Inside, the atmosphere was completely different. The hotel greeted you with warm light and high-tech style, combining metal structures, mirrored ceilings and soft furniture in muted colors.

In the center of the lobby was a huge installation in the form of a waterfall - water flowed smoothly over the glass, creating a quiet, soothing noise. The walls were covered with large LED panels with animated landscapes - either starry skies or snow-capped peaks that looked almost real.

You turned your head in different directions, looking around and admiring every detail. This hotel is so luxurious, you didn't expect to live there during holidays. A night here must cost a fortune.

But you were even more embarrassed when you were escorted to the floor where it turned out that only the six of you would be staying.

You were taken up to the VIP floor, where there were three presidential suites. It seemed to be a completely closed floor only for very important guests. You were wildly uncomfortable with this luxury.

You were put in the apartment with Jungkook. Taehyung wanted to suggest that you stay with him, but when he saw Jungkook and Jimin's angry looks, he agreed that you would be more comfortable with your best friend.

The lux apartment was big. It was twice as big as Jungkook's apartment. The interior was minimalist but expensive: gray walls, black furniture with metal elements. There were two separate bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large living room, a sort of dining room that smoothly transitioned into a living room, an office, and a dressing room. On the wall, like in the lobby, there was a screen with landscapes that changed depending on the settings.

You walked around these rooms and didn't understand why everyone decided to live here.

Jungkook met you in the living room in a confused state. He brought in your luggage and came closer. He put his arms around your waist and pressed his lips to yours. Finally, you were alone with no prying eyes.

Your mind was a little foggy. Jungkook's lips and tongue distracted you from the pressing questions that were swarming in your head like bees in a hive.

When you had enjoyed the kiss enough, you decided to ask.

"Kook... this place so expensive. We could have checked into a regular hotel." - You said.

"Why, you don't like it here?" - Jungkook was surprised.

"No. I really like it here. It just seems too expensive. It feels like we're accompanying the president." - You joked.

"It's not the most expensive hotel here. But it's Jimin and Hoseok's favorite place to stay. They vacation here every year." - Jungkook was almost lying. They don't vacation here every year, but they come every time they meet with their Japanese partners. "Don't worry about the money. Just relax." - Jungkook reassures you. You smile and relax. You have to ask Jimin where he gets the money for such a vacation every year.

Jungkook let you go and went to the things that were already in the room. You decided to go to the window. The view was so breathtaking that you could hardly contain your excitement when you saw the snow-covered slopes and the illuminated streets of Niseko shining in the evening light. The huge panoramic window offered a view of the main mountain of the town, whose peak was hidden in the clouds.

But there was something that made you absolutely delighted. It was the jacuzzi on your floor. It was not just a jacuzzi, but a real mini-pool with warm steaming water surrounded by black tiles. It took up almost half of the terrace, and it offered a fantastic view of the mountains, snow-covered forests, and distant ski slopes illuminated by night lights. When you were looking at it with Jungkook, Jimin and Jin, you realized that you couldn’t swim in it. You didn't know there would be a Jacuzzi, so you didn't bring a bathing suit.

"Kook..." - You grabbed Jungkook when he was a little in front of you. Jimin and Jin were looking around the bar behind you.

"What's wrong baby?" - Jungkook turned his head.

"You didn't tell me there was going to be a jacuzzi and I didn't know. I didn't bring my bathing suit." - You said disappointedly looking at the water.

"I'm going to go to the centre city now. Jimin asked me to go with him on business. I'll buy you one, it's no problem." - Jungkook reassured you. You were instantly happy.

"Really? Why didn't I think of that?" - You complained. "Maybe I'll go with you and choose for myself..." - You suggested, but Jungkook interrupted you.

"No. I'm sorry, baby, but we're going to be gone for a long time. We'll be back in the evening..." - You trailed off. "You better get some rest from the road, and we'll all go to a restaurant in the evening. Just tell me what color the swimsuit should be, or better yet, send me a picture." - Jungkook says and leaves without waiting for an answer. You look at him. Did he come here to work or to rest? Is he hiding something again?

"How long will you be gone?" - You ask, throwing it at his back.

"Until the evening, probably. Are you hungry?" - Jungkook suddenly stops and turns to you.

"No." - You reply shortly.

"If you want, order room service. Don't be sad, we'll be back soon." - Jungkook throws in a final word and the three of them leave the terrace, leaving you alone.

You spent most of the day in your room. You tried to sleep from the road, but it didn't work. You called your parents and you talked about the road and you told them that Jungkook had brought you to a nice hotel.

After you talked to your parents, Taehyung and Hoseok came to visit you. You together talked a little about the resort. Hoseok told you that the food here is great and there are many interesting things to do. You were interested in talking to Hoseok. He was nice and smiling all the time.

You were introduced to Hoseok and Jin at the airport when you arrived with Jungkook. Hoseok and Jin are older than Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook. All three of them were polite and respectful talks to their oldest.

Although if you looked at Jin, who was the oldest in your group, you had the feeling that he was the youngest. He was constantly making strange but very funny jokes, and Hosok was bursting out laughing every time. You could see that all the guys were very warm with each other and you could even feel they’re like a family.

You were introduced as Jungkook's best friend. Taehyung wanted to make a joke about you and your relationship, that it was on the verge of being serious, but he got a punch in the ribs from Jimin and fell silent.

It was interesting for you to meet new people, especially Jungkook's friends, who turned out to be a lot. And it seems they are not just friends. They were his close friends. Were they all connected by work, or did Jungkook know some of them much earlier? You wanted to know absolutely everything.

When the sun began to set outside, you realized that the room was very boring. Taehyung and Hoseok left, and you spent the rest of the evening watching TV. But it was still very boring. You decided that you would take a walk around the hotel, maybe find something interesting to do until Jungkook and Jimin came back.

Just as you were about to leave the room and headed for the front door, Jungkook walked into the apartment. He was looking at you in surprise, realizing that you were going somewhere. He was holding a black bag with a Mitsukoshi emblem on it, and another black bag which he threw it over his shoulder.

"Going somewhere?" - Jungkook asked as he approached you.

"I wanted to go for a walk." - You said. Jungkook stopped one step away. "You're back sooner than I expected." - You smiled. You were glad that he had already arrived.

"I bought a swimsuit for you." - Jungkook says and hands you a black bag. You mentioned that you didn't send him a photo, which means he bought it to his taste. I wonder what it looks like. Your smile grows even wider and you eagerly take the package in your hands. You walk over to the couch and sit down. You pull out the swimsuit and look at it.

It is a black two-piece swimsuit with an asymmetrical design. The top has one wide strap on one shoulder. There is also an additional horizontal stripe below the chest line. The lower part of the swimsuit is a high-waisted thong that emphasizes the waist.

This swimsuit looks very sexy. You look over at Jungkook, who smiles smugly.

"When you picked out this swimsuit for me, you must have forgotten that we're not alone. Will you be okay with me showing my ass to all the guys?" - You asked ironically.

"Who says they'll all be there when you're in a bathing suit?" - Jungkook asked you. You raised your eyebrows in surprise.

"You're not going to ban them from the terrace. What if they want to take a Jacuzzi at the same time as me?" - You argued.

"Then let them look at you. I don't mind. You don't have to wear a burka just because of me." - Jungkook replied. You smiled. Well, if Jungkook doesn't mind, that's fine. But you know one hundred percent that he will be jealous of you.

He could have bought you a less revealing swimsuit, but if you already have this one, you don't have to worry. You didn't really want to swim with everyone else, but if it happens, it looks like you'll be in the water until everyone else leaves.

"And you won't be jealous of me?" - You ask, hugging Jungkook's neck. He wraps his arms around your waist and smiles a centimeter from your face.

"I think I'm going to die of jealousy." - Jungkook confesses. You laugh.

"You chose this, so it's your fault." - You say. Jungkook can't stand so close to you without kissing you. So in a moment, your smile disappears under your friend's lips. You feel his tongue, his sweet lips, and moan softly at the sensations.

"Let's go to the jacuzzi. I want to see that swimsuit on you." - Jungkook suggests, pulling away from your lips.

"But the guys are here. We can't go alone." - You warn.

"They're not here. They're gone on business." - Jungkook reassures you.

"Business? Did you come here to work or to rest?" - You said with a bit of dissatisfaction.

"They went to buy equipment for tomorrow's descent from the mountains. I met Taehyung, Hoseok, and Jin in the parking lot when I arrived." - Jungkook explained.

"And Jimin? Did you come without him?" - You ask. Jungkook smiles. You are so inquisitive.

"He met his friend at the mall and went for coffee. I didn't want to sit with them, so I came to you." - Jungkook answered your question. You were happy to have all the answers.

"So can we sit in the jacuzzi together?" - You asked.

"Yes. We have time until they all come back. Go get dressed, I'll change too and I'll wait for you there." - Jungkook says and lets you go.

You go to the terrace, which contains a huge jacuzzi, more like a swimming pool. The light is low, and the sun is setting outside. It paints the tops of mountains and houses red and it's a magical sight.

Jungkook is sitting in the water. His hair is wet and drops of water are running down his face. It looks like he's been taking a dip. Steam is coming out of the tub, and the terrace itself is stuffy. You can feel the steam enveloping your body as soon as you get inside.

Jungkook watches you as you approach. You take off your robe and find yourself wearing only a swimsuit. It fits you perfectly, emphasizing your lush and appetizing forms.

Jungkook looks at you greedily, biting his lip. He bites his piercing to quench the desire he has for you in your swimsuit.

You enter the water, feeling how hot it is. It instantly gives you goosebumps.

When you are completely in the water, you close your eyes. The hot water relaxes your body and you feel that all the tiredness that you had somewhere disappears. You open your eyes and meet Jungkook's attentive gaze. This lasts for a while and then he swims towards you. The sun is hiding behind him and you are impressed by this picture.

Jungkook swims up and captures you in his arms.

"Jungkook!" - You protest. "What if someone comes in..." - You warn, but you don't finish your sentence because Jungkook is already kissing you. You feel his strong body pressed against you in the water. You wrap your legs around his waist and kiss him back. You have an uneasy feeling. Anyone can come to the terrace and see you kissing. Jungkook grabs your tongue and sucks on it. You press closer to his body and feel his hands on your buttocks. He squeezes them, but the pressure is not great because of the water.

You pull away first, because the fear of being caught red-handed is stronger than your desire.

"I want to fuck you." - Jungkook says. You smile. Of course you want to, but not here.

"I want you too. But we're not going to have sex here." - You say.

"Then let's go to the bathhouse." - He suggests. This option is more attractive. You look at his handsome face and you are already burning to do it.

"Let's wait until the evening and do it in bed." - You suggest. But Jungkook doesn't hear you. He grabs your hand and leads you away from the water. You run after them, protesting.

Your body is steaming, red from the hot water. Jungkook's body is as hot as yours. He is wearing a pair of swimming trunks. He drags you into the bathhouse, which is quite large, and immediately closes the door and pounces on you with kisses. You respond with no less passion.

Jungkook's hand squeezes your buttocks hard. You feel yourself getting wet. Jungkook is pressing down on you with his whole body. His cock is pressing against your pussy and you want him to fuck you.

Jungkook breaks the kiss to go down on your neck. He kisses you carefully so as not to leave any marks. His hand simultaneously hooks the strap of your swimsuit top and lowers it around your waist. Your breasts are exposed, and Jungkook hurries to pay them proper attention.

You don't stand idle either. While he's busy kissing your nipples, you slide your hand into his trunks and find his length. You feel his glans and caress it with your finger. You feel the lubricant leaking from the end on your fingers and his cock twitches. You pull his swim trunks off, leaving them just above his knees, and pump your hand up his aroused length.

Jungkook feels your hand and stops kissing your breasts. He leans his head against your shoulder with a guttural moan and steals his hand somewhere near your head to enjoy your handiwork.

You pump his cock with quick strokes and feel its length harden with each movement. In the moment, you let go of his cock and touch his balls with your fingers, stroking them lightly. He hisses somewhere near your ear. You smile and turn your head to him and whisper in his ear.

"Let me suck your cock." - Your voice is seductive, gentle. Jungkook looks up at you with a blurred gaze and smiles defiantly. It means he's agree.

You sit down on a bench in the bathhouse. It's not high, and it's just perfect for Jungkook to stand comfortably in front of your face. You salivate at the sight of his swollen, erect cock. It's right in front of your mouth as Jungkook takes off his boxers and spreads his legs to make it comfortable for him to stand.

You lick your lips to get them wet and take Jungkook's length in your hands. He stops you for a second and leans in to kiss you one last time before you start blowjob. He kisses only your lips and then runs his tongue along your lower lip. Then he lets go and you get to work.

First, you lick the salty pre-cum that drips from the end of his cock. You take only the head into your mouth and pump your head a few times. Jungkook moans somewhere above your head. He is enjoying your warm, friendly mouth. He holds the back of your head with his hand and looks down at your lips, which perfectly envelop his cock.

Then you plunge his length deeper into your mouth and move your head back and forth. Saliva collects in your mouth and runs down your chin and out the corner of your mouth. You breathe deeply through your nose and try to take Jungkook's cock further into your mouth. He moans from above and the low bass makes you leak onto your trunks.

Jungkook grabs your hair and, like the first time, tilts your head to slide down his cock better. He's getting hard, and you can feel it with your tongue. But your jaw already hurts. Jungkook's cock is so big that you have to open your mouth wide, and your jaw gets tired and starts to hurt.

You think you can hold out until Jungkook comes, but he has other plans for you. He takes you off his cock, holding you by your hair. You look at him with innocent eyes, trying to understand what he wants.

"You suck my cock so well, baby. But I want to have your little pussy." - He says. You wipe away the saliva that has stained your face. Jungkook sits down next to you and takes your hand.

He makes you stand up and picks you up and puts you between his legs. He takes off your swim trunks and touches your labia with his hands. He swears at your excessive wetness. He puts his fingers in your entrance with one hand. With the other, he caresses your swollen clit.

You grab Jungkook's shoulders and try to stand on your feet. You moan with pleasure and Jungkook's skillful movements.

"Come on, baby, sit on my cock." - Jungkook invites you in a friendly manner. You don't have a condom and it might be risky. Jungkook must be reading your mind and is quick to reassure you. "I'll get you off in time." - Your friend assures you.

You agree and spread your legs to sit on top of him.

Jungkook holds his cock in his hands and guides it toward your entrance.

"Remember to be careful. Take your time and go slowly." - Jungkook says, tilting his head back to look at your face. His care was sweet.

You hold onto his shoulders as you lower yourself onto his cock. You bite your lip to hold back the slight pain and the feeling of his length inside you. You'll never get tired of this feeling.

When you've swallowed Jungkook's cock completely, you sit for a while to get used to it. Chonguk kisses your lips to fill the pause.

Just when you want to start moving, you hear someone's voice.

"Is someone here?" - You hear Jimin's voice. You are terrified. You squeeze Jungkook's shoulders. Your eyes are like 10 wons.

"Be quiet." - Jungkook whispers to you. He sees your scared eyes and tries to calm you down. He holds your buttocks in his hands and squeezes them to keep you still. It's a good thing Jungkook closed the door to the bathhouse.

You look at Jungkook with big eyes, and you hear your own heartbeat. Maybe a minute passes, maybe more, and you hear only silence. It looks like Jimin has left.

"Should we go? Let's finish this later tonight?" - You suggest in a whisper. But Jungkook is against it. He raises his eyebrows and whispers in displeasure.

"How am I going to leave with a hard-on?" - You look at his expression for a second and laugh softly. Jungkook doesn't share your mirth. He's not leaving this bathhouse until your pussy makes him come.

"Don't be mad, sweetie. I wasn't thinking. Let's finish the adventure ride quickly." - Jungkook laughs at your joke, and without warning, he shoves you hard. You scream in surprise and dig your nails into his soft body.

You get used to the sensations and start jumping on his lap too. His cock plunges deep with every movement. You feel dizzy with pleasant pleasure. You moan softly.

"My good girl." - Jungkook whispers into your neck. "Are you feeling good?"

"Yes." - You exhale.

"Come on my girl, cum on my cock." - Jungkook urges you. You speed up your movements and do as he asks. You feel yourself cumming with fierce pleasure. Jungkook continues to fuck you so that he can come too.

When he feels close, he grabs your hips and lifts you up sharply. You lift off his lap to a small height. You fall a little further onto his lap and Jungkook cums on his stomach. You watch breathlessly as he stops ejaculating. His semen runs down his stomach and he breathes rapidly. You lock eyes and both of you smile.

"It's fucking amazing!" - Jungkook says, louder than he should be. You hiss at him.

"Keep your voice down." - You complain. He smiles and takes your neck, pulling you into a kiss. You soften when his lips are against yours.

"You go first, I'll get cleaned up." - Jungkook says as he lets you go and you stand up from his lap.

Like that cat without a sound, you find yourself in the room almost instantly without meeting anyone on your way. Feeling like you've just had an orgasm, you hurry to the bathroom and take a quick shower. You're happy because you just had the most incredible sex with Jungkook. It's a beautiful place with a cozy atmosphere. Your mood is just perfect and nothing seems to be able to spoil it.

You put on a warm mint-green knit sweater with a deep V-neck and voluminous braids, and pull dark gray straight jeans with a high rise over your hips. You decide that you're going to wait for Jungkook in the room.

You're just clicking on your phone when you hear something fall in the next room. This is the room where Jungkook is supposed to be sleeping. You put the phone down and go to the room.

You walk in and run your eyes around. Everything seems to be in place and nothing has fallen. But suddenly, a slightly open closet door catches your attention. Something black looks out of it.

You approach the closet and notice that it is a bag. It is large and seems heavy. Somewhere on the side it is propped up by another bag, similar to the one you saw in Jungkook's hands. Most likely, this bag has moved the big one with its weight.

You grab the fallen bag by the handles, but it is too heavy. The sound of metal reaches your ears. You unzips, want to what could be so heavy in that bag.

You are frozen. The contents of this bag scare you to say the least. Hell, it scares the hell out of you.

Weapons. This bag is filled to the brim with weapons of all kinds. From small pistols to assault rifles. You open the bag wider and see ammunition, too. A lot of ammunition. Knives and what looks like stun guns. You pick up one of the pistols with trembling hands and look at it with eyes full of horror. It is heavy and cold.

You feel panic filling every cell in your body. Why does Jungkook have so many guns? Is he selling them? Is he going to kill someone with these weapons? Isn't a trip to Japan just about celebrating Christmas?

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[ynsbrightorbs]

☾𖤓 Butch sheriff Hange Zoe x femme!Reader one shot . . . .

.｡.:*✧ all fluff and feels, friends to lovers ੈ♡˳ 10.8K words

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

In the back of a sheriff's car - that’s exactly how you didn’t think this day would go. The situation, or more so the altercation, was bad enough, but the cherry on top of this shit sandwich is that it just had to be Hange who received the call. 

They sit in the driver's seat, quiet as ever, and you can’t help but notice the way their fingers grip the wheel so tightly their knuckles turn an awful, velvety white color. In their uniform, they look different. You’ve seen them on the job before but never like this - they’d only pass through the diner in the early mornings for coffee to-go before their shifts, and even then they’d hardly look your way. 

In the back of a sheriff's car, your arms cross and your breathing slows. You trade the sight of them in for the view out of your tinted window, watching the night pass by with rare occurrences of traffic lights and the late night bars still hanging open. 

You hadn’t meant it. That’s what you tell yourself anyways. Truth is, as you close your eyes and lean your head back in your seat, you can still feel her nose breaking under your fist - that can almost make you smile.

“Sleeping it off?” their voice breaks your almost smile, flipping your eyes wide open as you tilt your chin down to catch them peering at you through the rearview mirror. It’s only for a second though, when you find their stare they quickly look back at the road. 

Doing the same as them, pretending not to care as you glance out the window again, you sigh, “Gotta try. I’ll be up all night with this bullshit now.” 

“And whose fault is that?” they’re quick, catching you off guard but you refuse to show it to them. 

“The fucking asshole’s who called the cops.” 

You can’t see it, but you hear Hange huff a small, quiet laugh under their breath, “You mean Nanaba?”

Quickly, your head turns only to find the back of their hair. It’s messy and seemingly knotted in a half assed attempt at a low bun. “She was the one who called?” your brows instantly downturn.

“Technically, I’m not sposed to say,” they start, lingering in a few seconds of silence, “But she said somethin’ about how she’s never seen someone act that way before.”

Your eyes don’t roll, but you want them to. “Jesus, they’re all acting like I fucking killed someone.” 

“Did you want to?” they’re quick with this question, too quick for comfort as they look into the mirror again, catching you for a second before returning to the road again.

You scoff, “No, I didn’t want to kill her, what kind of question is that? And shouldn’t you be saving all this for interrogation? First you’re tellin’ me shit you shouldn’t and now you’re questioning me without a lawyer?”

“You don’t get a lawyer,” they tell you matter of factly. 

“The hell do you mean I don’t get one? That’s illegal?” you sit up now, anger returning to you once again as all you can focus on is the back of their head and their gripping fists on the wheel. 

“You don’t get one because I’m not takin’ you to the station.” 

Finally, you rip your eyes from them and notice, out the window, that you’ve receded into the quiet residencies, not the inner workings of the town. Everything is dark but you can tell by the way the car turns onto gravel that you’re closer to home than to a jail cell. 

“Where are we going then?” the seatbelt eats at your neck. 

“I’m takin’ you home.” and though this should have been a relief, it nearly sinks your heart straight out your ass. 

“No, you can’t take me there,” your voice tilts into something terribly serious, “The station is fine, I’ll spend a night, pay the fucking damage, I don’t care but you can’t take me home.”

Hange pulls the car to a stop in the middle of the road. It’s late night, no one cares, and with the engine buzzing underneath you their hands drop off the wheel and fall into their lap. 

“D’you wanna tell me why?” their face turns towards you, not fully, but only enough for you to get a view of their profile. Their face is long and sharp, that’s one of the first things you noticed about them besides the obvious; the leather eye patch has become as embedded to them as the dark color of their hair. It was a fishing accident, or something to that degree, you’ve heard people say. Though you’ve also heard others say it’s genetic, or bullet shrapnel, or a bear fight even. Hange doesn’t talk much, so when they continue, “Not about goin’ home, I don’t give a shit about that. But why did you hit her?” your chest tightens.

You have a habit of chewing your cheek, but right now you’re saddened to find the entirety of your mouth is raw. Instead, your hands slide up the thighs of your jeans as you brush the entire conversation off with a soft shrug. “To tell you why I hit her would also be tellin’ you why I can’t go back home.”

Hange’s jaw clenches, not enough to pop a vein but enough for you to gauge that they’re thinking. They’re always thinking. You assume that’s why they don’t talk much, why they come and go in the diner with barely a mornin’ to the other waitresses. Why, just like right now, they only offer you a single second of a glance before looking away. 

They turn away, back towards the wheel and their hands grip tightly again. They pull off the brake and ease the car into a steady pace before making a slightly hectic u-turn. “I can’t take you to the station,” they start, and you cut in.

“Why not?” 

“Because I don’t wanna be up all night doing paperwork,” they mutter, “And I apparently can’t drop you off home.” For this, you have no response. No rebuttal. Only silence. “So, what d’you want me to do, y/n?” 

In the rearview mirror, they look at you. You hold their stare and surprisingly they do too, all before your lips begin to softly curl. 

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

There’s only one apartment complex in town, and of course Hange would live here. Their home is quaint, only one bedroom and one bathroom, but it’s surprisingly cluttered. There’s piles of unopened cardboard boxes stacked against the wall in the living room - this living room with one reclining arm chair, one messy end table, and a flat screen on a tv stand - as if they moved in and never unpacked. The carpet is stained with years of traffic and you can clearly see them in the footprints; the trail of under-the-shoe dirt starts at the door and forks its way into the kitchen, to the living room recliner, or to the door of their bedroom - which they walk in before you and immediately close. 

They linger by that door, it’s painted in landlord white, and with nothing but hesitation they look at you. Hange scratches their nape before sighing deeply, “You gotta give me a sec to clean up in there.” 

Taking yourself to the start of the kitchen - it’s small, messy with beer cans and a full sink of dishes - you begin to unload, starting with the shoes on your feet. Looking up at them as you untie, you half smile, “Who said I wanted to bunk in your room?” 

Hange doesn’t undo themself like you. They stand awkwardly with one hand in the front pocket of their black slacks. Heavy boots are still on their feet and they make no attempt at removing them. Even their badge, all gold plated and personally engraved, remains latched over the pocket of their button up at their chest. That shirt's long sleeves are rolled up into a mess of white fabric at their elbows. “Politeness,” they state.

You manage your shoes off and leave them there on the old linoleum. “Well, I’m fine with the…” you mean to say couch, but as your eyes graze over the recliner, you trail, “...chair.”

“Right,” you want to say they speak with humor, with an undertone of sarcasm, but it’s hard to tell. They move for the kitchen, passing you by and heading to the fridge. “Y’want water, or anything?” 

Your clothes are damp. Not with just sweat but with the leftovers of alcohol that was spilled. Removing the flannel off your shoulders and tossing it over the recliner, you peer into their fridge as it opens, “D’you have any beer?”

With one arm hanging on that open door and a hunched back, they look back at you with slight distaste. “Really?”

Your arms cross and you watch as their eye skims over the tank top tucked into your jeans. All you do is shrug before they trudge a hand into the cool racks and pluck two cans from the shelf. 

Hange finds a small, open space on their cluttered counters and pops the cans open, one by one as you’re hit with a flashing picture of nostalgia. It was the summer of your nineteenth that they moved back into town. You’re aware you missed a lot of life when you went to live with your dad, but the way everyone treated them like a homecoming reunion rubbed you so wrongly you thought it was resentment for a long while. They were younger and slightly more talkative and the day they returned it seemed like the entire town came together for a backyard barbecue at Nanaba’s place. For you? Well, you received a welcome home cake from your mother and a handful of hugs that went on for too long. 

They don’t turn with their arm as they hand you a can, they keep themself dead on the counter as you take it. 

Hange’s always been a drinker. Even before they turned the legal drinking age, they’ve always had a beer in hand. When you were nineteen, upon their return from the city as a fresh-cut twenty-one year old with a newfound somber face, they offered you your first beer at that backyard party, the one you’ve grown to envy. They were dressed like a true cowboy with a stained white tee and a belt buckle too large for their own good. It drove you mad as they half smiled, handing you a modelo like there’s nothing wrong in the world.

There’s silence. One so thick it feels awkward and tense as you take a sip. The beer is a mans beer and it makes your face scrunch. Luckily, their back is to you. They do the same, but you’re sure they drink it down like it’s the finest of wines before they clear their throat. 

“I still gotta fill out a report for tonight,” they begin to explain. You almost forgot about it all. “So if you can do me a favor and just give me a brief summary, that’ll do.”

Passing up the empty space for the side of a counter, you lean against the plastic wannabe marble top and sigh so deeply they look over at you. They sip without taking their eye away. 

“Summary is, she had it comin’.” 

“Yelena?” instantly, you recoil at the sound of her name, especially at the sound of her name coming out of Hange’s mouth. 

“Mhm,” you hum and drink, staring down their TV stand which hosts a collection of dvds. 

Hange sighs before they turn. They do the same as you, leaning back against the edge of the counter as the sink turns into a barrier between you. “A motive would help.”

You huff a quiet laugh, “I didn’t kill her,” your voice is soft and certain.

“You broke her nose.”

“And she had it comin’.”

“Why?”

You fumble. You see it in your mind, clear as day: the look on her face when you walked in and saw. Yelena was never meant to be a serious partner, you met her in a slew of other one nighters while she was doing the same. Your mistake was letting her move into your one bedroom and believing she could be domesticated. So, when you received the text from Sasha telling you Yelena was at the bar feeling up another woman, well. Let’s say livid would somewhat begin to describe the anger you felt. 

It wasn’t the first time, however, so maybe it’s on you for staying. For letting her give you hope that it really would be the last time. 

“I don’t get why they called you,” your words softly mumble into your can, slightly echoing due to the fact.

“I really wish they hadn’t,” they admit, garnering your attention with their eye glued to the same tv stand and dvds, “But they did. So, Jesus, just give me one sentence.” 

“Fine.” Your hand drops to your side, letting the can dangle before your mouth starts speaking before your brain can keep up, “She’s been cheating on me for months and I’ve had it, so, her nose is broken and I hope it heals all fucked and crooked and tomorrow I’m throwin’ out all her shit and I don’t care if people think I’m crazy or I’m the problem, they can all go to hell if that’s what they wanna believe.”

You breathe at the end and take a long sip, all while, for the very first time, you hear Hange chuckle. Your head whips to their profile, watching a smile overtake their mouth before they try for a sip on their can. It infuriates you. 

“Why the hell are you laughing?” you’re direct, you’ve lost all your cares for the night, and Hange seems to have never had any in the first place. 

They stop laughing, at least they try to. They pause with one last quick chuckle before they straighten their posture. Their gaze drops to the ground, to the boots on their feet, before they pick themself up and glance your way. Their smile flickers out, “Run on sentence,” they say with a small shrug of their shoulder and your anger comes back to you in full force. 

“Oh, fuck off,” your voice is worn, tired, and it breaks as you nearly slam the halfway empty can down on the counter before pushing yourself off. You move for the recliner, snatching up your tossed flannel in hopes to make an escape, but Hange stops you. 

“Y/n, it was a joke,” their voice is the same, flat and unaffected by anything. 

You stop right before you turn back onto the linoleum to put your shoes on. Staring them down, you don’t say a thing back. All you offer is the sour expression staining  your face. 

“I apologize,” they slouch, “I’ve been told my jokes aren’t really funny.”

Staring at them, you know the anger you hold onto isn’t meant for them. You’re tired and emotionally overused, hell you still have tiny specks of Yelena’s blood on your knuckles. You go to bite your cheek but it’s still raw. You’re still raw, you have nothing left and with that acknowledgement you let your flannel sweep down to your feet before it lands atop your shoes. “You’re funny,” you note, “just horrible timing. And I’m a bit too temperamental for that right now.”

“It’s okay. I get it,” Hange sets their beer down on the counter, right by the sink as they drop their gaze from you to the floor, “I don’t mean to poke fun, I just…I’m not good at this type of shit.”

“What shit?”

“Talkin’. Comforting people.” 

Are they opening? You question as you pull yourself back to the counter, back to your can. You’ve had only a handful of cluttered conversations with them and they’ve always been so surface level. So quick with their one word, simple responses, or quiet as they’d let everyone else take the lead while they impatiently listened. Now, they’re speaking from the heart and you’re not quite sure what to do with that. 

“I apologize,” you offer gingerly, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. Maybe I am crazy.”

“No,” they quickly counter with the shake of their head, “I’ve dealt with crazy people. You’re nothin’ like crazy. Just a little sad, maybe.”

You toy with the can, you don’t drink. “Sad?” 

“Your…girlfriend,” they struggle to swallow, “It sounds like you got a whole lot to be sad about with that mess.”

Like a knee-jerk reaction, you laugh out loud, “Oh, please, I’m not sad about that shit anymore. I mourned it a long time ago, it just annoys me now. And she isn’t my girlfriend.”

“It’s okay to be sad about it.” Hange’s voice doesn’t inflect anything. It pulls you in as you return to your leaning position across the way of the sink. 

“Yup, but I’m not.”

“Sadness and anger coincide.”

This brings your eyes to them. More specifically, to the large slope of their nose. “What, did you read that off a fortune cookie?” your mouth twists into an amused grin, and theirs does the same; though it’s much smaller on them.

“No, but I did steal it from my therapist.”

This shocks you more than anything. The town is so small there’s only one ‘psychology’ office run by the Ackermans. Surely, if Hange were seeing a therapist, you’d have known. The same way half the town must know by now that you were pulled off Yelena and placed in the back of a sheriff's car. 

“You’re seein’ Kuchel?” you question timidly, you don’t want to pry. 

Hange nods slowly, but they look at you with a seriousness, an expression that befits them more than a smile, “Now, don’t go tellin’ everybody.”

Instantly, you shake your head, “No, I won’t.”

Their eye drags down your face before turning away, “Thanks.”

A moment of that thick, awkwardly tense silence comes again. It sits with you, melting down the floor and over both your shoulders as you think. 

Hange’s been a sheriff for years now, ever since their return. On that, you can relate to them. You were able to get a taste of life outside this town, and what a life that was. The city is nothing like home. It’s busy, careless, and damning. Everything you hate, and even though you enjoyed the expansions of it all, you longed for quiet. You ached for it. They were a big city cop before they moved back home with that eye patch as a token of their travels. From what you’ve heard, and by the little you can still remember, is that Hange used to be able to light up any room they walked into. They weren’t so sullen. Not so quiet. The Hange you know now is both those things and more. So you don’t question the fact that they’re in therapy. It makes sense. What you want to know instead is why.

“I know we don’t really know each other too well, and we don’t talk much, but,” you trail as you swallow a lump in your throat. Maybe, just like them, you’re not so good at this shit, the talkin’ and the comforting, “You can always talk to me. Or confide in me. I don’t know, I’d just hate to think you got no one to talk to.”

“What makes you think that?” they question almost immediately. They don’t look at you, not fully, but they turn their face half an inch as a warning. 

You stammer, “I…I don’t know, just an assumption,” your eyes gravitate towards the recliner, “...and you don’t have a couch.”

They smile at that, huffing one chuckle under their breath. “It was cheaper.”

“Is it comfy?” you smile.

Hange shrugs, “Dunno, it does the job.”

With that, you push yourself off the counter and make way for the recliner. It's large and bulky and full of fluffed up cushions. There’s no cup holder, no special buttons. It’s manual and requires a lever on its side to pop the leg rests up. You run a hand over the suede and look at them, “May I?”

“You’re the one sleepin’ on it,” they watch, drinking the last of their beer as you plop down on the seat with a satisfied ah sighing from your lips. 

Your question is answered instantly. It is comfy. It envelopes you and supports your back well, and it’s perfectly aligned with the tv. You try for the lever, its handle is wooden, but you pull it back and struggle. “I think it’s stuck,” you call out, but Hange’s long hand appears too fast. 

You look up and watch, their eye’s only focused on the lever as they take hold and pull. You’d be embarrassed if it gave right away, so when it doesn’t budge you consider yourself lucky. That is until they squat down, eye level with you now, and you’re forced to stare at the way their forehead creases in their focus. The way their hair frays in small chunks which frame their tired face. The way their lips glisten in the yellow tinted lighting as they briefly lick them down. 

“Fuck,” they breathe, pulling those lips together with a tight jab of another failed attempt. It causes the whole recliner to tremble and you grin so wide that they take one glance and immediately look back down. 

“Cheaper, you say?” 

Squatting, they scratch at the side of their neck in defeat, “Side of the road bogo deal with that goddamn table.”

You belt into a laugh, and it’s vicious. It’s one of those laughs that comes from your gut and aches if you let it stay too long. This makes them chuckle by your side. “See, you are funny.” 

Hange’s chuckle turns into just a smile. Just a grin as their head hangs and their eye retreats to the carpet at their feet. They let the lever go,and by that you know. All that’s keeping them here is you. 

“I’m serious, Hange,” you don’t blurt, you think it through. But the way they look at you is like you’ve just said something completely mind boggling. Their brown eye tries for your gaze, but it struggles. That’s one thing you’ve picked about them, they can’t hold eye contact very well. But it’s odd, every time they talk to others, like Nanaba at the bar, they stare them down like a true detective would. “This is such a weird night, but you can count on me. I swear I’m not always so…hot-headed?” 

“You’re not hot-headed,” they comment in an almost whisper. From this view, they have to tilt their chin up ever so slightly. Their arms rest on their bent knees and their hands, long and tanned and veined, idly reach out for the suede. Something sensory to keep them afloat. 

Fully, you turn in the chair. You sit up and look down at them like you could be God herself. “Can you tell me why you’re in therapy?” 

Their mouth opens like they’re about to instinctually respond, but they stop. Their head tilts as they look up at you, “That’s a very loaded, and…sudden question?” Their face scrunches up with confusion mixed into curiosity; but their mouth twitches with amusement. 

“Like your gun?” your eyes poke at the thing still strapped to its holster on their waist. 

They drop to look at it too, in silence as a grin twitches the corner of their mouth. “I…appreciate your curiosity, but…”

“I get it. It’s okay if it’s too personal. I have a lot I don’t tell anyone either,” you assure them, watching as they offer half their face to you, “But I hope one day, when you get used to me, we can talk about it.”

“You’re so sure about that,” they comment.

“I am.” 

Hange decides to look at you, and maybe that’s their mistake. However, if you could thank them for it, you would, because when they look at you their eye doesn’t reflect yours, it stays on your cheek. Dryly, they swallow and dryly, you lick your lips. 

“I don’t really like havin’ people around here,” their voice makes a sudden change. It’s not exactly flat, it’s nearly whispered and you swear, under it all, there’s a tinge of fear laced between their words as their eye migrates to yours.

“I know,” you admit, “I’ve always wondered that about you. I think I used to be upset with you. Jealous maybe.”

Their brows downturn, softly wrinkling their temple, “Used to be?” 

“Everyone loves you. I mean, they threw that whole party for you when you moved back here, I didn’t get that.”

“They threw a party because they wanted an excuse to get drunk,” they try to brush it off, but you’re no fool.

“They threw that party because they were glad to have you back home. The drinking was just a bonus,” you slightly joke, but Hange doesn’t laugh. They don’t react at all. They return to their solitary demeanor and like sand between your fingers you try to cling onto them, “They love you. You’re the big city cop.” 

They take a second to digest, to process everything you say. They chew it between their clenching jaw and like clockwork their gaze slips from your eyes, now to your nose. “You know…just because Yelena’s an idiot, doesn’t mean you’re worth less than anyone, or anythin’,” they’re so careful with their words, it hurts. 

Sincerity is something you’ve never seen from them. For a second, you question it, if they’re just talking to talk. But Hange’s good eye grazes over your lips before they stand with a sigh. 

“I’m clearin’ the room,” slowly, they step to the door they shut and you watch the way their button up wrinkles against the faint sway of their shoulder blades, “Just gimme a few.”

“Kay,” you call. But the thing is, it’s way too late and you’re used to 5 am wake up alarms. By the time Hange finishes clearing their room for you, they find you fast asleep on the recliner with a head slumped to the side. 

They drape a blanket over you before retreating to their own bed. 

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Of course, the next morning it just has to pour. The rain clacks against the large windows of the diner, sending the world outside into a messy collage of colors and vague shapes amiss a gloomy sky. Spring time - as much as you love it, you hate it just the same. 

This morning, however, you’re gloomier than the weather it seems. It wasn’t a walk of shame, but the way Miss Kirstein looked at you as you left Hange’s apartment just as the sun began to rise would make anyone believe it had been. There was no time, no desire, to go home and change. So you did the unthinkable: it’s Hange’s fault for leaving their laundry basket in the living room. You swiped a battered blue flannel, one you hoped they wouldn’t miss much, and traded it for the slightly sour smelling one you wore to curse Yelena out.

“So,” Sasha’s voice is warm against the cold. It smoothes over the bar as she leans into it, watching you from across as you manage your opening chores of wiping every table clean. “You wanna talk about it?” 

Glancing back for one second, your eyes roll as you return to your rag and bend over the table, trying to get those last few straggling crumbs. “Nope.”

“Ugh,” the girl dramatically sighs, “You know, that’s not fair. You gave me the drama of the century and now you’re refusin’ to talk about it?”

“That must be so terribly hard for you,” looking back, you smile teasingly, watching the same expression explode over her mouth before she rolls her eyes further than you had. 

“Did you break it off at least?” She retreats to the coffee bar, flipping switches as she starts the first pot of the day.

Straightening, you wring out the rag, letting the crumbs collect on the floor to sweep later. “I think the fact that I broke her nose is enough of an answer to that.” 

Sasha laughs from behind, “Cold-hearted, y/n. I love it.”

The front door chimes as you move to the next table. You stare out the smeared windows for a moment before you hear their voice, all gruffed and morning-sick, “Mornin’.” 

Your eyes take a small double-take as you find Hange standing there, in front of the bar like always. Now you know why Sasha started the coffee so early, the imprint of their work car is painted into the watercolor windows by the off red and blue lights on its roof. 

“Mornin’, Hange,” Sasha greets them as you turn away, fully, “Give it a few, I got it brewing for ya.” 

You continue with your chores, awkwardly. It wouldn’t be the end of the world for them to see you, but you hadn’t even had the time to properly wash up. And maybe fleeing from their apartment, never minding their stolen shirt, was a tad bit rude. 

“Thanks,” they don’t intentionally mumble, but everything they say ends up like that anyways. 

It takes less than a minute for you to hear the faint sound of keys jangling and heavy footsteps approaching before you know, they're right beside you. 

“Is that my shirt?” Hange keeps their voice low as you look at them, acting surprised as if you truly didn’t notice they’d come in. 

Your head tilts to catch the blue flannel before you flash an apologetic smile, “Yeah, sorry. Mine was kinda gross.”

This morning, they’re dressed the same. As per usual, they never try to spruce up their uniform. But today it’s colder than usual, so over their white button up, they have a thick brown jacket shielding them. Even their hair, it’s like they make no effort to fix the way it frizzes and strays. Still in that low bun with strands poking out in frantic patterns, they look you over. “If you’d’ve woken me up, I have extra shit you coulda borrowed.”

You shrug, dropping your gaze and returning to your task as you idly wipe the table. “Did you want me to wait up and make you breakfast too?” you look back, catching their focus held steadily on you with a puzzling expression on their straight face. Whether it’s the lighting or not, they look handsome. 

A static call comes in through their walkie. They skim a hand under the jacket at their hip, exposing a cluttered clip of keys latched to their belt loop on their thigh. They unclip the device and pull it up to their ear, stretching its tightly coiled wire. Hange turns away from you, only halfway with a foot still pointing at you. 

Moving away towards the next table, you can’t look at them anymore. Your thoughts turn warm and fuzzy, something forbidden when it comes to them specifically. To your knowledge - which means the town's knowledge - Hange’s never had a partner of any kind. You don’t even know if they’re interested in women, but hell. Looking at them, you know the damn answer. 

“Yeah, be there in ten,” they speak into the walkie before clipping it back on their belt. They sigh heavily, turning back to see you with a pursed mouth wringing out your rag. There’s a notebook clipped to your belt, mimicking them as they notice it and look away before they can smile. “Listen, I gotta talk with Yelena about last night,” they explain and you stop, staring at the ground between you.

“Can you tell her she needs to get the fuck out of my house?” you say it as a joke, but your voice is so dreadfully serious they can’t tell until you grin softly. “Just let me know if I gotta be involved with anythin’ else. If I don’t have to, I don’t wanna hear about it.”

Hange looks you over, and to your utter shock, they reach a hand out and take the cornered front end of the flannel between two fingers. Their brows downturn in a faint focus before they drop it and look you in the eye, “Yeah. Just keep it.”

“Hange!” Sasha calls with their coffee - ready to-go in a styrofoam cup. 

They give you a nod with a tight-lipped, seemingly forced smile before turning around, leaving a five on the counter, and heading out the door with their caffeine for the day. 

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

When your shift ends at 2 pm the next afternoon, you receive a call from the station. However, when that number flashes across your phone screen, you let it ring until a voicemail pops up in your inbox. Silent in your car, you listen:

Hey, uh, listen, I need you down here to go over Yelena���s statement…and I need a better one from you. Call me as soon as possible, it’s urgent. There’s a long pause. This is Hange, by the way. Sorry, bye.

And through all the frustration you feel over your situation, you crack a smile.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

“I said give me a call,” Hange’s leant over their desk, one hand spread atop the flat surface with a pen in the other - stopped mid sentence as they scribbled something down - as they look up at you. 

Thanks to the receptionist, you walk into the back of the station without having to notify them. The place is slightly dark and hauntingly boring. There’s a few other officers at their designated desks, but they all kick their feet up or are too indulgent in paperwork to pay mind to anything else. Walking up to their desk at the end of the room, you pull the sides of your coat together and grip the fabric with your life. 

“At least I’m here,” you give them a forced grin, one just as unpleasant as your mood. When you near them, Hange straightens up. 

In uniform, with that same brown jacket puffing them up, they close their pen with an eye on you. As they begin cleaning up their work, they gesture a hand to the single metal fold out chair by your side. The pegs scrape against the floor as you pull it in and sit down with an overbearing huff. 

“Y’want water, or anythin’?” they ask and your smile, arms crossed as you watch them from below. 

“Soundin’ like a broken record.”

They glance at you with a flat expression before collecting their papers and filing them away. “And again I say…” they start, and when they settle into their chair from across the desk, they finish, “politeness.”

Trying not to prove them right, you don’t roll your eyes. “Can we get on with it?” quickly you add, “Please.” but nothing could have prepared you for this. Hange slides a file they already had prepped on their desk in front of them. They open the yellowed thing and look over their handwriting - it’s messy but to them it makes absolute sense. 

“So, I talked with Yelena yesterday,” this you already knew, “And she had some…colorful things to say.”

Your foot begins to tap. 

“For starters, she only referred to it as an assault. Which, by law definition, it was,” they poke an eye at you, causing you to look away with an annoyed scowl, “said she’d never done nothin’ like this to you, it was unprovoked, everythin’ was fine, bunch of that shit. Basically, she’s claimin’ you attacked her out of the blue,” they swallow, “and she wants to press charges.”

“Of course,” you mutter under your breath. With your head turned away as you listen, it begins to shake softly. 

“Now, don’t go getting pissed, I already-” you cut them off.

“Getting pissed?” your eyes snap back to them and Hange instantly leans back in their seat at the contact. Luckily, the anger Yelena introduced you to is able to fade just as quickly as it erupted. Besides, you don’t want to say anything that could disrupt them. 

You take a breath, breaking away before coming back to them with a softer face. “It’s just bullshit,” you state, calmer, “I know what I did was wrong, but I’m not violent. I know it may be hard to believe that, I’m sorry, this all has just wound me up so tightly, I don’t even feel like myself anymore,” you end in a slightly bittered laugh. But Hange doesn’t even smile.

“I know,” is all they say. So certain, so serious. They move for the file and pull out a document. Their fingers extend over the white sheet as they slide it to you. “As I was saying, I already looked into her. Whereas this is your first, very minor, offense, Yelena’s got shit under the rug.”

The writing is small and printed and goes on for an entire page. 

“There’s a charge that was put on hold, and she has an overdue parking ticket.”

You look at them and you could almost smile. “You’re gonna charge her with a parking ticket?”

“No. I’m gonna get her to drop charges and get the hell out of your place,” at first, you think they’re joking. Your mouth twitches up but drops when you realize they’re nothing but serious. They slide the document back to their folder, looking at as they organize the paperwork again. “If she’s smart about it, she’ll be outta there in a couple days.”

You sit here grappling it all for a long while. They’re able to organize and even put away their pen before they sit back in their chair and cross their arms in a slouch. Leaning in, you just about whisper, “Are you blackmailing her?”

“No,” they’re flat faced with a quiet tone which reads with something more, “I would never break the laws of my job.”

You know immediately. The tiny smirk on their lip just proves it for you. 

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

You’re at the station a few more times before Yelena gets the news. She was livid, but it worked. That’s what Hange said, at least because for the days following you refused to stay in the house with her. Instead, Hange so kindly cleared their room, and the kitchen, for you to sleep for a couple days. 

However, you hardly stayed there unless you needed to. You even refused to take the same car to work in the morning - Hange offered since they need their coffee anyways. Instead, you’ve been hanging out with Sasha after work. You’d go for dinner, on errands, even her dentist appointment because anything was better than having to sit in that apartment with the person who has officially begun to make you fall. 

It’s stupid, you know this. But it gets to a point, when they’re off work and even more tired looking, that you can’t stand to look at them without feeling giddy, just as you had once with Yelena. 

Hange’s room is cluttered just as the rest of their apartment. But, in here, you find a piece of yourself in them as you stare at the bookcase on a wall. It’s wooden and filled to the brim with books and knick knacks and other odds and ends. But your eye catches on one thing in particular: a badge left to collect dust. 

It’s engraved as follows: TOST CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT in blue lettering over the gold. 

Trost city’s where they fled to, and where they fled back from. Hange was a rookie for almost three years before they left. They weren’t fired, neither did they resign. It was a mutual decision, for the betterment of their health. 

You’ve heard a few stories, and as you graze a finger over the cold badge you recall each and every one of them. But Nanaba, your boss at the diner and one of the only people you’d consider one of Hange’s friends, told you what you believe is the closest to the truth. 

Hange was one of the best recruits they had. It wasn’t long until they were put on a squad and sent off into the city. Coming from this place, you know how exhilarating that feels, to finally be set free into such a big open world. But something happened. Maybe not a single event, but many small, and equally as breaking inconveniences. Nanaba claimed the last straw was what happened to their eye. 

You don’t notice Hange’s presence until it’s too late. You’re surprised when they call for you, and your shoulders hardly jump as you turn your head and catch them lingering in the doorway. There’s only the light of their nightstand lamp that’s on, and it dimly tints them wholly warm and yellow. 

You take your hand away from  the shelf, from the badge, and hold them behind your back. “Hi, sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” they shrug. You didn’t even know they returned to the apartment, it was a late night at the station, you assume. “Everythings dealt with, with Yelena,” they break the news softly, “She’ll be gone tomorrow mornin’.” 

A smile flashes on you, staying for a few seconds uninvited. “Thank you, Hange.” 

They give you an infamous tight-lipped grin and break away. They sway in the doorway, debating whether or not to just leave you be. “Just don’t tell anyone, ever, that I did this.”

They pull a soft laugh from you, “I’ll take it to the grave.”

“Yeah…goodnight,” they’re light, but as they turn to leave you call.

“Hange,” they stop, glancing back as the light illuminates half of their hardened face, “After all this, I don’t wanna stop seeing you. Like spendin’ time with you and stuff.”

They take a pause to process, you can tell by the way their gaze drops to the carpet with a couple harsh blinks before they watch you again. Specifically, they watch the way your hands anxiously fall to your sides and run over the sides of your thighs. 

“I’d like that,” they’re fragile. Like they’re afraid their voice may break if they’re any louder.

Over the next few days after Yelena’s leave, they keep your number. In addition to their morning stops at the diner, your small conversations, they call you. You text them. And they tell you goodnight every single night. 

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

You’re left so ecstatic at finally having your own house again that you don’t exactly know who to call first. Sasha says she’ll be over tomorrow, but tomorrow is too late. At 6 pm, you decide to call Hange from your landline for the first time.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

“Y/n?” they answer right as they pick up, defeating your hopes for an element of surprise. 

Your loose smile fades on the other line, “What? How did you know it was me?”

They sniffle softly, speaking through an invisible grin, “You ever heard about caller ID?”

“Oh…well, fuck never mind, do you wanna come over?” 

Hange enters a fit of coughing at this. On the other end, rain pours, just the same as outside your home. “Excuse me?”

“Do you, wanna, come over,” you break it down for them, indulging in the way they stumble as your mouth smiles all on its own. 

The faint sound of embers burning sizzles through the phone, they’re smoking. With lungs tight, they tell you, “When?”

“Right now.”

They take a second, one far too long before their throat clears, “Okay.”

Your smile widens, “Nice. Bring a four pack, and the rest of whatever you’re smoking.”

Hange breathes a laugh through a closed mouth, “Yes, ma’am.” They’re soft and honey-thick as you hang up.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Your house is rented, but it’s yours. You’re everywhere, in the knick knacks which take over the plethora of bookcases you’ve collected over the years. It’s on the couch, in the blanket you crocheted hung over the back rest. Your walls are covered in framed pictures, paintings, photographs, anything really. It’s a one bedroom and you adore it for all it’s worth, and with Yelena gone you’re free to move everything that once was back into place as Hange knocks at your door. 

Quickly you open it, finding them in attire that nearly makes you laugh - not out of amusement, but out of that uncomfortable warmness which comes from knowing they cared enough to make an effort. They’ve traded black slacks for clean cut blue jeans. A navy blue tee shirt tucks into their belt, and of course, there’s that same damn belt buckle which swallows up the button of their jeans. They’re still Hange though, their hair is kept the same as always and it makes you wonder if they ever let it free. The black patch stares at you as they stand on your porch. 

They look you over the same, like you’re painfully aware of the way you study each other. You’re dressed in nothing fancy, something similar to them though you opt for a pullover rather than a tee shirt in this weather. 

Hange holds a cardboard four pack out to you, like a ticket entrance fee, and the veins of their arms prod out as you take it from them with a smile. “Thank you very much,” you’re gleeful, excited even, “Come in.”

The floor creaks and so does the door as they shut it behind them. They’ve never seen the inside of your house before, so all they can do is gawk as you enter the kitchen on your right hand side. “I can order pizza later if you’re hungry,” once you set the four pack down on your neatly clothed table, you look back to see their eye focused on anything but you. They look over the walls as if they’re in a museum.

“Don’t like pizza,” they’re throaty and so low you almost miss them. 

“What the fuck? Why not?” your hands rest on your hips. 

“Too messy,” Hange finally looks your way, catching the disappointment in your eyes, “And I have a growin’ suspicion I may be a little intolerant.”

But your disappointment turns into softness, “A little?”

In the coming weeks, Hange’s started to smile more. They grin before looking away, to the bookshelf on the wall just before the kitchen. “I didn’t know you were into all this.” 

You know your collections well. You know the shelf they’re referring to hosts your mounding plethora of books. “What? Didn’t think I’d like to read?” you step back into the living room, finding your places besides them as you look over your achievement of a collection with pride. 

“Wouldn’t say that,” they mumble.

Sighing lightly, you lean against the back of your couch, crossing your arms with a perked brow, “What would you say then?” slowly they turn and face you, “What did you think I was like?”

Hange shakes their head, just after their eye soaks you in, “I’m not doin’ that.”

“No fun,” your voice lowers with them, just as your eyes move down the tightness of their shirt until you catch the mound poking out of their front pocket. 

They notice, and without breaking away, they reach in and pull it out. A zip lock bag of weed. 

“Jesus, officer,” you laugh through your words of shock. 

Hange tosses it, you barely catch it at your chest. “Keep it, it’s from a bust. Couple of high school kids this mornin’.”

Curiously, you open the bag and take a whiff. The scent is overbearing and strangely sweet. “More where this came from?” your smile halves. 

“Don’t push it.” 

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Two beers down and half a joint smoked, life can’t get any better than this as you - slightly drunkenly - sift through your record collection with Hange sitting, knees spread, on your couch. 

“This one, is fucking fantastic,” you tell them, excitedly besides the tv stand. 

Hange hangs their beer right at their lips, smiling before taking a small sip, “You got a player for those things?” 

“Obviously,” you tear yourself away from the filed stacks. Your record table is a bit of mystery, you see it on Hange’s face as they watch, silently and intrigued, as you pull a lever under your coffee table. The middle piece of wood pops up. You take it and pull to reveal an empty record player built into the furniture. 

“Shit,” their brows lift as they take another sip. 

“What’re you in the mood for?” you turn back to the records, skimming through as Hange studies the inner workings of the table behind you. 

They trade in their beer for the joint left smoking on an ashtray, right besides where the player popped out from. “Surprise me,” they pull in a lungfull without looking at you. They’re too focused on how such a thing exists as you pluck a record out and eagerly pull it from its protective case. 

“I have one condition though,” your fingers work carefully as you set it all in place, perfectly placing the needle on the track you want. Hange raises their eye to you as a response. “D’you like dancing?”

“Absolutely not,” they mutter and you’re quick to groan in dramatics. 

“Come on, have a little fun for once,” the record begins to spin with the push of a button, instantly it fills the room with the oncoming sweet roar of Jensine Benitez’s Sparkle In Your Eyes. 

“You don’t think I have fun?” their lips lock around the joint as they watch you from below, elbows pressing into their knees. 

But you don’t entertain their deflection. You welcome it yourself as you hold a hand out for them to take with a look like a defeated child. “What’s your idea of fun?”

Half of you expected for them to reject you. You prepared yourself so heavily for it. So when Hange takes your hand after a moment's contemplation, you have to try and hide the way your heart begins to pound wildly in your chest.

With the joint hanging from their mouth, they stand at your command. But they’re awkward. Their foot gets caught on a leg of the coffee table and they stumble for a quick moment, all before your hands eagerly grip the sides of their biceps to keep them steady. You smile, looking up at them as their mouth works around the joint to answer, “I like football games, those are fun.”

Your hands slip down from their biceps to their wrists as they straighten. They take the joint from their lips as the two of you take place in an open space besides the couch. “What else?” you ask as you look down. Softly, you tap their foot with yours, egging them on to fix their stance. 

“Uh,” they stammer as you take the top of their shoulder in your palm, “Movies.”

Once their feet are spread enough, you look up and swipe the joint. You hold it between your lips as you take one of their hands and place it on your hip. You inhale once before pulling it away, smoke exits as you speak, “What’s your favorite movie?” their eye locks onto yours with little effort. In the coming weeks, they’ve grown more comfortable with you, as you have with them. 

On their own accord, Hange takes their free hand, the one you hadn’t manually placed, and takes the joint straight from your mouth to theirs as the two of you enter a casual sway. Their brows furrow as they hit it, “Fuck, I don’t know,” they admit, softly and with a small chuckle under their words. 

Your hands seem to have minds of their own. They move from Hange’s shoulders to the nape of their neck. Their skin is warm and flushed when you touch them, tangling the tips of your fingers into the mess of their scattered hair. 

“And you?” they question in return, keeping the joint between two fingers in the hand they connect to the other side of your hip, “What’s your version of fun, since you wanna shit on mine.”

“I am not shitting on anythin’,” you scoff with an amused mouth, “But I do think this is very fun.”

Their hand twitches on you, you feel it as their thumb absentmindedly grazes your side. 

“I also may be a tad bit tipsy,” your words softly jumble together, “So, please just indulge me.”

At this, they fully smile as they look away, before returning to find your eyes surveying everything but their stare. “Okay,” they start, “I can do that.” Like a true gentleman, Hange pushes their slight bashfulness to the side as they reach to take your hand. 

It’s not like the movies. It’s stubbornly real and awkward as they try to spin you. You laugh the whole way before they enclose you into a supporting embrace. Their chest presses into your shoulder blades as their arms hold that hand, and your waist. 

“Does this fancy you?” they ask as smoke trails up, surrounding the two of you but you can’t find a care. Your smile is endless and it would take a stampede to deter it. They speak into your ear, hovering just above one shoulder and it takes a small effort to find them. 

“And you say you don’t dance,” their hands spread open on your hips, one even inches closer to the front of your stomach in a way that makes you weak at the knees. 

Half a grin graces their mouth as they look at you, “I don’t.” 

Only now do you understand just how little is left between you, as their breath skims over your cheek with no effort. They smell of beer and weed and a musk you’ve grown to associate with them. Your hands, like theirs, lose care as they fall to their knuckles. In one hand, you simply cup them, simply feel every vein as it pops with the slow sway you enter. But the other takes two of their fingers into its grip, squeezing softly.

“I think you got it down,” you tell them, as they inch their face closer to remain respectful, to keep your eye contact from behind, “Could use a little practice, though.” 

Instantly, they smile wide, “Fuck you,” they breathe, quietly laughing as your own intermingles.

A crucial moment comes, a moment where you need to make a decision that could easily affect the rest of your life. It seems so idiotic, to refer to their lips as such a groundbreaking event, but this is Hange after all. Smiles fade as the two of you look past each other, through your eyes and directly into each other's secret thoughts - those secret places where desire is held and stored away. 

Hange is the first to break away. They’re the first to trade your eyes in for the swell of your lips. Soon you follow, and soon your closeness becomes suffocating as their nose meanders your way until they achingly touch you. Lightly. Timidly. They’re afraid, as are you as your brows twitch into a needful frown. 

Breathing through an open mouth, your breath touches their lips until a second comes where a nervous twitch of their neck makes their kiss skip over your bottom lip like it’s nothing. And truly, it is nothing. That passing graze of your mouths stops with the song that comes to a sweet end, just as your closeness as the two of you part and laugh it off. 

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Hange texts regularly. They call frequently. And you see each other every morning at the diner. So when the day comes where you pass by their apartment on your way home only to find them packing their car full of boxes, you slam on your brakes. 

The brakes make an awful screech and gravel churns beneath the tires. You barely pull the brake on before you’re swinging the door open. Hange notices, of course, and stops with a deep sigh as they rest their hands on their hips just after plopping another box into their trunk.

“Hey,” you call, lighthearted at first, but the way they look at you - with tired eyes and a look of guilt - makes your stomach drop, “What’re you doing?” you approach with a small smile, crossing your arms at the hood of their car like they’re up to some kinda Hange-thing; you’ve passed by a few times where they’re bent over the engine with oil staining their hands. But Hange’s clean today, in fact, they look about ready to leave.

There’s a cigarette burning between their fingers that they drop and ash. “Packin’.” 

“Packin’ for what?” you cling to your lightness, the same way you cling to the sides of your jacket which you pull together at your chest. 

But Hange’s making it hard to be hopeful.

They look at the ground, at the ashes mixing into the dampened cement from this morning’s showers, and shrug. “I’m movin’.”

Your world doesn’t stop, it crashes and burns. Your skin turns defensive as you lips part in shock, “The fuck are you talkin’ about?” 

With the shake of their head, they try to dismiss you, “Don’t make this harder than it is.”

“I’m not the one making things harder, Hange,” you scoff, “Why are you moving? Where to? Are you goin’ back to Trost?” 

At that, Hange turns, “Don’t talk about that shit like you know anything about it.”

“I’d know if you just tell me.” And you’re right. They know this, by the look on their face, the way it sinks before they look away, they know it well. 

Hange takes a small step towards you, lowering their voice just the same as their eye as they try to level with you. “I apologize, I really do. That shit at your house, us talkin’ and all that, it shouldn’t have happened.”

Your head enters a state of disbelief as it shakes silently as they go on.

“I didn’t mean to drag it on so long.”

“No,” you’re loose. Hollow. You even grin something bitter as your arms drop at your sides in defeat. “Why are you acting this way?”

Hange runs a hand over the side of their face as they sigh, “Actin’ like what?”

“I get that you’re scared of me,” you take a step in, “I get that you don’t like people comin’ around. But this is bullshit, and you know it.” They don’t have a response. They just look at you with that same blank, thinking face they always seem to wear. “Do you even have a place to stay out there? Or is this just some impulse and you’ll figure it out on the road? Is that how scared you are?” your questions turn towards jeers and with another step towards them, they clench their jaw, “You went head to head with Yelena and you’re meanin’ to tell me I’m the final straw?”

The two of you stand there, eye to eye, echo to echo as your words float around the cold air. After another handful of seconds, you turn towards the car and take the handle in your fist. “Let’s go then.” 

“Y/n.” they try, but you ignore them.

You open the door and begin to rearrange the front seat they had begun to pack tight. “If we wanna make it somewhere by night we gotta get goin’ now.”

“Y/n.” their voice grows hoarse, sending your attention over your shoulder. “I’m serious.”

With a stern lip, you bite, “I am too.”

Hange doesn’t give you a warning. It seems like their mind switches from citizen to officer the second they grab you by your arm and begin pulling you towards the apartments. 

“What the fu-” you struggle, trying to pull away as your feet stumble on the pavement leading up to the outside stairs, “What’re you doing?”

They’re fast, and unforgivingly strong. They don’t hold you tight enough to bruise but they don’t need to. You’re a waitress, not a hard laborer. They stop at the foot of the steps and here they finally drop your arm. “Go to the apartment,” they demand without looking at you.

Perplexed, you glance back at your car, still left parked in the middle of the street, right besides theirs with its trunk popped open. Cursing under your breath, you nearly stomp up the first couple of steps, until Hange places a hand at your back, gently pushing you up.

You swat a hand back, shoving them off you, “I fucking got it.” Your temper is explosive, you know but you can’t help it. Not today and not with your heart stuttering in your chest. You continue up the stairs at a rapid pace as you think about how the hell it’s gotten to this point. Weeks ago, Hange was just Hange and that was that. You didn’t look forward to seeing them every morning, you didn’t rely on them wishing you a goodnight. They were someone who had little effect on you until now. 

When you level with the second floor, Hange skips ahead of you, opening the door themself and allowing you inside as you mutter, “This is so fucking ridiculous,” you can’t stop your tongue, but at least their apartment is warm. 

Hange shuts the door as you notice the chair’s gone. 

“Did you toss the damn chair?” you ask, pissed, turning halfway before they meet you with a harsh fist gripping your arm and before you can mutter another onset of pointed comments, Hange does the unthinkable. 

In their apartment, with the door shutting out the world, with no peering eyes left to see, they take you with one hand slipping around your wrist and the other gripping your hip. They pull you in so suddenly you hardly feel it at first; their lips on yours, with no more room to laugh it off. 

At first, your breaths stop. Neither of you move until your hand finds their cheek, slipping over their jaw and down the side of their neck as your mouths open and something horrifying begins. They press into you with little precaution, and their hands certainly are well unaware of their strength. They hold onto you as if you’d break away any moment, but it becomes obvious, as your free arm wraps around their nape that there’s nothing else you want other than this. 

What starts off as sweet soon turns into desperation as they try to find the will to stop. Their own hand skims over the base of your neck, simply holding you there as if they could ever find it in them to strangle it out of you; that thing, whatever it is inside you which makes you tick so fast. It drives them insane, in that way only you can. In that way that’s been eating at them since the day you snapped in the back of their car.

For you, this release comes in small waves; like their hands, their breaths running ragged under your nose, or their mouth which tastes of tobacco and mint. Hange is scruffed, wounded, and rough around the edges. Everything from the clothes they wear down to the grating texture of their palms. But the thing is, you’re not a stranger to coarseness. You’ve existed in it for far too long. So when Hange kisses you - as if they’ve gone years without water and you are the plentiful oasis - the only way you can describe it is soft. Tender. They lull a whimper from you like they were placed on this earth just for the task. 

Quietly, and with words muffling into your mouth, they break in between those soft, tender kisses, “I want to tell you,” they purse, “Everything. I’ll tell you everything.”

Breathless, you smile against them, pursing into them the same, never wanting to let go, “Tell me,” they eat your words, “That’s all you have to do, Hange,” their forehead meets yours as your kiss dies down, “You don’t have to pack up and leave.” with this, you allow a breathy laugh. It’s unserious, and it’s contagious across their mouth.

“I’m a bit, uh,” they can hardly put a sentence together, “Temperamental. Like you.”

“Good,” your hand runs down their cheek, soothing them as their breathing slows, “We can understand each other then.” 

They shake their head, vigorously. As if they’re trying to prove to themself it’s okay. Those fraying hairs which crown their face stick down on their skin. Your fingers become caught on their patch every few moments, but you don’t stop. Hange stands in your grasp as if they weren’t the one to pull you in first. 

For the second time and by your own avolition now, you lean in and press your lips to theirs so gently that they’re the one to quietly whimper. They’re the one whose fingers tremble and grip you like the wheel of their car. You’re sure their knuckles are white and velveted. 

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

[estcaligo]

As a certified knight enjoyer, I can now yap about knights even more!

So, what will Sebek's future look like? Of course, we don't know a huge amount about Briar Valley lore or fae lore in general, but I had fun thinking about it based on what we know about knighthood from our world.

my old edit but it would be cool if the Royal Guard's uniform looked like this (made of dragon scales)

Let's start with the fact that knights were often granted land by their lord. These lands could provide income through farming, labor from the people who worked there, and local trade.

Also, a knight who served a lord well in battle might even be rewarded with a small estate, including farmland and villages.

Not sure how this works (or if it works at all) in Briar Valley, though. But if there's even a tiny possibility, that means Sebek has land yay. (He will build a Malleus shrine there :)

Next, knights had the right to bear arms (which we already saw at NRC - Diasomnia bodyguards are carrying batons).

Only knights could own full battle armor and weapons, setting them apart as the elite warrior class. So I wonder, is this still true in Briar Valley? There are dragons and other magical creatures, and magic is technically a weapon itself… I need more lore information...

Moving on, knights were recognized as part of the noble class, which meant they had different legal rights from commoners. (Sebek will be SO smug about it) They also had special legal protections and were often exempt from some taxes. (Hmm not that Sebek and Silver would do anything illegal, but it's fun to think about. Considering how hot-tempered Sebek can be, he might use this privilege a couple of times…....)

In medieval England, for example, a knight could only be tried by other noblemen in a court rather than by a local magistrate, offering them more legal security.

(I like to think that Malleus would make it equal for every race - so it wouldn't matter if you're a fae or a human, but rather that your status would be earned. Like, a human knight would be more noble than a commoner fae.)

Anyway, from now on, Sebek should be addressed as Sir Zigvolt :) I suppose

Exceptional knights could be granted titles, positions at court, or membership in elite chivalric orders.

And a knight's success in battle or loyalty to a king could lead to even greater rewards, like being named a baron or even a duke. (And here I can't not think about Silver, who is already technically a prince… )

But Sebek and Silver aren't just knights - they're Royal Guards, which is basically the top-tier status for a knight, with all of the above privileges and more.

Royal Guards were personally chosen by the ruling monarch (which is exactly the case for Diasomnia).

Their privileges included:

Direct access to the monarch and court (already do)

Superior equipment and weaponry ( Mystium! Even though it was in a dream, Sebek still has his Mystium halberd in his card chibi haha)

Roles as political advisors or diplomats (my favorite headcanon - Sebek becomes the general, and Silver the diplomat, I talked about it here )

Also, they often served as champions in duels or tournaments on behalf of the king. (I NEED to see this in twst - Malleus sending Sebek or Silver as his champions to… do whatever)

Oh and wealth, of course. Lots of wealth.

In conclusion, fun life!

But I still want to learn more about Briar Valley lore (hopefully in a hometown event) so I can elaborate…

[glitter-stained]

I don't know if you've already talked about this but I've seen a couple panels where Jason encourages underage drinking (with Tim specifically) and I was wondering what your thoughts were on that. Personally I think it's out of character for him, but then again, a lot of his rules about kids don't apply to Tim

So you have to understand that I don't mean to be rude or mean or anything but I think your perspective is so alien to me I simply don't know how to answer this question.

In Germany, the legal drinking age is 16. My experience with underage drinking is like, that time we drank straight out of the tap of the beer fountain at a party when I was fourteen (supplied to us by a friend's mom), drinking vodka at another party at 15, etc. Did we do it frequently? Absolutely not. Did our parents know about this? You bet they did. Should we maybe not have done some of that stuff? Maybe. I do know about binge-drinking and the developing teenage brain. I also genuinely believe that the fact I knew we didn't have to go behind our parents' backs too much was good for our rebellious asses, because 15 years old me for sure would have drank myself into a coma just to stick it to my mom if she had forbidden it entirely, and doubly so if it had been illegal. The understanding of biological mechanisms and health risks, threat of tremendous hangovers and the resources provided and accessible to us in highschool were much better deterrents/reasons to not drink or drink reasonably than if everyone had made a big deal out of it. All of this to say, my perspective of underage drinking is very, very different from the one you suggest in this ask, and I genuinely have a hard time trying to figure out how "Jason suggesting him and Tim (sixteen according to the panel if i recall correctly, logic be damned) drink alcohol together" would constitute a violation of Jason's rule to the Gotham gang leaders of "don't sell drugs to children". Like there is a world of difference between handing a twelve years old a baggie of heroine and Jason and Tim performing "underage drinking" by US-American standards (which are, to my non-US-American eyes, completely baffling). Unless of course we assume that the only drugs Gotham trades in are weed, alcohol and tobacco.

On top of that I think our understanding of the characters' dynamic differs greatly. Tim and Jason in post-crisis have a two years difference, three max; Cut 6 months dead, 1 year for coma, and then I cut off the two years he spent "catatonic" because he was in a deeply altered state of mind, though this position is debated amongst fans. When Jason comes back, he's thus 16-17, 18 at a big, big maximum. Tim is at the very least older than 16 since they made a big deal of his 16th birthday with the psychological abuse conspiration test plot. All this to say: I'm assuming you're referring to Jason's attack on Titan Tower when you say Jason makes exceptions to his rules with Tim, but I just don't see it, since A) Jason and Tim are in the same age-range, give or take one or two years on either side, and B) neither of them is a child in that comic, which is the earliest they meet and thus the youngest they are in their interactions: they're in their middle-to-late teens. So while I do agree that Jason's rule in UTH can be broadened to an interpretation of "don't fuck with kids", I think this is a complete non-issue wrt his fight with Tim (or Mia, btw), especially from Jason's perspective; otherwise him drinking and fighting people would also be a violation of his rules. Now I do want to say wrt Tim's age, it is later retconning (in the panel you're referencing) to be a little lower (I think he's sixteen in that panel?) because dc doesn't want to let tim drake age. That's still not a big age difference, Jason is still very young in that panel, DC just has a vested interest in keeping Tim young and making you forget how young Jason is. They're still in the same broad age-range. And because this retcon happens later than the titan tower fight, and no explanation that deaged tim's origin has been granted to my knowledge, that retcon has no bearing on the actual power dynamic at stake in the TT fight.

I genuinely don't mean to come off as mean or rude, though I'm aware that I probably do despite my best effort, I just... I feel like both our worldview and our view of the characters differ too much for anything I have to say on the matter to be of any interest to you, idk.

[rederiswrites]

Look, I think if you're a US citizen you should go on Youtube and watch the debate, or at least some of the chunks of it where the topic matters most to you. You can't counter the arguments if you don't know what arguments they're making. And no, I don't mean arguing with your aunt that drank the conspiracy koolaid. I mean that there are genuinely a lot of people out there hearing what Trump is saying and thinking, "I don't know. That sounds really scary."

So know what he said, and know not just THAT he lied, but HOW he lied.

Sometimes, it's easy. There are no "abortions" after a baby is born. That would be uhhh let's see MURDER and it's already pretty illegal everywhere and absolutely no one is trying to change that. The comment Trump attributed to former VA governor Ralph Northam is completely misrepresented. Northam (whom I am not defending as a person, by the way) was commenting on the subject of *non-viable* pregnancies that represented a health risk to the mother. Nobody was talking about killing babies. Nobody. Not even Mr. Blackface.

Sometimes it's so addled that I'll leave someone else to unpack, for example, what the FUCK he was on about with the giving illegal aliens in prison forced "trangender surgery". Personally I'm assuming he just used the random word generator in his head to say something that sounded scary to him.

There is NO credible evidence that anyone, much less Haitian immigrants, is eating pets in Springfield, Ohio. Both government officials and the police say there's nothing to it. Springfield has had a huge influx of Haitian immigrants, and this is causing infrastructure strain and racial tensions. But again, people who would rather believe that a) legal immigrants are okay with *stealing your pets and eating them* and b) the entire police and gov't infrastructure of a town and the surrounding county want to cover this up, are not worth our energy. It's the people who don't know the truth and are worried that we want to reach.

And my guy, my man, Cheeto Benito, that is not how tariffs work. Tariffs are not magical free money that other countries just HAVE to give you. They're...they're not that at all. Look, I'm lazy so I'm just gonna quote CNN:

Here’s how tariffs work: When the US puts a tariff on an imported good, the cost of the tariff usually comes directly out of the bank account of an American buyer. “It’s fair to call a tariff a tax because that’s exactly what it is,” said Erica York, a senior economist at the right-leaning Tax Foundation. “There’s no way around it. It is a tax on people who buy things from foreign businesses,” she added. Trump has said that if elected, he would impose tariffs of up to 20% on every foreign import coming into the US, as well as another tariff upward of 60% on all Chinese imports. He also said he would impose a “100% tariff” on countries that shift away from using the US dollar. These duties would add to the tariffs he put on foreign steel and aluminum, washing machines, and many Chinese-made goods including baseball hats, luggage, bicycles, TVs and sneakers. President Joe Biden has left many of the Trump-era tariffs in place. It’s possible that a foreign company chooses to pay the tariff or to lower its prices to stay competitive with US-made goods that aren’t impacted by the duty. But study after study, including one from the federal government’s bipartisan US International Trade Commission, have found that Americans have borne almost the entire cost of Trump’s tariffs on Chinese products. To date, Americans have paid more than $242 billion to the US Treasury for tariffs that Trump imposed on imported solar panels, steel and aluminum, and Chinese-made goods, according to US Customs and Border Protection. [link]

Also though you should watch the debate because Harris was an absolute savage and it was genuinely HUGELY entertaining to watch her mercilessly bait Trump in every answer she gave, and watch him take the bait every. fucking. time.

[rechorites]

cw: smut under the cut

in any life, if i could hold you for a minute

see ao3 for warnings/tags

She shouldn’t even be here, that’s the first thing.

He’s been undercover for a month. Not even really undercover - how would a Malfoy even do that? But he’s been ‘fired’ from the Auror Office for a month. Certain people have always expected that of him, and it’s those certain people they’re after.

He has to be disgruntled to sell it, so he went to the Leaky Cauldron three days in to it all and drank too much and mouthed off to anyone who’d listen, about Potter and Tonks and Robards.

He feels bad about it, after, even though it was absolutely sanctioned, because they publish the worst bits in The Prophet. In reality, Potter and Tonks and Robards have done nothing except help him rebuild his life brick by brick.

So he’s there, a month in to being the kind of Draco Malfoy who’d buy illegal potions and trade Schedule III creatures, drinking at The Green Dragon.

And she just… strolls in. With the Weaslette.

They’re disguised, a little, which is all they need these days. Unlike Potter, who could never go undercover a day in his life without Polyjuice Potion, Granger and Weaslette both took great pains to fade into obscurity after the war.

Weaslette’s gone brunette, for the evening, and Granger’s hair is silky and straight, eyes blue instead of their usual warm brown. But he’d know the way she moves anywhere, the tilt of her chin, the way she walks right past him. She smells the same, too.

He’s wanted her since she joined the Auror Office.

Longer than he should have, really. He even asked her out before she got assigned as his Trainee, only to find out she was still dating the Weasel, and she was flattered, but whatever. It’s been months since her and Weasel broke up (seven, not that he’s counting), even longer since… the incident. And she danced around him for a while, after, all these looks like she knew he was watching. Touches, light, on his forearm.

He’s never been going for subtle.

He pretend to ignore the two of them. Draco Malfoy, notorious knave, doesn’t approach random women in bars, anyway. He’s just decided that. It would be stupidly dangerous, reckless, for him to talk to any Auror, undercover or not.

He waits for Zabini.

Her eyes on him are like light through a magnifying glass, burning him where he sits.

They’re clearly out on the all-nighter they make all Trainees do just before they finish training.

Let them loose for 24 hours with nothing but their wand and the clothes on their back, the goal being to get them a bit more… streetwise, although Draco himself spent the time sitting in a quiet pub in Muggle Sussex, trying to pass the time without seeing any bloody Slytherins. The Trainees are meant to find gold, Potions, whatever illicit stuff they can get their hands on. The winner has their name added to some stupid plaque in the break room.

She’s laughing with Weasley, chatting up the bar’s regular Potions dealer in the corner of his eye. She brushes her hair over her shoulder, not used to the length of it. Draco debates just leaving before he does something regrettable.

Zabini turns up, late as usual.

He lets out a long whistle through his teeth at the sight of them. “Not often you get ladies like that, here. Think they’re lost?”

Draco tries to find his Death Eater bravado, clutches the glass of his firewhiskey.

“Not for much longer, once you find them.”

Blaise smiles.

“Just what I thought, too, Malfoy. Shall we?”

Zabini is a small fish, loosely affiliated with the circle of Slytherins headed by Marcus Flint that controls large swathes of the Black market in Europe. Not a bad guy, particularly. He’s just an in for Draco, someone to build credibility with before he can move up the food chain. Fucking it up with Zabini would make the potentially years long deep cover assignment disappear, make everything he’d done so far obsolete.

Draco raises an eyebrow, tilts his head towards them. He’s still looking behind the bar, the second he starts looking at her he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop.

“After you.”

Zabini’s far more interested in the Weaslette, which is lucky, because Granger doesn’t take her eyes off him for a second. He doubts she’ll go into Intelligence long term, more likely into serious crimes or R&D. She has the brains for it, always has.

“Anna,” she says, hand out to shake like they’re at the office. It’s a shit cover name, for her. She could never be called something so pedestrian. Draco leans forward instead, turns her hand to kiss the back of it like the old Slytherin boys do. Her skin is hot and soft for the second his lips touch her hand. She keeps looking at him, too, with those wide, wide eyes. If he squints he can imagine her without the glamours.

It doesn’t suit her, the blue. Too cold.

She hasn’t been his Trainee in a month, since he went under.

Technically, he’s not even employed by the Auror Office any more.

He likes to think she’s thinking the same thing, the way she’s looking at him.

She and the Weaslette quickly make their excuses, much to Zabini’s disappointment. They’d be in mountains of shit if they blew his cover their first time out of the office unsupervised. Draco doesn’t let himself feel anything about it, either way.

And that should be the end of it. He stays there for another hour, shooting shit with Zabini, hearing about some invention of Nott's that sounds like bad news all around.

“He’s been at Nott Manor all week, hasn’t been out drinking even once. Not like him. I’m having an intervention tomorrow. You—”

“Hey.”

And there she fucking is. Behind them at the bar, waiting to speak to him just like she would at the office. He can practically imagine her in her Trainee uniform behind him, ready to tell him how many errors she’s found in his reports, or about some new lead she’s found.

Zabini smirks widely, big white teeth gleaming, and looks at him knowingly.

“Hey,” says Blaise, before Draco can even turn around properly. “Where’s your friend?”

“She, uh… had to go home.” Is Weaslette in trouble? Draco narrows his eyes slightly. There’s a quarter of a smile at one corner of her lips that he only knows because he’s seen her do it before, the look she gives him before they do something totally off-book.

“Oh? But not you?” The way Blaise is looking at her is practically indecent, and she still won’t take those blue eyes off him. He wants to curl her hair around his fingers until it’s normal again.

“No. Not me. I’m, uh… going overseas tomorrow. And I’m free for the next few hours, so…”

Draco feels hot and cold at the same time. Maybe he’s coming down with something.

Zabini looks between them, Draco looking at her incredulously, Granger with this expression on her face like she’s just jumped off a broom, not entirely sure a cushioning charm will come and save her.

“I’m sure we could find a solution to that, Gorgeous,” says Blaise, insufferable flirt to the very end.

“I—” She looks genuinely flustered, this bug eyed looks that suits her. He’s a flirt, and a minor scoundrel, but Zabini has never been in to making women uncomfortable.

“You shouldn’t miss your… Floo,” Draco says, stupidly, looking back down at the wood of the bar. Tonks would kick her out of the programme for doing something this stupid. And if his cover is blown—

“Right. Yeah. I’ll go, then.” He’s not sure if he’s imagining the disappointment in her tone.

“I’m sorry, Anna, I think my friend’s just had a brain injury. Would you excuse us a second?” says Blaise, pulling Draco practically by the collar. Granger just nods, looking uncertain, turning her head to the bar like she might order something.

“What the fuck are you doing?” asks Blaise. “She’s trying to pull, you tosser. You can’t let a beautiful woman walk away like that!” He releases his collar, looking back at Granger.

“I’ll fuck off, then.” Blaise says, standing and clapping Draco on the shoulder. “On for tomorrow, Malfoy?”

Draco nods, only half listening. He doesn’t know what will happen when he leaves, and where’s Weaslette, anyway? They’re meant to stay in pairs.

She’s wearing the stupidest outfit, jeans and a thin, long-sleeved t-shirt in the middle of winter, fitted closer than anything she wears at work. She’ll freeze outside.

“Draco?” she says, and Zabini’s gone. She looks weirdly… sad, for a second. Big puppy eyes. Rejected. Which is ridiculous, because she probably just wants a bed to sleep in and some money and Potions to win the stupid bloody game.

He smirks at her, the Malfoy smirk that he hasn’t been able to use in years, but that has made its way back on his face this last month. Raises an eyebrow so anyone watching won’t suspect. “Mine or yours?”

She looks at him, surprised. “Are you—”

If she’s about to ask if he’s sure, the answer is ‘no way’.

“Yours.”

---

He’s at a new flat, living above a seedy little tattoo shop that he strongly suspects injects more than just ink.

It’s not that bad for something paid for by the Auror Office, better than the usual shithole safehouse by a mile. His old flat was nicer, a posh Muggle flat in London that he got—well, right around when Granger and the Weasel got engaged. She’d been over, once, had looked right at home in front of the floor to ceiling bookshelves.

That had been the night of… the incident.

Tonks said the old place wasn’t fitting for the new Draco Malfoy, and she’d been right. He’d wanted a change, anyway.

Granger looks at home here too.

“I’ll find the floo powder,” he says. Sensible.

He could just summon it.

She walks in and starts poking around, opening the drawers in the kitchen.

“No wards? No Extendable Ears?”

“Not yet,” he says.

“Right.” She’s fiddling with his icebox, now, opening it to see a cold lot of nothing. She closes it, and looks back at him, arms by her sides like she doesn’t know what to do with them.

It’s a studio apartment.

Her eyes flick to the bed, lightning fast, and then back to him.

He should look for the Floo powder.

“Why are you here, Granger?” he asks, although honestly he doesn’t want to know. Can’t hear it again.

And then she’s walking past him, brushing the whole side of her body against his. She smells the same, something floral that he’s never been able to place.

Then she stops, and turns, and she’s walking backwards towards the bed, looking at him. She pulls off her shoes with one hand, drops them on the floor, and he can’t stop looking at her, those blue eyes that look so wrong on her face. That hint of a smile is back again, bigger this time, like she’s finally caught him out. She is, categorically, the sexiest witch alive.

He stands there like a bloody nun.

He takes out his wand and casts Aparecium. Suddenly it’s Granger again, her warm brown eyes looking at him, and he can’t help but follow her wherever she goes. Her hair stays the same, though, and he so badly wants it to be hers again he almost asks about it.

She sits on the edge of his bed, looking up at him through her eyelashes. She’s barely breathing, air coming out in quiet little huffs that would steam up outside.

“If you stay, Granger, there’s no going back.”

He’s standing in front of her, a hair’s breadth away from standing between her legs. The way she’s looking at him is going to break his heart, how much he wants to run the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone, how hard this will all be when she gets up and leaves.

“I don’t want to go back.”

The floor drops out from underneath his feet.

He reaches out, slowly, like she might change her mind, and brings one hand to the curve of her jaw, one hand to her ribcage. She’s so much softer than he could have imagined, the long line of her neck bare and pale where it’s usually covered by her uniform.

He kisses her softly, at first.

She’s so bloody soft, like velvet under his lips.

She leans back on her hands as he moves forward, keeps her hands to herself, and before he can think too hard about it he sits down and pulls her over on top of him, knees either side of his thighs, her ratty off-duty socks over the edge of his bed.

The first thing he thinks is that she’s… timid. He’s spent two years with her as his Trainee, her telling him off every five minutes in the office and more in the field, despite him technically being her superior officer. She’s always charging off somewhere, telling him and all the others what to do.

She doesn’t sit down fully, even, hovering awkwardly. He can feel the tension coming off her thighs, trying to keep herself up.

When he’s thought about this, before, he’s never allowed himself to think about the specifics of what she might be like. It would be too much, to think about her like that, under him or on top of him, timid or serious or whatever, and then have to go back to the office the next day and have her call him sir and watch her flirt with the Weasel over tea.

Not that she does that, anymore.

But he thought she’d be… bossy.

He kisses her, more, and Morgana help him if she isn’t good at it. His hands are demurely on her jean-covered thighs, the tight fabric rough under his palms. He’s half-hard already, just the reality of her in his bed enough to get him there.

His hands move up the sides of her hips. The soft swell of them is unexpected. He brushes the tips of his fingers against the smooth, cool skin just under the hem of her top.

She actually gasps.

She pulls back then, and part of him wonders if that’s it. Eight months ago it might have been enough, but now that he’s tasted her, now that he knows what she looks like sitting on his bed, he thinks if she gets up and walk away he might just keel over and die.

Instead, she pulls her top off.

Draco feels any latent capability of higher thought evaporate.

She is— Merlin, she is gorgeous. Smooth, sunkissed skin, muscles taut across her stomach from Auror training, the soft cruve of her hip in contrast. Plain nude bra, sensible in all ways except this one, the one where she’s in his bed in his dodgy cover studio. There are tiny scars on her shoulders, smooth little bumps that have faded with time. On her forearm is the Mudblood scar she got all those years ago. He’s seen it often enough that it doesn’t surprise him, any more, just another part of her.

He’s looking, properly looking, and she blushes.

Hermione Granger, shy. He can’t quite believe it.

She chews at her lip, hands still clutching at her top like she could put it back on. He takes it off her, gently, and drops it to the floor.

He rolls them over, again, so she’s leaning back in the bed, one arm supporting herself, the other lightly on his chest. Timid. He kisses her neck, once, not hard enough to mark, although he wants—

She lets out another gasp, breathier this time. So that works.

Her hair is so carefully straight that it doesn’t get in his face even once. Over the past two years he’s had it in his face more times than he can count, when they’ve flown together on a broom, when she’s sitting next to him in morning briefings. He found a strand in the collar of his shirt once, coiled around a button.

He runs his hands down the sides of her, once, twice, just to know what it’s like. She’s warming up now in the heat of his flat, the goosebumps on her arms calming down.

He undoes the button on her jeans, and then the zip. She wriggles down to help, and he moves aside to let her take them off fully.

Hermione Granger is in her underwear in his bed.

Black knickers that don’t match her bra. There’s a line running just above them where her tan starts, and Draco fights the urge to lick along it. She’s still got that tense look about her, and yeah, he’s the same— he doesn’t know what he wants, especially if this is the only time. Gentle, he supposes. He wants to savour it.

And she’s so quiet.

She’s nervous.

He knows it now, knows that wide-eyed lip chew from the first time they went in the field together, from when Tonks or Robards calls her into their office. Like she might be in trouble.

All that bravado from the bar gone out the window.

“Granger,” he says, not sure what to follow it up with, but it’s enough. He gets that quarter smile back again.

“I’m half-naked in your bed, Malfoy, you can call me Hermione.”

“Oh?”

She doesn’t call him Draco, though.

He kisses her neck again, and she moves this time, tilting her head to give him room. The feel of her underneath him is like some new potion they try out in R&D, something they need to bottle and mass produce. Her thighs spread apart further, tilting her hips up, and even through his trousers he can feel the heat of her through her underwear. He presses open mouth kisses down from her pointy little chin to where her shoulder meets her neck, and she tenses her thighs beneath him a few times, rhythmic enough that it’s on purpose.

But she’s still so quiet, so serious.

He’s gotten to know her enough, over the past two years, that he knows that she’s not like that all the time. When she’s happy, at least. She talks, she’s funny, joking around with Weaslette and Potter and even him, since she broke up with the Weasel.

She’s nothing like he thought she was at school. She’s better.

He runs a hand up and down her side, soothing, and she hikes a leg up to his hip. His hand goes to her knee automatically, lining her up just right over the bulge in his trousers, and he thrusts, this shallow movement that feels just right. She arches, eyes rolling back, a moan finally coming from her lips.

He wants her to do it again. Wants to keep her here, in his bed, until he discovers every noise she can make and more, every thing he can do that makes her look like that.

The urge to just pull down his trousers and bury himself inside her almost overwhelms him.

Slow. Gentle. Savour.

He goes back to her neck, sucks a little harder, and she grips his shoulder, pushing her hips up into him again. So she likes that. (He likes it too, incidentally, the idea that she’ll have to look in the mirror tomorrow and see him, that everyone will know—)

She’s back to quiet, though, quieter than she’s ever been when they’re in the field together.

He pulls back and looks at her again, tries to commit the shape of her to memory, the curve of her hip and the line of her ribcage. She reaches back and unclasps her bra, the straps going loose on her shoulders, and pulls it off.

Draco doesn’t waste time.

He kisses down from her collarbone, circling one nipple with his tongue while he cups the other one in his hand. Perfectly formed, he thinks, as they pebble quickly under his attention. She’s quiet, though, shifting restlessly against him with her hips, never settling into a rhythm.

He doesn’t want quiet.

He knows she must be capable of it, knows that bossiness must extend out of her professional life.

He sits back on his knees and runs his fingers along the inside of the elastic line of her underwear, just below her hip bones, barely feeling the scratch of the hair, and she inhales quickly, a big twitch of her thigh.

She’s looking at him again, now, those brown eyes like she can’t quite believe it’s him. Her mouth is slightly open, the pink of her tongue darting out. She nods, once, and he hooks his fingers under the elastic and pulls, down, down, down, her back arching off the bed to give him room.

He stops, for a second, and just looks again. Hermione Granger, on her back on his sheets.

He needs to memorise her while he has the chance, wants to kiss every bare inch of skin and figure out what she likes, the warm light brown of her skin such a contrast to his that he can hardly take his eyes off his hand on her thigh. She’s all laid out in front of him, and he can hardly decide where to look, the dark pink between her thighs, her breasts, high and drawn tight with her arm raised above her head.

She’s chewing on her lip again while watching him, arm creeping over her forehead like she might cover her eyes.

He drags his fingers across her inner thigh, the skin there so soft he wants to rub his face up against it.

One step at a time.

Every muscle in her stomach goes tight, clenching quickly. She’s looking at him now, her arm half covering her eyes, chest bare and the other hand gripping onto the sheets for dear life.

He runs his finger through the length of her, and her hips jerk as she sucks in a ragged breath.

She is— Merlin, she is wet.

He rubs her clit, just a little, and her chin comes up, a feral little jut as she bites her lip again. She’ll bite it clean off if she’s not careful.

“Malfoy,” she says, quiet.

He rubs again, small circles around in a way that girls have liked before, and her eyes flutter.

“More, Malfoy.” There she is.

“More, like what?”

“I don’t—I want—” She takes a deep breath, frustrated that he’s making her say it. “Harder. Inside.”

He grins at her, and then moves down to kiss the skin of her stomach, lower again just above her hipbone, and she twiches again, arse coming off the bed.

“Malfoy—” Her eyes are wide again, surprised. “What are you doing?” Her voice is pitched higher, just a little, like maybe she really didn’t expect it.

Draco moves his free hand under her thigh, nudging her down the bed in response, so his knees are on the floor. She goes, quickly, and he gets one of her ankles hooked on his shoulder, his right hand still working her slowly, firmly, her hips moving rhythmically in response to his small circles.

Her heel is cold and sharp against the fabric on his shoulder, and she’s resting on her elbows now, looking at him with that wide-eyed look she had when he brought her up here.

He looks at her in the dim light of his shitty little flat, the dark wetness of her. The potency of wanting makes him lose his breath.

“Hermione,” he says quietly. “Let me.”

She looks at him still and opens her legs further, tilting her hips up towards him with intent. He moves his face down and licks, hard, slipping his finger down and pushing into her where she’s the wettest, the hot warm closeness making him feel out of control. He uses the flat of his tongue against her clit, long hard licks that she presses into. She’s tight around his finger, and the feeling is enough to have him pressing his own hips uselessly into the side of the bed, erection trapped in his trousers.

“Is that…” he starts, and she nods her head quickly. “Are you sure?”

He’s been privvy to her uncensored opinion on everything for almost two years: everything the other Trainees do, the laws and policies that govern them, the intricacies of all the assignments they’ve had. He actually thinks, possibly, this is the longest they’ve been in a room together without her telling him what to do.

He finds an angle she likes, the barest of sounds coming out of her, and the smell of her wetness is heady and intoxicating. He wants to smear her over him, all these primitive instincts coming out of nowhere.

He adds another finger, this ‘come here’ motion inside that Pansy taught him, and her leg jerks down, rubbing against the bone in his shoulder.

“Fuck, Draco. Don’t— don’t stop.”

She coils up in front of him, the heel that’s still on the bed pushing down and tilting her towards him, and she’s breathing heavier now, almost as if—

She takes this deep intake of breath, sudden, and her head drops back, pink flush spreading all across her chest. It doesn’t take long until she’s gasping, little noises that must mean she likes it.

Her hips come up, quickly, almost hitting him in the nose, and she comes fast, clenching around his fingers, quick and rhythmic. It’s short, not a particularly big one, but he tries to make it last, grinds his tongue into her clit.

He doesn’t stop moving until she makes this rough moan, flopping back on to the bed with her eyes closed, slipping her leg off his shoulder.

“Was that—?”

“Oh my God, Malfoy.”

So yeah, he’s pretty pleased with himself.

He wants to do it again, but his erection is starting to border on painful, something about having her in his hands and not acting on it.

He wipes his face on her inner thigh, drops a kiss there that feels far too affectionate for what they are to each other. She groans when he pulls his fingers out, slippery and wet, and he licks them just for another taste. Her eyes are open again, watching, and she grabs him by the lapels and half drags him up the bed on top of her.

He tries use his arms to keep his weight off her, but she pushes them out from under him in the same way they got taught in non-magical combat, pushing her face into his neck and bringing her legs to wrap around him.

“Oh, shit,” she says, looking down at where she’s just rubbed herself onto his trousers. “Why are you still wearing clothes?”

He laughs at her, then, a low rumble. “I got a bit… distracted.”

She looks pleased now, at least, and then she goes tense again and rolls him over onto his back, straddling his stomach. Before he knows what’s happened, she has her wand in her hand, pointing down at him.

He has the good sense to feel alarmed.

Then, without any warning, she vanishes his top, leaving him bare-chested. She lifts her hips—and Godric, that’s a view—and vanishes his trousers too, leaving him in just his boxers.

She gives him a wicked grin for a second, just a trace of the Granger he’s gotten to know, and then is straight back to serious. The second is enough, though, and already he wants to find whatever will make her look at him like that again. She smiles more at him now—or did, when he was still at the office—this bright, open thing that makes his heart leap out of his chest every time.

She pushes him all the way up the bed, man-handling him in a way that he’s fond of immediately, until she’s hovering above his thighs. She pushes down his boxers off his hips, slow, like maybe she’s trying to savour it too, and he’s hit with such a wave of affection for her that it’s practically indecent.

She looks back at him when she decided he’s in the right place, and the sight of her, naked on his thighs next to his cock, all that smooth tan skin and the hair on her forehead starting to frizz up again with sweat, might nearly be enough to get him there.

Hermione has other plans, though.

Her hand is on his cock, suddenly, and his hips jerk so suddenly it almost bucks her off. She laughs, loud and teasing. “Is that… alright?” she asks, a sly grin on her lips. She’s pumping up and down, a hair’s breadth on the side of too tight, and any part of Draco that could have responded coolly was gone, dead years ago when the day turned up at the Auror Office with a black eye from training saying she’d been assigned to him.

Draco lets out a choked noise that might be a laugh. "Yes. Yeah.” The visual of her hand on him is something that he will never, ever forget. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever function normally again.

He wants to be inside her, needs it more than he needs air to breath, but she’s looking at him calculatingly, pumping him up and down, this twist at the head that’s well-practiced enough that he doesn’t want to think about who she learned it from. She’s serious again, all trace of laughter gone.

And then she tucks her hair behind her ears.

Draco refuses to think anything, but already she’s bending down, shuffling back a bit in a way that’s smearing wetness on his legs.

“Hermione, you don’t have to—”

“Let me, Draco,” she says, an echo of his words earlier. He can’t take his eyes off her, and she takes him in her mouth. The warm wetness is almost too much, the sight of her on top of him like this, the view down her back and the curve of her arse.

He pulls on the sheets so he doesn’t grab her head, and she brings one of her hands around the base of his cock, setting up a rhythm, and he can hear himself half-panting as he watches her, just watches and watches.

She picks up one of his hands and rests it on her head, and fuck, fuck—

He makes a strangled noise and grips her hair by accident, too tightly, but she moans on his cock and he feels the vibrations all the way down in the base of his spine.

He pulls her off quickly, her mouth making this indecent wet noise as she comes off that almost packs him in.

She sits up on his legs again, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Up to standard, sir?” she says, cheeky, the kind of shit she says to Potter when she does some bullshit assignment in half the time and twice as good as anyone else could.

Draco feels like his brain has gone smooth.

She rubs across his chest, now, feeling the planes of him, finally looking like he won’t turn around and bite her—or maybe like he will, who knows, with this girl.Hhe thinks the orgasm has calmed her down, and possibly also seeing him almost come in his boxers at the sight of her. He imagines it would have an ego-boosting effect.

Salazar, he’s missed her.

It’s only been a month, and now that he’s over the surprise of having her here, in the bar and in his bed, he can’t remember why he ever took this assignment, why he would be so stupid as to give up having her at the desk next to him.

Well, he can. But she’s here now.

She’s moving forwards, close enough that her stomach brushes against his cock every time she arches her back, and Merlin, the way she’s looking at him is doing it for him almost as much as anything else, this focused, studious look that makes him think of her in the bloody Hogwarts Potions lab, the way she always drove him up the wall with confused wanting.

“I’m… uh, not on the Potion,” she says. Of course not, no Weasel around. He shouldn’t be pleased that it probably means there’s been no one else.

“Right.”

“Have you—I mean, do we need to—” she gestures at him, presumably asking if he’s been with anyone else, if they need the Contraceptive Spell or something more. She looks like she doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Just the spell.”

“Right.” She gets out her wand and a muscle in her cheek twitches, satisfied with his answer. She points it at herself, and then him. He’s never let anyone else cast it, before, certainly not any of the Slytherin girls who would have happily taken the Malfoy family fortune, even if he came along with it.

He must trust her, or whatever.

She pushes herself up onto her knees, catching her lip between her teeth again as she lines them up, the wetness at her entrance catching the head of his cock. She feels so unbelievably good.

He holds his breath as she sinks down.

He feels it everywhere, her on top of him, the pressure of her on his cock, tight, tight, and he’s thankful she pauses at the bottom to catch her breath because he needs it too, an awful amount. She bows her head, her hair coming over her face.

There’s a strip of a streetlight coming through the window and it lands across her, a straight line of skin illuminated.

“Will you tell me something?” she asks, quiet again.

“Anything,” he says, all pretense out the window. She could ask him to change his name to Derek Milford right about now and he’d do it, no questions asked.

A broad grin spreads across her face as she looks down at where they’re joined, and clearly he’s given too much away.

“When did you first… like me?”

She’s blushing, too, and he’s actually— Merlin, he’s inside her. If ever there was a time to be honest.

“A long time ago, Granger.”

And she lets him get away with it, just smiles and tilts her hips, the smallest movement that has them both tensing. “Knew it.” And then she’s rolling her hips, slowly at first, wicked little flicks at the end that make him feel as though he couldn’t possibly get any deeper.

She keeps her eyes open, looking down at him. She takes one of his hands in hers, skinny little fingers scrabbling against his palm for a second before lacing their fingers together.

There’s no way he can stay undercover after this. No fucking way. He’s going to go back to Robards and beg for his job back, sting assignment be damned.

He wants to stay here forever.

“Hermione,” he says, and her eyes flutter close. She likes hearing her name.

Her hips start to roll properly, now, a quick rhythm as she leans forward on his chest, and he brings his free hand forward to her her clit, pushing apart her folds. The feeling of the join where he’s inside of her is something else, and she gasps quickly as he touches her like it’s too much.

“You don’t have to—” she starts. “I can usually only… come… once,” she says, voice dropping on the word come in a way that makes him twitch, like maybe the Tattoo Parlour downstairs might hear. He’s filled with the urge to make her loud, properly loud, so the whole of bloody Knockturn Alley can hear Draco Malfoy fucking Hermione Granger.

“Right,” he says. He’s not disappointed by that, not really, but if he’d known it had been a one and done situation he would have drawn it out longer, savoured it properly. Would have held her on the edge until she had to talk to him. If he stays here, if she goes back—

He wanted to see her do it again. That’s all.

He rolls them, her leg coming up to hook around his hip, sticky thighs open wide, and she moans—loud—as he bottoms out, back arching against him. Which—

She doesn’t sound like someone who can only come once.

She’s not an idiot, she’s had sex before, obviously, and she would know if she could—

Draco finds a rhythm, slow and gentle, like he hasn’t got anywhere to be. He won’t last much longer, her hot and wet around him. She looks the part, too, all mussed and sweaty, eyes half closed. His hand creeps back down between them.

“It still feels good, though, right?” He rolls around it, in case she’s sensitive, but she’s pushing her hips up with every thrust in a way that says she’s definitely not done, heels digging in to the mattress to get the leverage she needs.

‘I—Yeah. Really—Keep going,” and her voice makes him stutter a bit, how husky it is. Her hair is over the pillow, so long like this.

He kisses the corner of her mouth, now, and she tilts her head up to kiss him properly, grinning like she’s just remembered she can. He kisses down her throat, pausing on a spot that makes her groan, sucking. Finally, she’s making some noise.

“Yes, Draco. Right there.”

He can feel it inside him, building and building, but he just has to—

She did say usually.

His teeth graze her pulse point just as her knee moves back just a little, and she cries out, loud, head thrown back as he keeps circling her clit, that same relentless pace. She goes tense all over, inside too, which is a feeling he totally wasn’t prepared for, and lets out another noise somewhere between a yell and a moan.

Her hips are pressed all the way forward as he drives into her, pushing and pushing against him like she can’t do anything else.

“Draco,” she says, loud, warningly. “Draco, don’t, fucking, stop— don’t—” His hand between her legs is beginning to cramp, awkwardly pressed between them, but she’s getting that same flush on her chest, and now he’s close enough to see it on her cheeks too, this rosy tint that he can see spreading across her like something blossoming.

One of her hands clutches at his back, hard enough to hurt, her neatly trimmed nails still long enough to scratch, and he wants it, he wants to look in the mirror tomorrow and see all the parts of her she can leave behind, wants to mark her in some dark, primal way. He wants her to think of him.

“Please, Draco,”she whines, and Merlin, that really does it for him, this greedy tone in her voice that makes him want to give her the world. She’s sweating, and he stops sucking her neck long enough to lick a broad stroke on her collarbones, the taste of her like salt and Hermione and sex.

“Fuck, Hermione, you sound so good. Like it when you moan.”

He moves his hand off her clit, pulling her ass closer, and then goes back and makes the circles tighter, brushing over it each time, and suddenly she’s loud, like proper, Muffling Charm on the door, loud, a long moan that scratches his brain just right, everywhere.

“I wanted you in eighth year, even, before this all,” he’s whispering in her ear, and she likes that, these tiny little groans in time with his thrusts. “And then when you joined the Auror Office, that first week, all this time—” Her arms are wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him close, and he’s so close, but he just feels like she might—

“Draco, Draco, please.” She’s meeting every thrust, just at the edge of her range of motion, these quick pulses of her arse. “I’m so—please.” And fuck if that doesn’t do it for him, the sound of his name and her practically begging—

“Hermione, just like that, fuck. You’re so perfect.”

He is so fucking close that it actually hurts not to come, sheer bloody-mindedness the only thing keeping him together.

Something hits just right, and then she’s making this high, long noise as she comes, so loud it rattles around his brain. Her legs come up, dropping them to the mattress, pulling him so close he can’t even move without her following him. He can feel it inside of her, this tight, quick pulsing of her cunt that’s nearly too much for him.

He doesn’t stop thrusting the whole time, the shallow movement of his hips fucking her into the mattress as he wrings it out, her hips and thighs gripped so tightly around him that there’s not even an inch between them as he does it, her orgasm long and deep.

Her cunt flutters for what feels like an age, every twitch sending shocks up his spine.

When it finally stops, he rests on his elbows, but she pulls him down again, right on top of her, his face next to her neck.

She laughs, then, this bubbling, hysterical thing that he feels through his whole body, still inside of her.

“You’re going to be so insufferable about that, aren’t you?” she says finally, patting down the sides of his body like she’s checking he’s still real.

He barks out a laugh at that, too, because yes, he is. “Me? Insufferable?” And she smacks him, gently, on the side of his chest.

He would pull the moon from the sky for her.

She yawns, loudly, exagerrated like she’s messing with him, and he looks up at the clock. Eleven, still ten hours before she needs to be back at the office in uniform. Now that he’s got her loud, he would place a bet that next time she’d start that way.

She pulls back a bit, looks at him. “Need something, Malfoy?” she asks, cocky and self-satisfied. She clenches around him once, breathing through her teeth at the feel of it. She must be so sensitive.

Morgana help him, he wants to tell her everything. Wants to tell her that he’ll lock the door and keep her here forever, get his old flat back and let her re-organise his library the way she was obviously itching to do that night, that he’ll go back to being an Auror properly or quit being an Auror entirely or something, anything, whatever she wants.

She rolls her hips once, and then pulls her knees up and apart with her hands, wide, so she’s totally spread open in front of him. Draco feels his mouth drop open.

“Go on, Draco." She cocks her head to the side, daring him, just like she would in duelling practice, this knowing look like she sees right through him. “Show me what you can do.” Her eyes have gone all dark and glossy.

And fuck. That is one hell of an invitation.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, and she snorts at him, brushing her hair off her face. It’s a relief, actually, that she’s his Hermione underneath, the same one he’s gotten to know at the office, at the Auror bar. Not that he wouldn’t like her all kinds of ways, but—he likes his Hermione a lot.

He leans forward, rubs his nose in the hollow behind her ear, and starts thrusting, running the whole length of himself slowly out and then pushing back in, a quick flick of his hips hard and fast. She starts clenching against him, tight and on purpose as he pulls out, this pressure all around that builds so quickly he can’t believe it.

He gets sloppy, ragged, the feeling of her everywhere. Hermione Granger.

She brings her hand up to his hair and runs her fingers through it. It’s catching up to him now, that edge that’s been there since she had his hands on him, her mouth on him, the hot, tight, relentless pull of her. He’s been putting it off for so long that it actually hurts, just this side of pain.

“I’ve liked you for a long time, too,” she says, and that does it for him. That really does it for him.

His whole brain goes white and fuzzy.

He thinks he must keep thrusting, some ungainly noise coming out from his mouth, but he can’t remember it after.

He melts on to her, unceremoniously, and she kneads her hand on his scalp and runs it through his hair, pulling it up in all sorts of directions.

They’re silent for several long minutes, the sound of their breathing and her heartbeat underneath him.

“Are you really staying undercover?” she says eventually, quietly into the air. It’s cold in here now, the sweat on his back cooling rapidly, the wet between their legs turning sticky.

He doesn’t have an answer for her. Or he does, but he doesn’t want to tell her, doesn’t want it to be real.

“There’s a plan, Granger. It’s not— there’s no one else.”

“Yeah. Only one Malfoy.”

He laughs, grim, thinking of the two other Malfoys left alive who would probably die of shock to know what he’s doing right now.

He shifts, pulling out of her, and she lets out this groan that he wants to hear every day he’s alive on this earth. He grabs his wand, cleaning them both off, gentle between her legs. She watches him with her eyes going all sleepy between her lashes.

The thing is, Tonks has been on at him about going undercover for years, long before Granger joined the Auror Office, ever since he started. A unique opportunity, she called it, given his past. But he never gave it a single thought until a month and a bit ago, when he thought—when it seemed like Granger finally, finally stopped dancing around him, when he thought he really had no chance.

He opens up the duvet on one side, nudging her underneath, one last effort. Ten hours left.

He would have waited for a lifetime, if he knew she might have said yes.

“I’m going to lose the bloody game,” she says, half asleep now. “Ginny will never let me hear the end of it.”

Longbottom had won, in his year, after repeating the last year of Auror training and turning up unexpectedly with a bag full of Potion vials and 100 Galleons. He’d never told anyone how he’d done it.

She wraps into his side, soft and clean and small, rubs her head against his shoulder fondly.

“We only have to be there at nine, you know. We could go again.” She wanders her hand over him slowly, badly disguising a yawn.

He pulls her closer, kisses the side of her head on one wayward curl. “Sure, Granger. Whatever you want.”

She’s asleep in minutes, dead weight on his side as her breath deepens.

He looks at her, face blank with sleep.

She shouldn’t be here, sure, but Merlin, he’d give anything to keep her.

[gosiksmallspace]

The Merciless Timeline

@inashoe and I have been talking lately and it got me thinking about The Merciless timeline.

First, we have to remember that the movie has flashbacks to pre-prison (probably 2013-2014) and the main timeline past the prison, which happens in 2016-2017 (I'm leaning more towards 2017).

I assume Hyunsoo was born in 1990. He is a rookie cop, even if he spent some time working for Golden Cranes. I would say he was around 23-24 before being sent to prison. He would be around 27 when he's out.

Jaeho could have been born around 1970, because between Hyunsoo and him is 20 years, more or less. I'm basing it on what he said to Hyunsoo:

"Even the boss I dedicated 20 years to is trying to backstab me with a smile on his face." "I got started here at your age. Do you know how many have betrayed me in those years?"

His parents died when he was 12 (so around 1982?) and he ended up in an orphanage. When he was a teenager, he began selling drugs. According to the priest in prison:

"Han started by dealing meth in his teens".

Then around 1997, he began working for Ko Byungchul. Once again:

"Even the boss I dedicated 20 years to is trying to backstab me with a smile on his face."

That would make him 27 then, so kind of old, but it also makes sense that first Jaeho would have to go to the military and then work with Byunggap on smaller illegal things to prove himself). He moved to Busan with Ko in 2008, at age 38. He could be around 43 when he was sent to prison and then 47 when he was released.

Now, in a police meeting, before Chun send Hyunsoo to prison, it is said that Ko Byungchul aka Chairman Ko is 52, so he was born in 1962, making him 8 years older than Jaeho. He used to provide strippers for a Russian bar in Seoul before he partnered up with Vladivostok's Gegard mob. In 2008 he relocated to Busan and founded Oceane/Oceans Trading, an aquatic importer.

Ko Byunggap is likely to be Jaeho's age (or really, really close) because he calls Jaeho '친구' (chingu). He's also Chairman Ko's nephew, which is interesting because according to my math, Ko Byungchul was 8 when Ko Byunggap was born. Byunggap mentions that it was his uncle who gave him up for an orphanage, which means that Byungchul had to be an adult then. So my lose theory is that Byunggap could be around 15 then when his parents died (that would make Byungchul 23). Byungchul could have given Byunggap up so he wouldn't get in his way.

That means that Byunggap's father was Byungchul's older brother and Ko brothers could have 10-year age difference because Byunggap's dad should have been at least 18 when he had him (I know he could be younger but let's go with the legal age).

What's interesting, although Byungchul calls Byunggap nephew, they both have 'Byung' in their names and that makes me wonder because in Korea children from the same generation and the same family can have a syllable in common. Maybe they are cousins? Because I don't remember Byunggap naming Byunggap's father as his brother. But this is just a small speculation because I don't know if '조카' literally means 'brother's son' or simply 'blood relative'. I will stick to Bynggap's dad being Byungchul's older brother.

The only person whose age we actually know for sure is Hyunsoo's mom, Jung Kyunghee. Because unfortunately it was inscribed on the tree dedicated to her after she died. She was born on 18th August 1962 (so same as Byungchul according to my math). If she gave birth to Hyunsoo in 1990 that means she was 28 then. And she died on 7th May 2014 at the age of 52.

So, summarising my estimated timeline: 1962 - Ko Byungchil and Jung Kyunghee are born. 1970 - Han Jaeho and Ko Byunggap are born. 1982 - Jaeho's parents die. 1982-1987 - Byunggap gets to orphanage. 1990 - Hyunsoo is born. 1997 - Jaeho and Byunggap began working for Ko Byungchul. 2008 - Ko Byungchul moves his business to Busan and takes Byunggap and Jaeho with him. 2013 - Jaeho is sent to prison, Hyunsoo works for the Golden Cranes gang. 2013-2014 - Hyunsoo is sent to prison. 2014 - Hyunsoo's mom is killed. 2017 - Jaeho and Hyunsoo are released and the movie begins.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

If you have different informations or other theories I would love to listen!

[lyragrayson4ever]

Spilled ink (Lyra x Grayson) (javery) (Max x Xander)

Max is telling a story that should absolutely be illegal, involving a city councilman, a flaming pastry, and a karaoke machine.

Avery and I are crying with laughter. Actual tears. I have glitter from Max’s eye makeup on my sleeve and lip gloss on my water glass. It feels like home.

I lean over to Avery and whisper, “If the apocalypse happens right now, at least we’ll go out chaotic.”

“You say that like you didn’t start half of tonight’s chaos,” Avery mutters with a smirk.

“She definitely did,” Max says, tossing a french fry at me like it’s a microphone. “Exhibit A: the twinkle in her eye.”

Grayson’s hand is tracing constellations on my thigh under the table. Warm. Steady. Dangerous.

“You’re plotting something,” he murmurs, low and close, mouth almost brushing my temple.

I glance at him. “I want to do something permanent.”

A beat.

“I’m listening.”

“Come with me. Now.”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

GRAYSON

We slip out of the restaurant like shadows.

No announcement. No goodbyes.

She grabs my hand and leads me two blocks down to a hole-in-the-wall tattoo place with a neon sign that reads: Spilled Ink. It’s the kind of place that screams impulse decisions and forever at 2 a.m. It’s perfect.

“I have an idea,” she says, spinning to face me on the sidewalk. “We each write something—anything that reminds us of each other. We don’t show it. We give it to the artist. We then get it tattooed. Blind.”

I laugh. “Are you serious?”

“I’m completely serious. You in?”

“Lyra,” I say, brushing a hand over her jaw, “you could ask me to tattoo a grocery list on my back and I’d probably say yes.”

She beams.

We write. Trade. Don’t look. Hand them over.

While the artist preps, she’s bouncing her knee, practically buzzing. “You’re not gonna hate me if it says something totally unsexy like ‘bagel boy,’ right?”

I lean over, low and smug. “Oh, you think I’m bagel boy?”

“You’re lucky I didn’t write ‘absolute asshole .’”

“Touché.”

LYRA

When the artist reads the tattoos after it's done, my heart actually skips.

Grayson’s lyric on my skin: “I’ve had a list of lovers, but none of them matter to me except you.”

Mine on his: “You’ve had a long list of lovers, none of them matter to you except me.”

Same lyric. Same song. Sesame Syrup. Just flipped.

My jaw drops. “NO WAY.”

He blinks, then laughs under his breath. “You’re kidding.”

“I didn’t tell you to pick from that song.”

“I know. I didn’t either.”

We stare. Then burst out laughing.

“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him.

“You’re mine,” he replies.

GRAYSON

We stroll back into the escape room like nothing happened.

Max is elbow-deep in puzzles. Xander has a spyglass and a monocle. Jameson’s interrogating a cardboard cutout.

“Where were you?” Avery asks instantly, clocking us like the bloodhound she is.

“We… took a walk,” Lyra says, way too innocent.

Max narrows her eyes. “You two snuck off. I felt it.”

I roll up my sleeve. “We got tattoos.”

Lyra follows, showing hers.

The room goes silent. And then—

“WHAT?!” Max screams.

“You left us for a TATTOO?” Jameson gasps like we betrayed the crown.

Avery blinks. “You didn’t even tell us?”

“We wanted it to be just us,” Lyra says, shrugging.

Xander reads the lyrics. “Wait. You both chose that? The same lyric?”

“But reversed?” Avery finishes, stunned.

Max puts a hand on her heart. “I need a minute. Maybe a drink. Possibly a movie deal.”

“Or a wedding invite,” Jameson mutters.

Grayson slides his arm around me, soft and smug. “Matching ink. Matching minds.”

I elbow him.

He grins, all wicked warmth. “Or what? You’ll make me get your name tattooed on my forehead next?”

Max screeches. “YES DO IT.”

Avery just laughs, bumping her shoulder into mine. “You’re insane. But that’s kind of why I love you.”

“Same,” Max chimes in. “Ride or die. Forever.”

I glance at the girls, at Grayson, at this whole strange, perfect night.

Some chaos is worth keeping forever.

[femsolid]

https://www.tumblr.com/mbakwe-blog/45072537611/capitalism-a-bitter-sweet-love-story?source=share What do you think about the above?

Did you write it? I think it's capitalist propaganda from start to finish. And you don't even realise how offensive it is.

"capitalism isnt working nearly as well as it could"

During Covid, french billionaires made an obscene amount of money, while everyone else was struggling to survive. Bernard Arnault (Louis Vuitton) more than doubled his profit! He made 96.3 BILLIONS in a year, during covid, and became the richest man alive. For him, capitalism works a charm! And you're saying it could work even better?? You see, it works perfectly well for the rich and it doesn't work for the 99% of people left, exactly as intended. During every major crisis (war, illness, natural disaster, ecological crisis, terrorism) the richest get richer, the poorest get poorer, as intended. That's what capitalism is for. The hoarding of resources by a minority. In that regard, it's working wonderfully.

"We shouldn't force people to pay for being successful."

Exploiting the poor, including kids, profiting from modern slavery in non western countries or by using migrants, and becoming experts in tax evasion, isn't "being successful". Yes they should pay for what they did. They should be in prison.

"They weren't doing anything illegal to cause what happened."

Just because something is legal doesn't mean it's moral and we should keep quiet about it. We're not equal regarding the law: rich people get away with murder because they have money, poor people don't. And some things should be illegal. Like trading, which leads to this: women dying in sweatshops. That's murder. Yet no one's going to jail. Not to mention the assassinations and coups d'état and profiting from a fucking pandemic disaster.

"I mean if you were making lots of money and you really worked hard to get where you are"

Rich people don't get rich because they work hard. They get rich because of INHERITANCE. They come from, at the very least, a middle class background, they had money to begin with.

And how do you define working hard? To "earn" as much as Elon Musk, a minimum wage worker has to work millions of years, do you realise that? Is Elon Musk working harder than a nurse? Why is his work worth more than a woman protecting and saving lives? What exactly is one man doing, from 9 to 5, that's worth earning as much as millions of people at once? People who are working jobs that actually benefit our societies! If Elon Musk disappeared, we would be fine, better even. But if cleaners, doctors, teachers, factory workers, mothers or train drivers disappeared, we wouldn't have a society any more.

"I know it is hard to get in a position of power, but its not impossible if you work hard."

See above. The "American dream" is capitalist propaganda. Poor people work hard every day. To say that people are poor because they aren't working hard enough or haven't invested (the money they don't have) enough, or aren't smart enough, is neo-liberal propaganda. It's disgusting. It's insulting. It's classism. Homeless people aren't homeless because they didn't "invest wisely in the stock market" okay? Who does it serve for us to believe in this illusion of Meritocracy? It serves the rich, agitating a carrot in front of your eyes, so that you don't fight back.

"if you were making lots of money you're not going to take responsibility for those who cant do what you did"

Well they should, because they ARE responsible. If you don't understand the link between wealth and poverty, you don't understand economy at all. For some to get rich, others have to be poor. You need to get educated on class struggle.

"I believe no one is to blame for this economic crisis we went through"

Trading centres are big casinos playing with poor people's lives. The money isn't even real, but it can cause real jobs to be destroyed and real sweatshops to collapse on a thousand women in India. The people responsible for any economic crisis are those in power. Life isn't lalaland. Real assholes make real decisions that affect real people. The government, lobbies, banks, CEOs, etc. They have names and addresses.

"Everyone is naturally self interested."

No. You're just a right winger. Half of the population believes that we're all self interested, the other half believes in a common interest. Neo-liberalism isn't the only economic system available. And for a social species such as ours, that depends on peace and community to survive, capitalism is a deeply unnatural system. Case in point: we'll all die soon because a minority of humans are destroying our ecosystem to make more fake money to play in their big casinos with. It's an absurd system for absurd people.

"If you were making millions after working hard your whole life you wouldn't want to lose any of it."

Being rich is IMMORAL. As I said, you don't make millions by simply working hard. If that was the case, every mother would be a fucking billionaire by now. If I was a millionaire in a capitalist system, I'd be absolutely ashamed of myself, because I'd know damn well it'd come from the blood and tears of others. I WOULD want to lose all of it and I'd use it to save others, not to play in my big casino. And I'd apologize endlessly.

"You worked hard" 

No.

"you learned the skill,"

Like every other worker... or do you think you can drive a bus, install an electric system, repair a car, or care for a severally autistic child without "learning the skill"?

"and you most likely deserve every penny you make if you get to be in a position where you are rich and powerful."

No. See above. The best example of this is your own president. The man is a fucking idiot with no skill and a criminal. To get to a position of power you mostly need to be male and born in a wealthy family. That's about it. You don't "deserve" more money than anybody else.

"I just feel that you shouldn't be frowned upon because you achieved the rare phenomenon of "The American Dream"

Not just frowned upon, you should be in jail for slavery, tax evasion, the destruction of our ecosystem and murder.

So I think the link you shared shows the author's (you?) complete lack of understanding when it comes to what capitalism is, as well as an alarming inability to think outside of it, resulting in a display of typical capitalistic advertising.

[dailynnt]

FRIENDS WITHIN TOUCHING DISTANCE

⊹ Summary: Jungkook and you, his childhood friend, live together in an apartment, sharing space as roommates. Your relationship, built on years of friendship, is gradually becoming strained by growing sexual tension. You decide to become friends with benefits, trying not to complicate your feelings. But Jungkook's world is not so simple. When you begin to realize that he is hiding something, you open the veil of his double life - a world of mafia, criminal activity, and risk that could ruin not only your deal, but everything you valued in each other.

⊹ Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ Fem!Reader

⊹ Characters: The Reader, Jeon Jungkook, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, Min Yoongi, Kim Seokjin, Kim Namjoon, Jeon Hoseok.

⊹ 🔞 Age restrictions: 18+

⊹ 👩🏼‍❤️‍👨🏻 Relationships: ⚤

⊹ 📘 Number of part: 6/30

⊹ 🖇️ Tags: best friends, friends with benefits, slow longing, sexual tension, protected sex, unprotected sex, alcohol, drunken sex, inexperienced main character, mafia au, illegal trade, deaths of minor characters, weapons, swear words. Tags will be added as the story is written.

⊹ 👩🏼‍💻 From the author: As I promised, there another part by the end of the week. I hope you will enjoy it as well. There's already a main plot twist here. But man, I have so many ideas for what should be in this story that I think there will be more parts than I expected. Maybe it will be somewhere around 30 or more, I'm not sure. As always, I welcome your comments and likes. I so appreciate that you like my story.🥰💜

⊹ 🫂 Dedication: From this part, I want to dedicate this work to my darling @myjungkookthighs who has been supporting and loving my story since the first part. My darling, I so appreciate all your love for my story and your endless support. Now this story is for you.💜🥰

⊹ ⚠️ Warning: English is not my native language, so there may be mistakes in the text. Please don't get mad at me too much! Those under 18, please don't read this story!

⊹ 📋 Tag list: @myjungkookthighs , @notsevenwithyou (If anyone wants to be in my tag list let me know)

≣ Chapter Index ↓

Part 6: A school friend and an offer that's hard to refuse.

You look at the cup of hot cocoa that the waiter places on the table in front of you. The cup is large and red with the words "Merry Christmas" written on it. The cocoa is decorated with marshmallows, which you don't like. You look at this cup and you don't want to touch it at all, even though cocoa is your favorite semi-winter beverage, except for hot chocolate.

"I remember that you like cocoa. When we went home from taekwondo school, Jungkook and I would always buy you some." - You turn your attention to Doohoon as he speaks. His speech is relaxed, with elements of nostalgia. You look at him, and all you feel is disgust. You don't feel comfortable sitting at this table in a café and talking to him, but you probably have to talk to him.

Doohoon used to be your best friend, just like Jungkook. You've been friends since you went to taekwondo school together. It was because of Jungkook, who had a talent for making friends wherever he went. Even though you were a year younger than the two of them, you never had any problems. The fact that you were a girl was also normal for them, and you liked hanging out in their company more than with the girls in your class, who were all afraid of you and didn't really want to talk to you. You didn't suffer because you had Jungkook and Doohoon.

You knew Jungkook almost from birth because your parents were friends. So Jungkook was the one who introduced you to Doohoon. They were almost inseparable. And it seemed that nothing in life could separate them, and they would remain friends forever. But this is life, and it is not as we would like it to be.

Everything began to fall apart when Jungkook and Doohoon, who were classmates to all that, was at graduation class. Jungkook was the best student at your taekwondo school. He was often participated to compete and always came back with a victory. In his senior year, on the recommendation of his coach, he was supposed to go to a sports university and train professionally in taekwondo. Jungkook was very promising in this area and would have had a brilliant career, if not for one incident. This incident was directly related to Doohoon.

Doohoon was always number two. He could never beat Jungkook no matter how hard he tried. It seemed to hurt his pride. Doohoon really tried not to worry about this fact, but when Jungkook became more and more popular and needed by everyone, it finally destroyed his friend who had always been in the shadows.

Jungkook came to you one evening after school, upset and irritated. He sat in your room and barely spoke when you told him about your plans for the future and that you wanted to study journalism. And that you were jealous of him because he was graduating this year and you had to study for another year. When Jungkook answered "uh-huh" once again, your nerves gave out and you finally decided to ask him.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you just mooing like a cow?" - You were angry.

"Nothing's wrong." - He said dryly, not even looking in your direction.

"Did you come to my house in such a mood just to sit next to me and ruin my mood?" - You kept asking. Jungkook turned his gaze to you and stared for a few seconds without blinking. You were embarrassed. He exhaled heavily, and it was clear that he didn't want to talk about it at all. But that's why he came here, isn't it?

"Actually, something happened." - He finally admits. You roll your eyes. Did it?

"What is it?" - You ask, trying to be patient.

"You know I have to go to a competition at the end of November. This competition is very important because it will help me get high scores when I apply to the Korean National Sports University." - Jungkook began.

"Yes." - You said. "You're representing our city in this competition, I know."

"I should have to, my school principal has already signed me up to participate in the competition." - Jungkook says in despair.

"Wait, what do you mean, 'should have'? You're not going? What happened?" - You asked. Jungkook looked at you again, and you saw him turning more and more like a black cloud.

"Doohoon's father asked the principal to spar with me. He said I had to prove that I was really the best student in the school. Doohoon is also good at taekwondo and he has a good chance of winning the competition." - It's like you were hit over the head when Jungkook finished. What Doohoon, there must be some mistake.

"Stop, Jungkook." - You say in an attempt to clarify things. "Doohoon is going to fight with you? But you were chosen because you have the highest level in the school. There's no need to spar with you because it's obvious that you're the best and you'll win. What is wrong with this fool? Couldn't he stop his father? You're best friends with him. Besides, Doohoon's family has so much money that these competitions don't matter to him. He can get into that university just because his father will pay for it!" - You protested. Jungkook just sat there silently with his head down. You were silent until Jungkook broke the silence.

"When I heard that, I went to him. I asked him if he really wanted to fight me for this competition. And do you know what he told me?" - Jungkook was almost shaking with anger.

"What?" - You ask quietly. Jungkook laughed hysterically.

"He said he wanted to fight and this time he would beat me. Because I already grabbed such a star that I don't even notice him. And that he's the only one who can beat me." - Your eyes became the size of 10 won. He couldn't have said that. Doohoon is a good guy and friend. He wouldn't say something like that.

"No way!" - You were laughing hysterically, too. "Doohoon? He would never turn against you in his life. He values his friendship with you so much... He's told me that many times. He..." - You stuttered. But why would Jungkook lie? What the hell is going on between them?

"I don't know..." - Jungkook said, picking up the toy that was lying on your bed. It was a rabbit that you loved very much. Jungkook gave it to you on March 14 when you were 14 years old. "I think I offended him with something. We've really started lack talk to each other lately. I'm so pissed off..." - Jungkook got angry and clutched your rabbit in his hands. You saw your pet being strangled and snatched it out of Jungkook's hands.

"No wonder, you're always busy. Competitions, studying, girls." - You said the last word with a complaint. Jungkook looked at you with a smile.

"What's wrong with my girls? Are you jealous?" - You choked on your indignation. Why would you be jealous of him, you piece of fool?

"Jesus, Jeon, that girls are all over you only because they don't know what an asshole you are. They're only attracted to your looks! They piss me off because they're always writing these stupid threats or requests, like 'please stay away from my oppa because I don't like that he has a girl friend'" - You said in a squeaky voice. Jungkook laughed loudly. It was so similar to those girls who were chasing Jungkook. "So, God forbid I should be jealous of you."

"But what can I do, I'm so hot and I'm really handsome." - Jungkook smiles slyly and runs his hands through his hair. It parted in a section on his head, forming an almost perfect style. You stare at your friend in awe and realize why they all run after him. He really is very attractive. But damn, he's so cocky.

Jungkook grabs your hand and pulls you to your bed, where he was half-sitting. You scream in surprise. A second later, you find yourself in his arms. You try to get away, but it's no use. Jungkook holds you tightly. He leans his head against yours, and you still protest, although you are excited inside at his sudden embrace.

"I'm sorry that these girls are writing you these things. I'll deal with them so they don't hurt my best friend, who I will never leave." - He says gently.

"But you will forget about me as soon as you find a girl. I'm sure none of them saw me as just a friend to you. They all think there might be something between us." - You say, not wanting to get out of the pleasant hug.

"Then I'll have to be without a girlfriend, because how can I live without you?" - He says looking at you. You turn your head and don't expect him to be so close. You instantly look hot. But you don't turn away quickly so that he doesn't suspect that your heart is beating out of your chest.

"What are you talking about, Jungkook? Of course you can live without me and find a girl. When you do, you won't need my friendship." - You try to speak calmly.

"I'll always need your friendship, don't be silly." - Jungkook says and leans his head against yours again. You sit there for a minute and are silent. You remembered about Doohoon and feel sorry for his behavior.

"Do you want, I’ll talk to Doohoon? I'm sure he's under the influence of his stupid father!" - You say.

"No. You shouldn't do that. If he wants to fight me, I'll fight him. He's trying to prove something, but I don't understand to whom or why." - Jungkook looks at you again. "I'll beat him like you said." - You smile at each other.

A few weeks passed after your conversation with Jungkook, and the day of the fight between your friends came. Almost the whole school came to the fight and surprisingly there were a lot of people who came to support Doohoon. You are here to support Jungkook.

You didn't talk to Doohoon. You got mad at him after you talked to him the next day, after you talked to Jungkook. Doohoon seemed to have changed. He said things to you that you didn't recognize him anymore. You tried to prove to him that the friendship you had was more valuable than any competition or status, and Doohoon was not swayed.

"Jungkook thinks he's the best, he's long since given up on our friendship, and you're always on his side. Do you like him?" - Doohoon asked. You froze. What does that even matter right now?

"Are you crazy, Doohoon? Why should I like him? We are talking about completely different things right now!" - You said, irritated.

"Oh, come on. You've been with him since you were a kid. I see the way you look at him." - Doohoon persisted. You were getting angry.

"What the hell is going on? Why are you acting like this?" - You shouted, unable to stand it.

"I'm acting like a jilted friend. And even you don't care about me, but as always, only about him. Even though the three of us were best friends." - Doohoon said.

"We were the best of friends until you started acting like shit. Do you know how important this competition was to him and what you did? You complained to your dad to put in a good word for you. Are you envy of Jungkook or something?" - You demanded. Doohoon exhaled angrily.

"I'm not envy of him." - He said, but you could feel him holding back the last of his strength. "I'm a good fighter too, but who notices me when there's the great Jeon Jungkook. He was immediately signed up for that competition without any fights. But we have a lot of good guys in our school who can go to those competitions. And I, as the second in the school, also have all the chances. And I'm sure I'll beat him today." - Doohoon said with venom in his voice. You were preparing to charge him right in the forehead.

"You'll never beat Jungkook. You know that better than anyone. And if you were truly his friend, you wouldn't do this to him. You're envy of him and that's the only reason you're acting like this." - You said and walked away. You never spoke to him again.

The fight went in Jungkook's favor almost all the time. Jungkook was doing a good job of taking care of her friend, but Doohoon wasn't going to go down easily. It was not pleasant to watch this fight, to see Jungkook get angry and to see how Doohoon was behaving. In the second round, when Jungkook wanted to make another attack, he didn't count on Doohoon dodging the punch and putting his foot down. With all the force he was trying to put into the punch, Jungkook hit his leg and felt a lot of pain in his knee. Jungkook instantly falls down, unable to stay on his feet. He writhes in pain and the referee and coach run up to him. You instantly get up and your heart is pounding like crazy. No, is Jungkook really injured?

Doohoon is standing nearby, watching. He's trying not to smile, even though you already know he won the fight. He won technically. He heard Jungkook's knee crunching.

All the stands are buzzing and trying to see what's wrong with Jungkook. Doctors come to him and you realize that the worst has happened.

A few minutes later, the coach comes out on the mat and announces that Doohoon has won by technical defeat of Jungkook.

You remember that day as if it were yesterday. Back then, Jungkook was treated for a long time for a knee injury, an injury so serious that it threatened his ability to go to university. But fortunately, Jungkook was treated well. He didn't go to the competition he was supposed to go to.

Doohoon lasted only until the 3rd round of the competition and then dropped out. Do you remember that after that he and Jungkook made up because Doohoon came to him and apologized tearfully. They entered the National Sports University together and studied together. At the time, you were in Suwon and in your senior year. You used to talk to Jungkook and Doohoon n the phone. With Jungkook, of course, more often.

At some point, Doohoon stopped answering you, and you asked Jungkook what happened. He told you that he and Doohoon were no longer in contact, that they had a serious fight, and that Doohoon had been expelled from the university. You were shocked. You tried to find out what happened more than once, but Jungkook never told you. At first you were angry, but eventually you stopped bothering Jungkook about it. So you forgot that he was ever in your life until today.

"Why did you show up now? Where have you been?" - You asked Doohoon. He kept smiling at you. You wanted to wipe that smile off his face.

"You better start drinking your cocoa, because it doesn't taste good when it's cold." - Said that former friend instead of answering your questions. You looked at the cup without touching it.

"You're still as stubborn as ever." - Doohoon said. You looked at him and noted to yourself that he was getting good looking. He was as tall as Jungkook. His physique was manly and handsome. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and gray classic pants. He looked like some kind of chaebol. He had a fashionable hairstyle on his head and even seemed to be wearing makeup.

"It's true. I haven't changed much, but you seem to have." - You say with reproach. Doohoon bursts out laughing.

"No, I'm still the same Doohoon..." - Your former friend says, but you interrupt him.

"The same piece of shit?" - You ask sarcastically. Doohoon freez during holding a cup of coffee to his lips. He smiles at your insult and takes a sip anyway.

"Do you hate me that much?" - He asks. You huff. What are you doing here, anyway? You need to study for your exam, and you're sitting here with this fool who's wasting your time.

"I don't hate you. I don't care about you." - You tell him with undisguised disgust. "Listen, Doohoon, i’ve doesn't have much time, I have important things to do tomorrow. So if you want to tell me something, you have exactly 15 minutes."

"I just wanted to have coffee with you, we haven't seen each other for almost 3 years." - Doohoon explains.

"What makes you think I just came here to have coffee and talk like old friends?" - You asked. "I want to know what happened between you and Jungkook."

"Didn't he tell you?" - Doohoon asked.

"No. He didn't tell me. So you're going to do it." - You answer nervously.

"So you're still friends with him. For how many years now? You haven't started dating yet?" - Doohoon asked.

"We're going to be friends like this. Because he is important to me. And no, we're not dating..." - You wanted to say something like "nothing can happen between us," but you stopped in time. You thought it would be an excuse, and besides, something happened between you. But this asshole doesn't need to know that.

"I thought you would. You liked him..." - Doohoon said. You clicked your tongue nervously. You were sick of this conversation.

"Hey, Doohoon! Shut the fuck up. This is none of your business. This is my personal relationship with him. Whether I like him or not is none of your fucking business." - You were angry. Doohoon raised his eyebrows and then shook his head as if in surrender.

"God, Y/N, you're like that fire. I was just saying..." - He defended himself.

"I don't need your assumptions. Either you tell me or I'll leave." - You said decisively, not wanting to stay here any longer than necessary.

"Okay calm down." - Doohoon said. He looked at you with suspicion. Your reaction was too obvious to him. There was something similar between you and Jungkook.

"If Jungkook didn't tell you, how can I? He's the one who should tell you everything." - Your ex-friend finally says. You roll your eyes to the sky. You are so pissed off at this idiot.

"He doesn't want to tell me, that's why I'm asking you. I've tried many times to find out what happened, but without success, as you can see. So you tell me. Or I'm really leaving." - You say. Doohoon takes a few sips of coffee slowly, testing your patience.

"The only thing I can tell you is that I set him up. I was just saving my own skin." - He finally says. You try to understand, but in vain. "And after I set him up, we got into a fight in the university cafeteria, I attacked him first. I got kicked out, although my father was about to make a fuss, I stopped him and then he decided that instead of Korea, I would go to study in the United States." - Doohoon finished his conversation. You were stabbed with anger. When did Doohoon become such an idiot? He was so good boy at school.

"How did you set him up?" - You asked coldly. Doohoon finished his coffee and put the cup on the table.

"If you want to know, let Jungkook tell you." - You stared at him for no more than a moment and then grabbed your jacket and backpack.

"I'm going to go." - You said, already heading for the exit. But Doohoon grabbed your arm, stopping you.

"I'm really sorry for what I did to Jungkook. I care about him too..." - Your former friend began to feel sorry.

"Who are you telling fairy tales to?" - You ask, taking your hand away.

"No, I'm really sorry." - Doohoon says, standing up. He towers over you and you feel uncomfortable. "I know you're going to tell him you saw me, so please tell him I'm sorry..."

"I don't want to tell him that I saw you. I probably won't know what happened between you two, because you're two assholes who won't tell me anything. If you want to apologize to him, you have to meet him in person." - You said sharply. You started to leave, but Doohoon stopped you again.

"Y/N, you didn't change your number, did you?" - He asked hopefully.

"No." - You answer, standing in a half-turn.

"Can I text or call you?" - Doohoon asks.

"I don't think that's a good idea. I wasn't glad to see you. Bye." - You say and finally leave the cafe.

You don't feel good after that. You feel like you've been sitting in the mud. You decide that you'll take a taxi home because it's too cold to walk. And you also have an obsessive thought that Doohoon might be following you.

So you returned home around 8 p.m. You were mentally exhausted, and you had to check the project. Why so many problems in the last two days?

You did some housework and quickly changed your bed, remembering what happened yesterday. For a moment you were amused, but then you tensed up again. You were nervous because you hadn't seen Jungkook for a whole day after you had sex. And then you ran into that asshole Doohoon.

Everything was so annoying.

After you finished with your bed, you went to the bathroom and threw your clothes in the washing machine. After cleaning the apartment a bit, you finally sat down to check the project.

You were sitting in the kitchen because it had a wider table than your room and were checking it out when you heard the sound of a combination lock. Jungkook had come home.

Your heart immediately started pounding. Your breathing sped up. You turned to your laptop, hoping to hide behind it.

Jungkook found you at the kitchen table. You were looking at something on the laptop, and there were some papers scattered around.

"Hi, baby." - He greeted you. When you met his eyes, everything inside of you broke. What is happening to you? It was just Jungkook. He was dressed in a black sweatshirt and jeans that were also black. He was damn handsome. You blushed and immediately looked down at your laptop.

"Hi." - You squeezed out. Jungkook continued to stare at you for a while, and then moved towards you.

"What's up? How was your day?" - He asked curiously. You tried to calm your heart and breath, and you gently inhaled and exhaled, concentrating on them. You remembered your meeting with Doohoon, but immediately pushed the thought away. You're not going to tell Jungkook that you met him. At least not today.

"It's okay. I was on campus, had dinner with Suyoung, and came home." - You answer without looking at Jungkook, who sits down next to you and looks at you shamelessly. You think you're going to die, if he won't stop staring at you like that.

"Are you hungry?" - You ask, pretending to edit something.

"No. I had dinner." - He says and you realize he's holding back a smile. You give him a quick glance, unable to look at him any longer than necessary, and raise your eyebrows.

"What's so funny?" - You are indignant. Jungkook can't stand it and laughs louder now.

"Honey, don't do that." - He calls out when he stops laughing.

"Do what?" - You get angry, looking directly at him.

"Don't create this awkwardness between us." - He says and reaches for your hand. You jerk your hand away from his.

"I'm not creating any awkwardness!" - You protest and are about to go back to work when you feel Jungkook grab your elbow and pull you into his lap in one swift motion. His lips pressed against your ear.

"Then why don't you kiss me?" - You forget how to breathe. His voice vibrates in every cell of your body. "I've missed you all day." - He says in your ear. You exhale nervously. You try to get up from his lap, but he holds you tighter. When you're back in his arms, he inhales your scent and runs his nose along your jaw.

"Jungkook, let me go. I have a lot of work to do." - You say.

"Your freedom is just one kiss away." - Jungkook bargains.

"We're not at market." - You complain. "By the way, aren't you going to talk about what happened last night?" - You start, still sitting on his lap and feeling the warmth of his body. It feels so good to sit here.

"We had sex." - Jungkook states.

"Yes, we did." - You confirm. "So?"

"So?" - Your friend tries to understand.

"So everything is fine and it should be?" - You ask. Jungkook stops caressing your jaw with his nose for a moment and looks at your face.

"It’s some doesn't suit you?" - He asks.

"Me? No, it’s fine. I just want to know what's going on between us." - You answer. Jungkook leans his head against you.

"I don't know..." - He starts to say. "We both wanted this, didn't we?" - You don't say anything. The idea that you might start dating doesn't fit in your head.

"I don't know either. What about our friendship now?" - You ask.

"What about it? We're still friends, just like we were before." - Jungkook assures you.

"Yes, friends who slept together. Otherwise, everything is just as it was." - You can hear the sarcasm in your voice. Jungkook giggles.

"Why? It's like a new level. Now we're not just friends, but friends with benefits." - You laugh nervously. That's what he's offering you.?

"You want us to be friends with benefits? What if you fall in love with me?" - You ask jokingly.

"Baby, it's more like you'll fall in love with me. I can be very charming and charismatic." - You burst out laughing.

"How cheeky you are, Jeon. I told you before, there's no way I'm going to fall in love with you. Even if the world ends." - You assure him. Jungkook smiles.

"Well, that makes it easier then. We can have sex without the fear of someone falling in love." - He concludes.

"Have I given you my consent yet?" - You ask, looking at Jungkook. He's dangerously close.

"I know you. You want this too. Besides, I have an offer for you that you can't refuse." - You raise one eyebrow curiously.

"What can it be?" - You ask.

"I'm going to teach you how to have good sex. And when you meet your boyfriend, he will owe me." - You were stunned. This arrogant man is too smart. You slapped him on the chest.

"You're so cocky." - You said. "Why should he owe you anything? It's just me being a good student. You know how good I am at studying!" - Jungkook laughs at your words. So you agree to his proposal. You think it's just a deal between friends, nothing more. Jungkook can really teach you a lot. Dating with him feels strange. He's been your friend for so many years.

Now your number one task is not to really fall in love with Jungkook. Because what you feel around him sometimes scares you. But no. It's not a crush. You just know yourself.

"So we have an agreement. Shall we start with the kissing lesson?" - Jungkook asks, and he grabs you by the neck and pulls you close. Your lips merge and you let his skillful tongue into your mouth. Your tongue immediately finds his, and it feels incredible. You think you could kiss this guy forever. Jungkook kisses you a little greedily, of course he said he missed you, you can feel it. You're getting hot for this kiss, but no matter how much you want to, you have to study for your exam. Why is everything distracting you today? If you don't do well on your exams tomorrow, you'll kill everyone who's been disturbing you.

Luckily for you, the sounds tell you that the laundry is done. You try to tear yourself away from your friend's lips.

"Jungkook..." - You say into his lips, because he won't let go. "The laundry is done, can you take it out and hang it up to dry?" - You ask, finally pulling away.

"Yes. I'll do it." - Jungkook agrees and lets bites your lips one last time.

He goes to the bathroom and you don't see him for a few minutes. You return to your work and feel soaked. Why are you reacting like this? Is this normal? You didn't know, and you were embarrassed to ask Jungkook, because if it wasn't normal, it would be his excuse to bully you.

Jungkook finished with the laundry and returned to the living room. He wanted to watch TV and asked your permission if he would disturb you. You said “no”.

You were sitting at the table and decided that you needed to rest for a while. You got up from the table and stretched your numb muscles. Without noticing Jungkook watching you, you turned to the kettle and turned it on to make yourself some tea. While it was boiling, you walked over to Jungkook and sat at his feet.

"Do you want some tea?" - You asked him.

"I do!" - Said Jungkook. You smiled.

"I'll make some for you." - You said. "What are you watching?" - You turned your attention to the TV, trying to figure out what was on. You didn't hear an answer, and when you turned to Jungkook, he was looking at you.

"Are you okay, baby? I think you want to say something. You nervous. " - He suddenly says. You can't understand why he thought that.

"Me? To you? What do I have to say to you?" - You wondered. But you really wanted to tell him about Doohoon. You didn't want to upset Jungkook, but did you have to hide this meeting from him?

"Yes, what's wrong? Are you worried about what we talked?" - He asks and sits down next to you.

"No. No." - You assure him. "There's nothing wrong with that. I just..." - You think of the best way to say it.

"Go ahead, baby, I've answered any question you have." - Jungkook reassures you. He touches his fingers to yours, and you look at his tattoos.

"You're not answering that question!" - You say bitterly. Jungkook raises his eyebrows.

"What question am I not answering?" - He asks.

"Jungkook... what happened between you and Doohoon?" - Jungkook freezes at the sudden question. It's been a long time since you've mentioned your mutual former friend. Why does she want to know now?

Jungkook lets go of your fingers and lies down on the couch.

"Why did you bring him up now?" - He asks instead of answering you.

"I met him today. And he took me to a cafe. He told me that he once 'set you up to save his own skin'."- So you admit that you met him today. Jungkook's face is distorted by anger. He sits back abruptly and grabs you by the shoulders.

"You saw him today?" - He is angry. His eyes radiate anger.

"Yes." - You say, frightened.

"Did he hurt you?" - Jungkook asks. You don't understand what is happening. Why does Jungkook think he could have hurt you?

"No, we were just in a cafe with him. I didn't even drink what he ordered for me..." - You say, and then you realize that Jungkook was only surprised that you met him, not that he showed up at all. "Wait a second... you mean you knew he was back?"

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[miuarchiv]

Klaus Harpprecht on Heinrich Müller's implausible defection to the USSR

Harpprecht opined that WS had made up such an assumption to justify his own role and complicity, and WS's claim of Müller's increasing respect for Stalin and his regime was dubious.

It was not impossible that Müller might have expressed "respect," since WS himself had made similar remarks during the Amt VI meeting on 19 Nov 1941:

"How far behind we are in our work is best demonstrated by the Russian intelligence service, for example, which is precisely informed about our tasks and has even recorded the details of all the people right up to the Gestapo referents. The deputy Amtschef mentioned what we have learned from other countries in such matters. Even if Russia was able to secure and seal off its borders in a completely different way from Germany, for example, due to its geographical location, it is still remarkable how the Russians worked. For example, it is still unknown what kind of armies the Russians still have in Siberia. The statements and examples given by the deputy Amtschef are by no means intended to be reproaches, but only to serve the purpose of our work. The group leaders and referents should take their time to think through all of this and make suggestions and proposals to the deputy Amtschef." (Translated by Deepl, with manual corrections)

Klaus Harpprecht also mentioned certain matters concerning Sven Hinnen. (For the story of illegal entry into Switzerland, see previous posts.)

"At any rate, I remember this much: Schellenberg seemed to be firmly convinced that Müller was still alive and had nothing more urgent to do than to seek his own life. In his stories, he repeatedly pointed out that from 1943 onwards, Müller had expressed increasing respect for Stalin and his regime. His sympathies for the communists had become more and more obvious. I don't know whether there were other employees of the Gestapo chief, apart from Schellenberg, whom I don't regard as a very reliable historical witness, who thought they had observed a similar development. In any case, Schellenberg based his assumption that Müller had defected to the Soviets during the final phase of the siege of Berlin on this thesis. Schellenberg was prepared to see an informer for Müller in every old gardener and every second waiter. I don't know whether he really lived in fear (after all, there were some reasons for deep existential anxiety), but there is no doubt that he was unable to wriggle out of the web of intrigue, suspicion and mystification in which he had worked for so long, even if this jungle atmosphere was only imaginary during his Italian emigration. I wrote in the preface to the book that Schellenberg might have used the Müller thesis as a basis for his own justification. It would not be an unusual psychological process if he had chosen this general scapegoat and the legend of a deadly enmity in order to get away with it in the permanent conversations and soliloquies about his role and his complicity.

One thing might be interesting: in the autumn of 1951, Schellenberg was also in close contact with a French Swiss man called Sven Hinnen, or even just called himself that. (The rather Scandinavian name sounds a little strange for a citizen of French-speaking Switzerland). Hinnen was probably an officer in the Swiss intelligence service during the Second World War; he seems to have played a role in the contacts between Schellenberg and the Swiss General Mason.

Schellenberg also said that Hinnen had pulled off some amazing feats, such as hijacking a new model of tank in the uniform of a German officer from Stuttgart across the Swiss border - but that may have been the usual fibbing of these adventurers, who were amateurs rather than solid craftsmen in their trade. Hinnen seems to have helped Schellenberg enter Switzerland illegally after his release from prison. During or after Schellenberg's imprisonment, Hinnen concluded a contract with Alfred Scherz Verlag in Bern for the publication of the memoirs, in which, as I recall, he claimed 50% of the total income for himself - an arrangement that Schellenberg complained about bitterly and which ultimately led to lively disputes between the two. (The contract later played a role in the legal dispute over the memoirs between Scherz Verlag and the magazine Quick). I met Hinnen once or twice in Pallanza. That's why I recognised him when I met him at Frankfurt airport in 1952. As far as I remember, he had asked me for a meeting in connection with his legal dispute with the widow Schellenberg. He claimed that he was coming straight from Moscow from a world economic conference and he remarked that he had seen Müller there. -I didn't pay much attention to this suggestion, because I thought he was a big braggart. But perhaps it would be worth the effort to feel him out a little. At the time, he had his permanent address in Lausanne and officially dealt in machines of some kind. But he had enough time to act as a courier for Schellenberg, for whom he was in Sweden, for whom he probably also arranged a meeting with Skorczeny in Madrid, and it may be that he also met the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem on Schellenberg's behalf. I later heard from Swiss sources that he was also involved in the arms trade. Someone claimed that he was also involved in equipping the People's Police. After the brief encounter in Frankfurt, I lost contact with him completely because the man seemed to me to be as unpleasant as he was opaque.

He can certainly be found with some effort. He is certainly taller than 190 cm, very broad, has jet-black hair, dark eyes, a coarse, almost brutal face, his speech sounds harsh in both French and German, and he had a certain barber-like elegance. That's all I can tell you. I agree with you that Müller is worth investigating in detail. Even the destruction of a legend, as you say, would be important enough."

[historia-vitae-magistras]

I enjoyed your food and eating habits thoughts for Matt and Alfred as it's a nice little insight into their everyday lifestyle and mannerisms <3 Any thoughts on Arthur "forgets to eat until his stomach growls and his hands shake" Kirkland and Jack and Zee? Or for the UK bros or Francis if that more takes your fancy? <3 Thank you!

Rhys is a really good cook. Bara brith, Welsh rarebit, cawl, laverbread. The man knows what he's about. He's the second youngest in my set up but still a good deal older than Arthur so he grows up in a world where his mother is literally worshipped as a goddess. I put her right smack on the middle of a giant pile of tin which was famously the best and highest quality stuff in a world where it was desperately needed to create bronze. He grows up in stone wheelhouses with defensive towers set inside a ring fort and with that came a correspondingly decent diet. High protein, wealth being often valued less in cash than in cattle. Maman is importing gold from Ireland and wine from southern France and Greek trade goods are found. He suffers a lot of misery and violence as a young adult and that does affect his tastes in food but he never loses sight of the fact it should actually taste good. He's definitely a bit heavy on the pies and stews and he hasn't been able to entirely reconcile himself to the fact that it no longer a bit suspect of people who are wealthy enough to afford meat to not eat meat. The man has opinions on food. Lamb, mutton, leeks, cheese. He can have a conversation about it, okay. And he's very particular about how he enjoys said food. and not to dip too deep into the stereotypes but god fucking bless the Welsh for exporting the leek. The Anglo-Celtic diaspora owe a debt we will never be able to repay for the one goddamn allium that Brits seemed to actually like pre-war. He's definitely someone who's moods will be affected by when he last ate and how the food was and food is a pretty big love language for him. When he's trying to shack up with the neighbors in Brittany or Jersey or Manx the food is definitely an incentive to stay for breakfast.

Arthur for me is really interesting because he knows how to make decent food. He knows what makes food taste decent. He's had a feasting culture his entire fricken existence before 1800. Where you lose him is when trying to convince him food should taste good most if not all of the time. The Roman or perhaps slightly post roman world he's born to and raised in is one where luxury goods are coming in with spices and new vegetables and fruits are being introduced so he's had flavour from the very fucking beginning but still entirely regards it as optional. Food as a pleasure is almost alien in his brain for some reason. Late antiquity wasn't a great time for him but the slingshot extremism between everything has to be flavored with all the spices and um actually, food that tastes good is illegal is just so variable with this one. England is lush and fertile and there's no shortage of food at any point in history worse than the neighbors but you wouldn't fucken know it the way Arthur eats and hates joy. I think his outsized amount of power as an adult contributes to this habit of 'oh I'll just ride the extra battery pack that is being the weird patron saint of a rainy third of Great Britain. Wait, what do you mean I have to season my fucken food? And when that's behind him after WW2, he's increasingly irritated by the fact calories are indeed mandatory to survive. Man's taste buds never recovered from rationing in too many ways. Last 30 years he's kind of slipped towards enjoying food. The man has discovered garlic powder exists at least. Only trouble there is that now he experiments and god have mercy on his loved ones bowels. Plum sauce does not go in the spagbol please and thank you.

Zee is... More like her father than she'd like to admit. She really can be perfectly content with a cheese and marmite toastie and a cup of tea. Or one of her best inventions, instant coffee. She's got higher standards in that she generally prefers her food to be edible which is not something the medieval fucks listed above will always care about. She really really likes the act of eating as a social thing. Hangi made together in a large group, women gathered in the kitchen to make things like whitebait fritters and roasted muttonbird. She almost never ever, even when she is entitled to by one status or another took her food in her room and was always at breakfast in the morning. She always eats with people when she can. Food is almost more of an action or event to her than just personal pleasure. She's got a real weakness for fresh fruit. Just consumes batshit amounts of berries. Looking at her grocery bill is probably very funny because it's like, six items she'll rotate out for a fortnight at a time and then a fucken pile of expensive produce. Extremely fond of fish in general as well. She can cook but if anyone else present wants to take point, fine by her. She's very happy to perch on Jack's kitchen counter/bench and drink his good wine while he cooks. She might be described as slightly picky in some specific aspects especially when seafood is involved but she's really not going to have her entire life derailed because whatever her last meal wasn't great. When she was little, she didn't mind a boiled pudding or porridge for breakfast as long as it wasn't completely god awful. She's fonder of like the classic tea room sweet pastries than she'd like to admit and she's got a serious weakness for weird flavors of chocolate like a buttered toast chocolate bar and pineapple lumps. Food can be a tool of survival to her no problem, even if it's not great as well. Generally, she remembers to eat.

Jack cares a lot about food. In the immortal words of @paperbarks he's got the accent of a gold coast Hoon but the taste buds and pickiness of a Barossa sommelier. He's got that golden Mediterranean-esque climate. Sugar grows, mangos grow, finger limes are everywhere, stone fruit is plentiful. Jack wants food to taste excellent all of the time. That's not to say he's picky as in he's not going to absolutely demolish a meat pie or a chiko roll or douse his fries in chicken salt because he absolutely is but he'll genuinely ponder what wine goes best with that and how to keep Zee from drinking it all before he's even plated up dinner. His moods get absolutely fucking foul when he doesn't eat too. He's the second youngest and generally pretty chill and doesn't take all that much seriously but when he's hungry or something is genuinely shit, no one's having a good time. It was a struggle keeping his ass completely fed when he was young and food was seasonal and gonna suck a good part of the year. By far, he's the person most likely to complain about food in any given time. Also my god he can make a good cup of coffee. Chronic snacker too. All of them have some pretty serious appetites but he's probably up there tied with anyone else.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Already Gone || MV1 {7}

Pairing: Max Verstappen x spy!fem!reader Summary: After the attack in your home, Max is serious about learning to fight. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, alcohol, sparring, mentions of illegal activities WC: 1.8k

F1 Masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

“Are you sure you should be drinking? You might have a concussion,” Max worried as you sipped the gin and tonic Christian had made. 

“Relax, the lady’s earned a drink or two,” Christian said as he sat down with his own. “Nice job.”

You clinked your glass with your bosses before drinking half of the strong beverage in one gulp and sighing happily. “Thank you. Dare I ask where Brett’s taking them?”

Christian chuckled and shook his head. “Best to have deniability.”

Max looked uncomfortable at the conversation as he shifted in his seat beside you, his fingers massaging your shoulder that his arm draped across.

“I know you don’t like it, babe, but this is the reality of the situation,” you said softly as you took his hand and traced the lines that cut across his palm, not that you believed in the life line or the love line crap. “They wanted to break your hands. They weren’t here to have a pretty conversation that magically convinced you to lose your races. They wanted to make sure you could never race again.”

“I’ve increased the security on Checo but they seem to be focusing their energy on you.”

“Of course, Max is the bigger threat,” you stated obviously. “Anyone who can read the standings knows that.” Tilting your head towards the principal you cocked an eyebrow and asked, “You don’t happen to have half a billion hidden in your mattress?”

Christian scoffed as he swirled his drink, clinking the ice against the glass. “I’m not Pablo Escabar, and I don’t think my wife would sleep comfortably on the lumps.”

“That’s a shame, his personal army could’ve been helpful.”

“What do you want half a billion dollars for anyway?”

“Euros, actually.” You grabbed your phone off the coffee table and opened the app for the stock exchange, scrolling through the companies of interest you had saved before tossing it on his lap. “They wouldn’t sell the majority of their shares but there is a sizable chunk up for grabs. Certainly enough to get a seat on the chairboard.”

Christian looked at the trading name and chuffed at the thought of being a board member at Scuderia Ferrari before he took a sip of his drink. “Let me see what I can move about.”

“Wait, you’re not serious?” Max baulked at the idea before helping himself to your drink at the look you gave him. “Fuck, you are serious.”

“If you need a shell company I have a few old ones to spare.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Christian chuckled as he finished his drink and started to head to the door. “I’d get that fixed pronto if I were you.”

You gave him the thumbs up as he left while Max walked him to the gaping hole where the broken door used to be. “See you next week, boss.”

Walking back to your side, Max scratched his short beard and said, “I think we should go to a hotel tonight, liefje.”

A gust of wind blew through the open door and swayed the picture frames on the wall to accentuate his words. “I think you’re right, preferably one with a spa.”

He smiled as he kissed your temple, careful to avoid the swelling on your forehead. “I’m sure I can find something for you.”

Two Months Later “Shit,” Max grunted as the wind was knocked from him. 

“Please don’t hurt my star driver before his final race,” Christian said as he walked into the gym and found Max bent over his knees panting. 

“I haven’t touched him,” you defended yourself while you rubbed Max’s back. “The speedball took him out.”

“If anyone asks, it was Rico Verhoeven.”

You snorted a laugh. “He loves you too much to hurt you. He would probably let you take him down.”

“Probably,” Max groaned as he straightened up and cocked a brow at his boss who held a file in his hand. “What’s that?”

“Just some paperwork for you to sign,” he said to you as he held it out. “Our lovely Director here will be heading to Italy next week for her first board meeting.”

You hadn’t really missed your old line of work but you couldn’t deny there was a certain thrill to stepping into the lion’s den. Max wasn’t too happy about it, but you had convinced him not to worry, or at least accept it. Christian had been able to shift some money around to make the investment feasible and it had been collectively decided that you would be the best person to take the seat.

Now that the seat was filled you would be able to give the go ahead to your contacts and Scuderia Ferrari stocks would rise once again over the winter break, lining Red Bull’s pockets with profits. It was a win-win. 

“What I wouldn’t give to see the faces of those smarmy old bastards when you walk in the boardroom,” Christian mused as you signed the last of the documents. “Benedetto doesn’t know what he started.”

Max had recovered from his winded state and pulled his boxing gloves off to have a drink, taking a seat next to Christian on a weight bench. “You are lucky I am so charming. I should get a bonus for saving the team with my good looks and wonderful personality.”

“Greedy bastard, isn’t the €55 million I am paying you each year enough?” Christian said with a burst of laughter.

“My girlfriend has expensive taste.”

“Hey, I had no problem affording my own lifestyle before I met you,” you pointed out as you stole his drink bottle and pointed to the heavy sandbag. “And I didn’t say you could have a break. Gloves back on, Prince Charming.”

“I’ll leave you love birds to it. Don’t forget dinner tonight,” Christian said as he made his way back to the door. “Oh, and try not to be beaten by a bag, Max. It’s bad for your reputation.”

Max held his gloved hand up and you knew he was trying to pull the finger inside of it. “Very menacing,” you teased as you grabbed your own set of gloves and joined him in the ring. “Shall we dance, pretty boy?”

“Do I get a reward if I take you down?”

You blew a kiss to your boyfriend and raised your hands. “How about you focus on just trying to land a punch?”

“I’m competitive, liefje, I respond best to incentives.”

“Is that right...well, in that case, how about this?” You closed the distance between you and brushed your lips along his jaw until you reached his ear. “You take me down, and you can take me down.”

His athletic stamina that kept him strong for the races showed no sign of weakening as he followed you around the ring, relentlessly trying to take you to the mat. Sweat beaded on your forehead as you ducked and spun out of his reach, and you saw his cheeks flush with the same exertion of his effort. 

Deciding he had pushed himself hard enough for one day, you planted your foot and deflected the throw he made. He overextended past you, leaving his side open for you to wrap yourself around, dragging him to the thin padding on the ground and rolling until you straddled his hips.

“Good work, but it’s time to rest. You have qualifying soon.”

“I’ve already won the championship, plus I could start last on the grid and still get points,” he said with a cocky smile before he stole your signature move. He used your own momentum against you, twisting his hips as he reached across your body. The room spun as you were flipped onto your back and suddenly you were looking up at him. “I just can’t help winning, see.”

“Go on then,” you dared as he hungrily eyed your body pinned beneath his. “Take your reward.”

“We could get caught,” Max groaned as he glanced at the door Christian had left through, knowing it was unlocked. 

“You’re not scared are you?” 

All his blood rushed south of his brain and he found no reason to deny you both. “Fuck it.”

Dinner was a quiet affair with just the team and their families. The real party would come after the race, but you were quite content as you were when the group broke up at the end of the evening. 

Geri had taken the children off to bed while the mechanics went to a nightclub nearby for a ‘nightcap’. Christian wished them a good evening and a polite suggestion to not stay out too late. It left you, Max and Christian moving to your fully stocked bar in the presidential suite and sinking into the plush seats. 

“What a fucking year it’s been,” Christian laughed as he rubbed his beard. 

You snorted a laugh and kicked your feet up onto Max’s lap. “It’s been exciting though, you have to admit that.”

You smiled as the two recounted their favourite parts of the season while you browsed the NASDAQ Dubai journal you had started reading before dinner.

“It’s a shame George is still sick, he can’t catch a break.”

“You think George being sick is a coincidence?” you commented as you turned the page and chuckled. “Tell me you are not that-“ you fell silent at the look Christian gave you and just shrugged. “It’s quite easy to replicate illnesses with certain substances is all I’m saying…”

“Why go after George?” Max pondered aloud while Christian sat still processing what you had inferred.

Your boss’s eyes lit up with realisation and he grabbed his phone to open the F1 app to confirm his thoughts. “Because if George scores anything above fourth place tomorrow Mercedes will beat Ferrari in the constructors championship. That’s worth a few million euros, at least.”

“Bingo.”

“Do we do anything with this information?” Max asked as he began to massage your ankle. Though he had almost come to accept the dark underbelly of the sport, he still didn’t like it and it made him nervous.

“We can’t prove it,” you said with a shake of your head as his massage glided up your calf muscle, like a cat that kneaded a spot for self-comfort. “It’s not exactly a bad thing too, Ferrari coming second. It will make for great telly seeing Toto throw a bitch fit.”

Christian nearly spilled his drink with the belly laugh that filled the suite. “I’ll cheers to that,” he toasted as he held his drink forward. “To the end of an exciting season.”

You leaned in with yours and tapped it with his and Max’s. “And to another one next year.” They both cut you a side eye and you bit your lip to suppress the smile. “Or not.”

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