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ptergwen · 4 years ago

Text

web of lies

take a leap. if you start to fall, the net will appear to catch you.

photographer!peter x journalist!reader || masterlist

w/c: 7.1k

warnings: swearing, one drinking mention, descriptions of anxiety, and angst if ya squint

summary: peter can’t stop holding your hands, betty and ned are the modern day bonnie and clyde, ned is a terrible guy in the chair, the osborn’s are up to something, and mj hates you all

a/n: y’all i’m super excited about this series like i haven’t had an idea i’ve really loved in months? so it’s good to be back !!! there are tons of things i have planned and i can’t wait to share them with all of you hehe i really hope you enjoy part one <3 happy reading

to be honest, which is what you do best, you’ve had a thing for peter parker your whole time at the daily bugle. you actually almost told him once.

a couple months ago, peter walked you home on a night you worked overtime. he’d came in last minute to leave some pictures on your boss’s desk. no one else but you was there, hunched at your computer in the dim office lighting. peter was pleasantly surprised to see you, yet concerned for your well-being. you had to put your finishing touches on a story.

he didn’t feel comfortable letting you travel alone at that hour. so, he went with you when you were ready. his company was more than welcomed. you told peter about your article while you two sat on the subway. he’d listened intently, your head resting on his shoulder and his arm around you. he made sure you got to your apartment building alright as well.

“hey, peter?” you’d asked, halfway up the steps. he was waiting until you were inside and safe to leave. “hm? you good?” he’d smiled sort of expectantly. “yeah. i... i wanted to say...”

your words got caught in your throat when he gave you the softest puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. you couldn’t do it. for some reason, you were too scared to confess how you felt. “thanks again for walking me home,” you’d settled on. he’d seemed disappointed that was what you wanted to tell him. nevertheless, he said not to worry about it before taking off.

that one moment perfectly captures it all; how yours and peter’s narrative plays itself out.

—

“we’ve got an update on hydra v. the people!”

“those freaky giraffes escaped the zoo... again.”

“shoot one more spitball and it’ll be your last.”

“does anyone have an aspirin?”

welcome to the daily bugle, where the chaos never ends and the calm never starts. you’ll find new york’s finest writers, publishers, and creatives of all kind right here. that would include you. you’re one of the top journalists in the whole building, according to mr. norman osborn. he’s the brilliant and slightly insane man who runs this place.

although it’s rare for someone in your field, you were hired straight out of college. norman read a few pieces you’d written and loved them so much that he offered you a job. full time, full benefits, no questions asked. there was something special about the way you wove your words together. your writing had its own voice. a strong voice, one the paper was severely lacking.

you’ve been with the bugle for just over a year now. it’s not the quiet, nine to five gig you were initially expecting it to be. you’re each very unique individuals in your office, and there’s never a dull moment because of it. your coworkers can be found hosting debates on the riskiest topics or tackling each other for blueberry muffins, and that’s just a regular tuesday. the place is stranger than strange. but, it’s become home.

thanks to mr. osborn being so accommodating, you actually settled in rather quickly. another big help has been the friends you’ve made. your first was michelle jones, who prefers to be called mj. she’s a fellow journalist with a wickedly dark humor that trickles into her writing. if you had to describe her in one word, it would be blunt. mj is as real as it gets, and also eternally loyal. she keeps her circle small, so you’re honored you get to be in it.

mj sits right next to you, which means you’re always talking through your days. that’s due in part to the way your office is set up. there aren’t any cubicles, tables and swirly chairs taking up their space instead. norman heard it was more progressive, probably from his son harry.

harry is about your age, only a couple of years older. he hangs around quite a lot, but doesn’t do much with his time besides that. according to norman, he’s still seeking out his passion. he’s banking on him finding a suitable career at the bugle. he’d like to pass this all on to harry some day, hopefully sooner than later. either way, you don’t mind having harry here. he’s super funny and friendly with everyone.

there’s also ned leeds, who’s an editor and reviews most of your pieces. he’s sweeter than candy, even when he’s ripping your grammar to shreds. on the rare occasions you’re not discussing breaking news, you two talk about movies. ned is a film buff and gives you the best recommendations. you’re convinced he was a critic in his past life.

last but so from least is peter parker. he only works for the bugle part time, since he’s still in school. you both graduated from your respective colleges the same year. peter wants to get his masters degree, though. he’s a photographer who’s aspiring to be a cinematographer. him and ned have their passion for the industry in common, and that’s what makes them such great friends.

you learned this and more from the times you and peter have partnered up on stories. he’s one of your best friends not only at the bugle, but in your entire life. the many long nights you’ve spent collaborating have brought you close to each other. they consist of drinking and deep talks, along with some actual work. he takes the pictures, you do the writing. you’ve been told you make a lovely pair.

peter says it himself, too. you’d like to believe he means it as more than coworkers. he’s so caring, and smart, and pure, and peter. yeah, you like him an awful lot. you can hardly stand the feeling of it sometimes.

the fact that you you haven’t come clean already is ridiculous.

“goddamn. not again,” you mutter out. “em, you better come look at this. it’s bad.” mj wheels over to you in her chair with a puzzled look. her eyes follow yours, landing on your computer. “leeds just sent this? to everyone?” she questions, your reply a short hum. you’re both staring daggers at the email your screen displays.

ned is responsible for assigning each journalist their own topics to cover. he’s been lacking a bit recently, having you write up think pieces on fluffy things. in other words, stuff that no one cares about. he asked you to compare oat milk and almond milk just last week. you’d hoped this week would be better, but here you are.

“this is ass. who does he think we are, buzzfeed?” mj scoffs at her own words. the daily bugle prides itself on being a reliable news source, on paper and tv. you’re starting to stoop down to the low level of your competitors. “he assigned me some tiktok dance trend. i’m not writing a single word about that app.” she sets her elbows down on the table, head in her hands.

“aw, why not? grandma mj isn’t down with the kids?” you tease and click out of the upsetting email. “i don’t write for kids,” mj deadpans. she pushes her glasses up on her nose. “what’d you get?” “the evolution of memes,” you gloomily reply. you’re surprised norman has been approving these topics. then again, ned is the head editor. he can do whatever he wants regardless of approval.

mj glares over at the kitchen, where betty brant currently resides. she’s making two hot chocolates instead of her usual one. “i blame her,” mj mumbles to you. your eyebrows furrow. “dude, what? betty is an angel. she doesn’t even work in editing.” betty is the bugle’s highest rated anchorwoman. her and her news team are on people’s televisions every night.

“no, but she has been spending a generous amount of time with leeds,” mj grumbles. she’s admittedly very nosy. the upside is that she tells you any juicy office drama there is. “my theory is betty’s making him give us crap stories so she can report the good ones.” she glances over at you to see what you think. “no way. that can’t be allowed... or legal,” you laugh back.

as if on cue, ned appears next to betty in the kitchen. he takes the extra hot coco that’s piled high with whipped cream. betty tucks a sheet of paper into his suit pocket and kisses his cheek, then he’s gone. you can only gasp as you watch this unfold. what has she done to poor, clueless ned?

“not such an angel anymore, huh?” mj smirks in satisfaction. “suddenly, she has red horns and a pitchfork,” you bitterly agree with your tongue in your cheek. betty waves to you two on her way back to broadcasting. mj gives her a fake nice finger wave, you ignoring her. “we can’t sit back and let this happen, em. we have to do something,” you decide. “let’s tell norman.”

uninterested, mj takes off her glasses and starts to clean them. “like he’ll believe us. yeah, golden girl betty brant is sabotaging the writer’s room,” she rewords her previous statement to put its stupidity in perspective. you throw your hands up. “she is, though! we literally watched it happen!” mj puts her freshly wiped glasses back on and sighs.

“i doubt norman would care, y/n. every newspaper to ever exist is corrupt somehow.” your pessimistic old pal has a point. however, you’re not so willing to accept it. “why can’t we be the first one that isn’t?” you offer a small smile. mj snickers, wheeling back to her own computer. “those are words of the innocent.” she’s already tapping her fingers across the keyboard.

“i thought you weren’t doing the tiktok piece,” you say under your breath. you’re slightly pissed mj turned you down, since she’s the reason you know about betty’s meddling. “i’m not,” mj answers sharply. “i’m gonna email quentin and ask if we can change our topics. happy?” quentin beck is another editor in the building. he’s not bad, but he is intimidating. no one typically goes to him as their first option.

“i’m thrilled,” you confirm and grin at mj to emphasize it. “thanks for stepping up. you’re forgiven.” “i didn’t realize i had to be sorry,” mj notes, this time in a playful manor. she shakes her head as she begins writing. “you and your morals.”

what you value most in your career is honesty, under any circumstances. of course, the other daily bugle writers are the same. norman strictly prohibits clickbait and crazy headlines because that isn’t real news. you leave that to companies like buzzfeed. you’re honest in the sense that you say whatever has to be said, what everyone else is too afraid to. you’ll speak your truth no matter who tries to stop you.

it didn’t used to be that way. there’s some childhood trauma that remains deep in the back of your mind. you’ve left that behind you now, having over a decade to cope with it. hey, they say the past is in the past. what’s important is your takeaway, that you would never let yourself or anyone else be silenced from there on out. never again.

quentin ends up giving you the okay to write different stories. he lets you and mj choose choose your own because he’s got “better things to do” and you’re “big girls.” what a peach he is. mj goes with how capitalism is continuing to provoke global warming. she has something to say about every major world issue, and you admire the hell out of her for it.

you’re a bit stuck when it’s time to write your article. it’s terribly ironic because you pushed for this. you aren’t too worried, though. the city is crawling with material, so you’ll find what you’re looking for eventually. lucky for you, some much needed inspiration comes skipping out of the elevator.

“morning, peter,” you hear liz greet him at the front desk. she’s your floor’s receptionist. her wisdom and patience keep this place going. “hi, liz. how’s it going?” he asks. “things have been quiet... mostly. can i do anything for you?” liz peers up at him. peter sports a shy smile. “uh, yeah. mr. osborn wanted to see me?” “right. hang on.” she nods, dialing his office phone number.

it’s endearing how peter calls him mr. osborn, seeing as the rest of you go with norman. he’s probably the politest guy you’ve ever met.

grinning, liz puts down the phone. “you can go in whenever you’re ready. good luck!” peter laughs nervously and turns to leave. “thanks, you too.” his face falls when he realizes his mistake. “wait, i- i didn’t mean to say that. that was stupid. you’re not-“ “it’s fine, peter,” liz reassures him. his anxiety makes him trip over his words sometimes. that, and he’s a bit dorky in general. you find it rather adorable.

you also wonder what exactly he needs good luck for. he’s not even supposed to be working today, so your curiosity as to what’s going on has been piqued.

“um, i’m gonna go now. bye!” peter rushes off, his face tinted pink from the embarrassing encounter. you’re hoping he’ll stop and talk with you for a little while, but he heads straight to norman’s office. your whole body deflates at that. mj notices from her peripherals.

“what’s the matter? missing your hubby?” she coos, her words dripping in sarcasm. “no,” you lie. “i’m... i don’t know what to write about.” ok, there’s some truth. mj gives you a couple pats on the shoulder. “ask parker for help. you two work... well together. don’t you?” this must be the zillionth time you’ve heard that.

“we do,” you murmur and glance at norman’s closed door. peter is hidden behind it. “i just don’t wanna bug him. he has finals soon, and whatever norman is putting him up to. it’s my job, anyway.” mj pokes your arm. “those sound like excuses to me,” she concludes, still jabbing at you childishly. “you really just don’t wanna tell him you like-“

“can you keep it down?” you hiss, yanking your arm back. “he’s literally right over there.” peter stands up and shakes norman’s hand. you catch it through the blinds on his window. “y/n, you were drooling over his mere presence only minutes ago,” mj prefaces, a smile pulling at her lips. “you can handle three little words. i like you, that’s it. spit it out already.”

you’ll never admit this to mj, but she’s right. you lost your momentum after your first failed attempt to say the three little words. you’re still not sure what stopped you. you’d shared the details of that faithful night with her, and she’s been pushing you to try again since.

the door to norman’s office opens, and out walks peter. he’s beaming after their conversation, which seems like a good sign. harry passes peter on his way in to pay his dad a visit. he claps him on the shoulder, peter happily accepting before continuing his stride back into the main office. it takes a moment to register that he’s coming towards you.

you quickly set your focus back on your computer so he doesn’t think you’ve been watching him. even though, you definitely have.

“y/n!” peter calls your name. he’s on the opposite side of your table, in front of you. “peter!” you match his tone. “i was just dropping by. i thought i’d say hey while i’m here.” he’s still grinning. “what’re you doing?” he looks cute as ever in an oversized and cream colored sweater. his curls are slicked back with a tad too much product, cheeks rosy. you gaze up at him when he rests his arms on the table.

“pretending to be productive,” mj answers for you, pressing her lips together. peter cocks his head to the side. “pretending?” “ignore her. she’s being a shit stirrer today,” you explain. “like every other day,” he jokes, earning a laugh from you. mj just tuts and keeps writing. “talk about me like i’m not here,” she mumbles to herself, then gets back into her article.

“anyways, i thought you didn’t work today?” you ask to take the attention off yourself. also, because you’re curious. “oh! get this.” peter perks up even more, if that’s possible. he has energy like no other. “you know alex in broadcasting? betty’s camera guy?” “what about him?” you wonder. “he called in sick earlier this morning, with the flu or something.” he’s oddly excited to announce this. that prompts you to make a funny face.

biting back another smile, peter elaborates. “mr. osborn needed someone to fill in for him, so he picked me. i’ll be here all week.” it makes sense, since peter knows how to work a camera and does so wonderfully. you give him a celebratory push at his chest. “peter, that’s amazing! this is the perfect way to transition from pictures to film, right?” he’s nearing his finals at school, which consist of more movie-like projects. the news will be great practice.

then, he’s off to hollywood. you’ll put that out of your mind for now.

“exactly! i think it’ll be a good place to start. the pay isn’t bad either.” peter wiggles his eyebrows at you, you giggling once again. you do a lot of that when he’s around. that’s going to be more often now. “plus, i get to see you. everyone wins.” he squeezes your hand that was just on him. your heart begins to thump. “except alex,” you challenge, playing with his fingers. “but, for real. i’m happy you get to do this and that we’ll be spending more time together.”

“thanks, y/n/n. me too.” peter grins and leans over, taking a peek at your computer screen. there’s a blank word document on it. “you never told me what you’re up to,” he chuckles. “guess mj was right... nothing.” “i’m always right,” she chimes in from next to you. you look between the two of them with a scowl. “i haven’t found my story yet. i don’t know, this never happens.” peter nods as you share your dilemma. “no good ideas are coming to me,” you murmur.

“they will. you have a way of attracting things.” he licks his lower lip, your heart completely stopping this time. “well, i gotta go set up for rise and shine with betty brant.” he waves his hand like he’s presenting his words. that’s what betty calls her morning news segment. “be careful with her. she’s being really sketchy these days,” you warn peter, mj grunting in agreement.

confused, peter purses his lips. “really? ned says she’s a sweetheart. they’ve been going out for a while.” mj pops her head up and adjusts her glasses. “did ned also tell you she’s bribing him to give her all of our scoops?” she’s asking rhetorically because she already knows the answer. of course he didn’t. “it’s one thing to not like her. you’re just making things up now,” peter huffs.

mj kicks your foot under the table. “i told you no one would believe us. not even peter gullible parker.” “it’s benjamin,” he corrects her. “whatever,” she brushes it off, resuming her work.

peter does tend to be sort of naive, to only see the good in things when there’s plenty of bad. you’re the same in that way, unless you hang around mj for too long.

“is that true? betty’s stealing your stories?” peter turns to you and asks. you gesture to your screen. “i don’t have one, so you do the math.” he hums sympathetically. he’ll listen to you, never mj. “i’m sorry. thanks for telling me, y/n. i’ll watch out for her.” he bends his fingers to look like goggles, putting them around his eyes. you sigh lightheartedly.

“are you twenty two years old or twelve?” mj remarks, but not without a comeback from peter. “you’re, like, eighty five. worry about that.” they’ve had this type of banter for as long as you’ve known them. it’s equal parts amusing and exhausting. “don’t be late on your first day.” you snap peter out of it with a knowing smile. he returns it.

“i hope something crazy happens so you can write about it.” he’s walking backwards now, towards the elevator. “see you later, pete,” is all you say back, yet another laugh threatening to escape you. “see you. bye, michelle,” peter says just to bug her. “it’s mj,” she groans without looking up. he shrugs. “not so fun, is it?”

after peter is gone, you try to get back into work. or rather, you try to start your work. what he said about you having a way of attracting things keeps ringing in your head. was he flirting? no, he couldn’t have been. peter parker doesn’t flirt. words aren’t his strong suit, and you have countless memories that prove this to be true. earlier with liz, for example.

you’re probably reading way into this. peter was simply doing what any good friend would do and gave you advice.

it’s late in the afternoon when anything worth mentioning happens again. peter is still with betty, as far as you know. they’re probably preparing for the nighttime news now. all you’ve done since seeing him is nibble on snacks and bug mj, who’s almost done with her story despite your distractions. this is really bad, considering your deadline to submit is at the end of today.

you’ve never missed a deadline.

mj emails her work to quentin while you repeatedly bang your head on the table. she hits send before deciding to entertain you. “whatcha doing over there?” she cautiously prompts, powering off her computer. “trying to get an idea. i’m desperate, if you couldn’t tell.” your voice is muffled. “i could.” mj grabs your shoulders and pulls you back so you’re sitting up. you childishly pout.

“y/n, the only thing that’s gonna give you is brain damage,” mj says sternly, then softens her tone. “why don’t you ask for an extension? norman gives me them all the time.” whining, you slump down in your chair again. “yeah, but you’re you! we do things differently, have different expectations put on us.” she’s back to cold mj after you say that. “alright. at least i did something today besides pine over that little-“

mj’s insult for peter is interrupted by harry. “ladies, what’s shaking?” he comes up to you two with a the hint of smirk on his face. you manage a nod to acknowledge him. “oh, hey... harry,” mj unenthusiastically replies. she’s the one person who isn’t really a fan of him. “not much. y/n was just having a tantrum.” “she was not,” you dismiss her. “it’s work stuff. you know your dad.”

harry clicks his tongue in a teasing way. “yep, the grind never stops in this joint. boss man is...” he does the sign for cuckoo with his finger. you laugh a little at that. “in a good way,” you add on. mj only watches you two, blinking blankly. harry gives you a definitive pat on the back. “before i forget, he wants to see you.” that gets mj talking. “norman?” she questions. “your dad?” you choke out at the same time.

“who else? he said you two have to talk.” harry flashes you a weary smile. “have fun in there, old sport.” you’re too busy biting the skin off your bottom lip to respond. “mhm... she will,” mj speaks on your behalf. even she sounds worried. saluting you both, harry leaves to go pester your other colleagues. you’re completely and totally fucked.

“that’s it for me!” you grin sarcastically, freaked out by harry. “i’m fired, aren’t i? i’m definitely about to get fired, and it’s all because-“ “relax!” mj cuts off your rambling. she reaches down and grasps at your wrists. “get it together, y/l/n. you’re the best we have, okay? you aren’t going anywhere.” your grin becomes a frown. “then why does norman wanna talk to me? and, why don’t i have a story?”

mj always has the answers, but this time is the execption. she lets out a breath. “i don’t know. you’ll go find out and tell me what happens.” there’s no use protesting. you’re going to have to face whatever you’re about to at some point. “ok,” you give in, defeated. “i’ll be back soon, i hope.”

the walk to norman’s office feels like a walk of shame. mj can do nothing but sit back and observe it. if this ends the way you think it will, you’ll be collecting your things and won’t ever return. norman is a kind man, and he’s usually pretty understanding. he doesn’t mind the workplace shenanigans as long as you get your job done. unfortunately, you haven’t today.

you hear your boss’s booming voice when you approach his door. inhaling deep, you knock on it, and the room goes silent. “come in,” norman responds after a few seconds. mustering up a smile, you open the door to be met with your doom. “hi, am i interrupting something?” you check. “not at all! you’re just the person i wanted to see. sit, sit,” he beckons you over. he’s not using his angry voice, so maybe you’re in the clear. you enter the room as told.

you’re shocked to see a terrified peter is already in one of the chairs. he visibly relaxes a bit now that you’re here. what the hell is happening? whatever you were expecting, this was the last thing.

taking the armchair next to peter, you sit facing norman’s desk. you nudge his arm to get his attention. his big brown eyes lock with yours. “what’s going on?” you whisper. “no idea,” peter whispers back. the two of you turn to norman again when he claps his hands. he’s plopped down into his cushy leather seat.

“so,” he begins, gaze flicking from peter to you. “you kids know why you’re here?” “is it because i missed my deadline?” you blurt out. you’re once again a nervous wreck. peter doesn’t speak, just winces. “not that. although, i did hear from ned that you turned down his assignment.” norman flicks at a post-it on his desk. “i asked quentin for one instead. me and mj,” you explain, peter’s eyes going wide.

“you talked to quentin? that guy’s bad news,” he murmurs to you. “how so?” norman questions, since it’s his employee. “he- he, um,” peter clears his throat before answering, “he’s super critical, you know? hates all my pictures.” “i love your pictures,” you assure him, the corners of his lips turning up. “your style is so cool. yeah, though. quentin’s pretty bitter.”

considering this, norman drums his fingers on the desk. “i’ll look into that. but, that isn’t why you’re here. i’m letting you off the hook this time.” your whole demeanor changes and a huge weight lifts off of you. “really? you are?” “i have a scoop of my own that i want you to cover,” he continues, peter bumping your knee happily. a toothy grin takes over your face.

“since peter will be sticking around for a while, i want him to join you.” norman waits a beat in case you have any questions. it’s been a minute since you last worked together. peter laughs in disbelief. “you want me to take over for alex and do this?” norman nods proudly. “y/n will need the extra hands, if you have them.” “yes, sir. i do,” peter immediately confirms. “my last class is next thursday, so i have the time.”

“wait, so you’re almost done? that’s awesome!” you bump peter’s knee this time. “yup, all that’s left is finals... and studying.” he mindlessly takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. you’re enjoying his gentle touches. “thank you so much, norman. seriously, i appreciate this a lot,” you tell him and mean it. “hey, no problem,” he chuckles at your eagerness. you grip peter’s hand tighter.

“what’s the story?” “ah, yes. the most important part,” norman starts, peter sharing an excited look with you. “how familiar are you two with spider-man?” his excitement fades at the question posed. it’s unbeknownst to you, caught up in the moment. “uh, same as everyone else, i guess,” you casually reply. “how come?” “he’s your subject.” norman points at you both. “you’re gonna study him over these next few months.”

peter’s hand goes limp in yours, and he gulps hard, throat feeling dry. “you mean, like, an exposé?” “no, no. there will be no exposing,” norman clarifies. “i’m sure he wears the mask for a reason.” that settles peter only slightly. you’re not sure why he’s so tense all of a sudden. “what’s our aim here, then?” you steer the conversation.

“see what new york’s favorite hero gets up to every day, how his life is beyond the crime fighting,” norman further describes your task. peter exhales a shaky breath, shifting away from you in his seat. the golden sun hits his face and reveals a bead of sweat dripping down it. you stare at his figure in worry. “you okay, peter?” “fine. i’m just... hot,” he murmurs back. his sweater does look pretty heavy, so you concede.

getting back to norman’s story, you grimace at the idea. “do you really think people will want to read that? for lack of a better term, it sounds kind of...” you pause. “basic.” “i thought the same thing at first,” he surprisingly agrees with you. “harry pitched the idea to me this morning. you won’t believe it! the other night, he caught spider-man hanging outside his window.”

“harry... harry saw him?” peter squeaks out. he uses the wool material that feels like it’s swallowing him to dab at his forehead. “he stopped on his balcony. must have been pretty late, the kid’s a night owl,” norman says about his son. your face lights up as you listen to him. “he took some shots of spidey in action, when he swung off. i saw a few. they were pretty great.” he’s grinning at his son’s success.

“maybe he’ll get into photography with you, pete,” norman suggests. peter gives him a weak smile in return. “we’d be happy to have him.” he usually has a lot more to say about his career than that. his behavior is starting to genuinely concern you. “anyway,” norman gets back on topic, “it got me thinking. how much do we really know about this guy? we’re supposed to blindly put our trust in him?”

you’re beginning to see the appeal now. you’ve written your share of pieces on the avengers and their methods, tackling the same questions norman just asked you. spider-man shouldn’t be overlooked, especially when he operates so close to your home. this could be another revolutionary superhero story in the making. and, you get to bring peter along for the ride.

“you know what? this has a lot of potential,” you smile at norman, then peter. he has his phone in his lap, fingers flying across the screen. it must be something important. you’ll discuss with norman while he takes care of that. “we could make it a weekly thing, about spider-man’s adventures. find out what we can about the man behind the mask...” peter shoots up in his seat. “without taking it off,” you finish, putting his mind at ease.

“see, i knew you were gonna love it! it was a blessing in disguise, you missing that deadline.” norman bangs his fist on the table with a hearty laugh. “what do you say, peter? you still in?” peter slips his phone back in his pocket. his tongue pokes out to wet his lips. “oh, of course. i can’t wait to work with you, y/n/n,” he speaks in a monotone voice, adding on, “again.”

something is definitely bothering him, and it isn’t the weather.

“i gotta go. betty needs me upstairs, so,” peter moves to get up, his body stiff. you assume that’s who he was texting. “thank you again, mr. osborn.” he’s rushing out of the room just like that, until you call after him. “um, don’t you wanna set a time to meet up? so we can get started?” you reasonably ask. “i... i really gotta go. find me later,” peter tells you, giving you both a tight lipped smile and running off.

“the dynamic duo is back!” norman announces to you. you’re disappointed you can’t share that sentiment with peter.

he’s absolutely booking it down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the next elevator. this is bad. this is a nightmare.

peter went from having one of his best days in a while to the worst in not even a full round of work. today started off fine, and got better when norman promoted him. it got way better when you came along. he saw your smile that makes his insides tingle, heard your laugh that’s the prettiest sound to grace his ears, held your hand that he never wants let go.

things went a bit downhill after that. betty was pushy and yelled at him a lot, demanding he only film her good angles for the segment. you and mj weren’t wrong when you told him to be careful.

later on when he saw you again, everything was okay. he was physically shaking as brad told him mr. osborn requested to see him. brad is mr. osborn’s assistant. a try-hard for sure, but good at his job. why did mr. osborn call him in? did betty complain already?

they’d been sitting in mostly silence, save for small talk until you came knocking on the door. simply being next to you was enough to ground peter and his racing thoughts. it was enough, then it wasn’t.

the whole day had gone to shit after he found out you were going to be writing stories about his alter ego. not only that, but he was helping. during the pitch, he’d texted ned to meet him in the bathroom. he was really anxious and needed a friend who understood why.

ned accidentally found out peter is spider-man last year. it’s a long story that involves peter hiding from some bad guys in the building and ned shrieking so loud the lights flickered. they’re cool now that peter talked things through with him. his secret has been kept, from what he knows.

pushing open the men’s bathroom door, peter is a mixture of sweat and ragged breaths. he’s panting from his fast descent down the staircase. he takes in his disheveled appearance using one of the mirrors. his styled hair is now damp and undone, hands trembling and palms sweaty, chest heaving. here’s his daily reminder that anxiety is not cute. as if he didn’t know.

his stupid, gigantic freaking sweater is only making things worse. it’s suffocating him. no one else is in here, so peter pulls it over his head and tosses it to the ground. he’s got a t-shirt on underneath that happens to be black. what a convenient day for him to wear the hottest material there is.

peter splashes his face with some cold water next to try and cool himself down. that doesn’t do much for him. his face still feels like it’s on fire, but now it’s wet. he takes his hands through his mop of curls, backing away from the sink.

“fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck,” peter repeats to himself. he’s silent for a moment, then rage overcomes him. he kicks open a bathroom stall. “shit! i can’t do this. what am i supposed to-“

the door creeks open, so peter shuts up in case it isn’t ned. it thankfully is, and he wears a deep frown at the sight of his best friend. “dude, what happened? you look...” “terrible. i know,” peter finishes for him. he tugs at his locks in another attempt to tame them. ned approaches him carefully. “you’re not, like, dying... are you? because betty was telling me you have to-“ “of course you were with betty,” peter exhales in frustration. “no, ned. i’m not dying.”

in ned’s defense, the text he received was very alarming. all peter wrote was, ‘EMERGENCY. SOS.’

“i mean, yeah. it was my break.” ned sits on the ledge by the window, close to peter. “you do the same with y/n.” the mention of your name upsets peter all over again. he hides his face in his hands as ned watches. “if you’re not dying, then what’s the problem?” ned finally asks. “me and y/n...” peter removes his hands from his face, meeting ned’s worried eyes. “mr. osborn wants us to do a project together.”

“uh, peter? you’ve been saying how much you miss her forever, dude! you’re not excited?” ned snorts at him. he means well, but he has no clue what he’s talking about. “no. it’s supposed to be about spider-man,” peter answers angrily. this isn’t the support he was hoping for. realizing the severity of the situation, ned gets serious.

“oh... but, you’re still doing it?” he questions. “i didn’t have a choice,” peter scoffs out. “i can’t let either of them down.” “you’ll expose yourself!” ned escalates things further. “it’s not like that. we’re gonna follow spider-man around and post updates on him,” peter says, technically in the third person. he’s given an are you insane? look from ned.

“you are spider-man! and, no offense, but you’re not so good at hiding it,” ned refers to himself finding out. “how are you gonna be in two places at once?” damnit, peter hadn’t thought about that yet. he can’t be taking pictures of spider-man and swinging from building to building simultaneously. “i- i’ll figure it out,” peter stammers, unconvincingly.

ned looks him over in a disapproving way. “jeez. you’re really putting your life on the line for this girl-“ “woman,” peter interjects, not loving ned’s attitude towards you. “have some respect.” unfazed, ned gets up from the windowsill. “speaking of women, remember betty? you’re still on the clock,” he changes the subject. peter nearly forgot he has to go film her segment.

“i’ll head up to her now,” peter gives in. he scoops up his discarded sweater, not bothering to check his appearance again. ned follows behind him to the door. “we wrote her script together, you know,” he gladly informs peter, who already knows from you. “not really a flex,” peter mumbles his response. “peter, lighten up.” ned hits at his shoulder. the two of them exit the bathroom.

“you’ll figure this out later. i can always help.” he shoots him a sugary sweet smile. “thanks, ned. for talking with me and everything.” peter doesn’t smile back. they do a quick bro handshake, then they’re going their separate ways. “have a good show, dude!” ned yells back, to which he doesn’t get a response. peter doesn’t have it in him.

he allows himself to take the elevator back up to broadcasting. he’s so drained from the several anxiety attacks he endured. while peter waists for the elevator, he contemplates all the issues he’d better solve. it’s a relief to hear it ding because it brings him back to earth. that doesn’t last long because both you and betty are there when the door opens.

you’d each had the same idea, to find peter. unlike betty, your intentions were good. you asked liz if she saw peter leave. she told you he went downstairs, so you did also. betty was already in the elevator when it got to your stop. she was looking for him because, you guessed it, he had to record the news. the small space was filled with tension as you and betty occupied it.

“perfect. we’re going right back up,” betty beams, motioning for peter with her index finger. “hop in!” “coming,” peter does as told, going to stand between you and betty. she presses the button for your floor and theirs. the doors close. “pete?” you speak up, voice soft. “you kinda ran off earlier. i thought you were with betty.” “clearly, he wasn’t,” betty sneers.

you’re less concerned with her and more with peter. the sweater he looked so huggable in is now folded in his arms, his face splotchy and jaw clenched. he must have gotten triggered by something back in norman’s office.

“are you sure you’re okay? you... you can talk to me about it.” you take a step closer to peter, your doe eyes searching for his. he meets them with a tiny smile. at least, it’s real this time. “i’ll be fine, y/n/n. ‘s nice that you came to check on me, though.” “don’t mention it.” your arms loop around his neck and bring him into a hug. peter hugs you back by your middle, chin resting on your shoulder, breathing out in relief.

you keep your hands on his shoulders when you pull back. his stay on your sides, a lopsided grin now crossing his features. “spider-man...” you quirk an eyebrow. “how are you feeling about that?” “should be cool,” peter somehow maintains himself. “i’m mostly looking forward to doing it with you.”

listening in, betty joins the conversation. “what’s happening with spider-man? anything i should know?” her hand reaches into her bag and emerges with a notepad. does she ever think of her own content? “she’s nothing if not persistent,” you grumble to peter. chuckling, he pulls you into his chest. if he didn’t hold you back, you would’ve pounced on her.

“we’re gonna do a piece on him,” peter tells her. “you can’t copy or steal this one because it’s already been approved,” you contribute, smiling smugly as peter holds you tighter. betty is taken aback. “are you accusing me of stealing? who said i-“ “ned ratted on you... sorry,” peter says in a sing song voice. squealing, you jump away from him. “he did? we were right?”

“mj’s never wrong,” he reiterates. “mj knew about this? oh my god, i can’t believe her!” betty stomps her foot. “we got you on candid camera.” you make a clicking noise with your mouth. peter mimes taking a picture to back you up. “alright, alright. i won’t do it again,” betty mumbles, turning away from you two in annoyance.

“finally!” you hold up your hand for a high five, which peter gives you. “we really do make the best team,” he hums. your fingers intertwine with peter’s, and he lays his palm flat against yours. he prays extremely hard you don’t notice that it’s sweaty. you do, but you couldn’t care less.

“i was wondering when you’d wanna start our... research?” peter asks you, his lip between his teeth. “you were saying something earlier. maybe we could make a schedule.” “how elaborate of us that would be,” you tease. that earns a breathy laugh from peter. with a knowing smile, you put your free hand back on his shoulder.

“what are you doing tonight?”

peter parker taglist

@saturnpeter @tpwk-grande @itstaskeen @missyouhollnd @becicamina @dummiesshort @zspideyy @watchitimreadinghere @my-patronus-is-mabel-pines @dpaccione @karispotters11 @theofficialzivadavid @thehumanistsdiary @kelieah @aayaissaa @petersgroupie @annab-nana @tayyx @swtltlmrvlgrl @magicalxdaydream @haoluvver @kjune113 @captainamirica @marvel-dork98 @emmastarz @killingbxys @viriditie @misshale21 @veryholland @liliswifts @tommydarlings @rebelemilu @peterspideysense @cr-uelsummer @dreamy-clousds @quaksonhehe @quxxnxfhxll @blackbat2020 @babyblue19 @falconxbarnes @zachary-s @dirtytissuebox @dracoswhore007 @heavenlyholland @thsquad @etheralholland @dhtomholland @awh-lilies @tomshufflepuff @multifamdomfan12

if i forgot you please lmk!

#peter parker #peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker imagine #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker smut #spiderman #tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #tom holland imagine #tom holland fic

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smoochkooks · 5 years ago

Text

—the (un)holy cock-up (m.)

⟶ pairing: park jimin/reader

⟶ genre: smut, angst

⟶ word count: 14.5k

⟶ warnings: explicit sexual content, oral sex (m receiving), dirty talk, profanity, unnecessary amount of biblical puns, some critic on catholic church, this is a heavy read be aware

⟶ summary: there is a quite long list of circumstances, with student loan and rent on the very top of it, that led you to work in the sunday’s spirit editorial department, a newspaper overally known among fellow catholic community of busan, with park jimin as your boss.

when your small cock-up goes unnoticeably out of your hand, you find yourself in a situation painted in all shades of wrong.

or, alternatively: when it’s forbidden, it tastes bittersweet.

a/n: please, before you read this: take the warnings seriously. this is not a light read, it touches some heavy and quite controversial topics. tit also involves a scene where a person in charge exhibits inappropriate behavior towards their subordinate which I do not condone, however it’s all done with consent.

ps. im really proud of this work so give me some love please:(

Fingertips typing furiously on the keyboards, sights focused on the computers’ screens, brows furrowed, minds utterly concentrated and all of this accompanied by angelic voices of various religious songs playing in the background.

This is how a typical day at Sunday’s Spirit editorial department goes by.

The newspaper is a local source of information for the catholic community not only in the city of Busan, but in the whole country. Its history starts in 70s, when Park Min-Sung with his wife started publishing the very first version of the Sunday’s Spirit, selling copies in front of churches. Young activists definitely hadn’t anticipated such a big success, especially due to hard times of the military dictatorship in Korea, but two decades later they have become one of the most affluent families in Busan. The newspaper remains the Park’s legacy till these days, being owned by Min-Sung’s son, with the original founder’s grandson Jimin as an editor-in-chief.

Sometimes you ponder how did you end up in this kind of situation. Sitting at your desk with eyes glued to the screen, working for the catholic newspaper with Mary did you know and other holy songs playing from the Spotify’s Blessed Hits playlist.

First of all, you aren’t quite a Jesus stan yourself. Not a regular churchgoer, Bible reader or a person who lives according to God’s will with Ten Commandments written on your heart and soul.

Someone may wonder, what a young, aspiring journalist like you is doing here? Yes, that’s right.

Money is the reason.

The perspectives of wealthy life as a presenter in the national television or a host in the radio were just a mirage, because after receiving your master degree in journalism you realised that, unfortunately, a bright future was bright only in your unreal dreams.

The case was simple. You needed money. Your bank account was literally screaming at you to get your shit together and figure something out before you end up under the bridge. So you started searching for a job, looking over various offers on the Internet for two weeks straight. A waitress? Nah, too clumsy for that. Jewelry seller? Definitely not, since you are a happy owner of a few pairs of earrings from etsy-like online shop that certainly have nothing to do with real gold. You were almost convinced you’re destined to be a sexworker but then you stumbled upon an offer from the Sunday’s Spirit.

It was your chance. A God himself decided to take pity on you.

In that exact moment the genre of the newspaper wasn’t important. The vision of bankruptcy was enough for you to wear knee-length black skirt, white button-up shirt and a pair of high heels you’ve never worn before and go on a job interview with plastered smile on your face, looking delightful like you have just given birth to Jesus Christ in Bethlehem.

All the Hollywood actresses could be put into shame after your Oscar-winning performance you acted out on the interview in front of middle-aged woman in checked jacket that no one wears since 90s. Your enthusiasm and assurance you live good, catholic woman’s life, along with your master degree and motivational letter (you added a quote from The Letter to Philipians at the end of it to spice it up) was enough to be accepted for the position of Ask and you shall find column creator.

The job itself wasn’t complex or tough. The newspaper on its online site has a page where people can create an account and send asks to the author of the column who responds to them. You did something wrong and you aren’t sure it should be considered a sin? Having problems with regular praying on mornings and evenings? Write to us and we will solemnly help you with the God’s blessing, it says.

This is basically how it works. Each week, the said journalist chooses the most interesting questions and answers to make an article to the Sunday’s Spirit’s next publication. Of course, you can’t answer those questions the way you would like. You must do it according to the catholic laws and God’s plan (the True God’s plan, not Drake’s). A woman who interviewed you even gave you a notebook full of already made-up responses and a list of things you definetely mustn’t write if you still want to be employed.

To be completely frank, you don’t hate your job that much. You actually feel kind of nice, helping other people with their problems. You’ve been doing this for six months now and during this period of time you got used to some things.

A ‘Jesus, I trust you’ framed picture you swore your mother gave you on your 16th birthday standing on your desk. Holy beats blasting through the speakers until you leave the office at 5pm. A big-ass cross hanging right in front of the entrance to the editorial. Lee Chin-sun, the Weekly News column author, rushing to Park Jimin’s bureau every day at different hours in her pencil skirts and high heels knocking on the floor.

There’s only the Pentecost in the middle of the office that could actually surprise you.

“Looks like our Mary Magdalene is going to Jesus cave again,” mutters Kim Taehyung, the newspaper’s main photographer, friend from your desk and, actually, the only friend you have here. Very much gay and just like you, in desperate need for money. “It’s her third visit today. I wonder what it is this time. New prayer to Pope Francis she found?” he whispers and you chuckle at that quietly, looking around if anyone pays attention to your conversation, but everyone seems busy doing their own stuff. “Maybe she’s sucking his dick right now and we all think they are playing Who said it? Bible edition,” he adds in a hushed tone.

You start thinking about it for a while. Is that really possible for someone like Park Jimin, the editor-in-chief of the Sunday’s Spirit to have a sexual relationship with his coworker? The man who has a smaller version of Pietà in his office?

“I mean look at him. I would smash that ass too.”

You roll your eyes at Taehyung words, going back to your previous task but every time you try to concentrate, the face of your boss appears in front of your eyes uncontrollably.

Truth to be told, Park Jimin was a sight.

Blond hair, always perfectly styled and simply parted in the middle, revealing his forehead. Dark, sharp eyes that seem to pierce right through your soul and full, plump lips which could only be described as kissable.

He wears only high fashion brands, wandering through the office in Prada and Tom Ford suits that hugs his sculpted body just right. You think that as for a person who never misses Sunday’s mass, Park Jimin has also nice thighs. And a fine piece of ass, as Taehyung would describe it.

Newest Rolex that costs probably more than you will ever earn in your entire life on his wrist, Mercedes who just got brought out to the international market standing on his parking spot in front of the building, an apartment in the most luxurious area in Busan.

Park Jimin inhales God’s mercy and exhales money.

You spoke to him more explicitly only once, on your first day at work. He greeted you and wished good luck, saying that everything will be fine because you know, God’s good. Since that day, Park Jimin seems out of your reach. You contact him only through email, sending articles for him to check and approve, occasionally receiving some short message from him to improve this and that. He rarely leaves his office during working hours but when he does, it’s either for business meetings outside the editorial or for a lunch at nearby restaurant.

There’s also one, special occasion, every Friday, that’s a sacred time for all the employees. The clock hits 12am and so it begins. The angelic voices stop singing and everybody shifts on their sits.

“Oh, Holy Judas. I almost forgot about my favourite part of the week,” Taehyung sighs, standing up from his desk. And by that, he means-

“Friday’s Bible contemplation lunch break, everyone please gather up at the cafeteria.” Park Jimin’s sweet as honey voice says through the speakers.

You stand up from your chair with reluctance. Taking food with you, you go to the cafeteria, following Taehyung.

That’s actually the next thing you got used to while working at Sunday’s Spirit. Bible contemplation meetings are, as you found out from Taehyung, Jimin’s idea after he became an editor-in-chief almost one year ago. Every Friday all the workers sit together, eat their lunches and listen to Jimin as he reads a certain chapter from the book with true admiration written on their faces. After that, he usually asks some questions holding a discussion among the participants who, unlike you, happily takes part in.

The cafeteria looks rather normal, like any other lunchrooms you see in offices. Painted in bright yellow colors, with a few tables and a typical kitchen set in the back. Except for one thing.

A replica of Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper hanging on the wall.

You decided a long time ago that you don’t want to know how much money it cost Jimin to have something like that here.

The newspaper’s workers, almost like the twelve Apostles, sit together by the tables. Lee Chin-sun at the very front, looking completely mesmerized by today’s Park Jimin’s appearance. He’s wearing navy blue suit that Taehyung swears it’s from Hugo Boss. The place next to Chin-sun is always occupied by tall, black-haired guy named Choi Eunwoo, main graphic designer, hopelessly in love with her since his first days at work. Behind them there’s a group from emendation department, with their leader Min Yoongi and other journalists. You always sit with Taehyung at the back, near the kitchen, not necessarily paying attention to what’s happening in the front.

Jimin, as on every Friday, walks to the small podium, designed to look like a pulpit in the church and opens the Bible. But one thing is odd: Jimin ain’t no priest or altar boy himself and he certainly dosen’t look like one, flipping through the pages of what you think it’s New Testament this time.

From your point of view, you could practically see how Chin-sun sighs with content expression on her face, lacing her fingers together on the lap and straightening her back. Eunwoo, on the other hand, shifts uncomfortably on his seat, sending Chin-sun quick glances full of unspoken longing she never acknowledges, to his dismay.

Then, Park Jimin clears his throat and the whole cafeteria goes quiet.

Truth to be told, you never really listen to what he’s reading. This time is no different. You just chew on your avocado sandwich, occasionally taking a sip of coffee. Your boss’ smooth voice reaches your ears faintly but you don’t pay attention to it, focusing on eating and Taehyung’s hushed rumbling instead.

“Look at our Mary Magdalene, she looks like she might burst a nut just by listening to CEO Jesus,” he says, making you peek at the girl.

Mary Magdalene is a nickname that Taehyung made up for Chin-sun when he started working at Sunday’s Spirit, mainly because of her attitude and relationship with Jimin. It’s rather platonic, at least for now. She looks at him with pure admiration on her face and she literally melts everytime he smiles at her. But Chin-sun’s ‘stalking’ isn’t unreasonable. Her father is a well-known philanthropist in Busan. He donates catholic charities, churches and, what’s the most interesting – he has some connections with Jimin’s father, the owner of Sunday’s Spirit.

And here’s the thing: Chin-sun’s hare and hounds definitely have some hidden reason. Maybe the whole marriage thing that has become a gossip in the office is true. Which makes poor Eunwoo’s situation even worse.

“Sometimes I wonder why has he fallen in love with her in first place,” you whisper, pointing at the graphic designer. “He knows he stands no chance against Jimin.”

“What can I say, you can’t help who you fall in love with.” Taehyung muses almost poetically, shrugging his shoulders.

You hum at that, placing your coffee cup on the table and looking around the cafeteria. It seems like Jimin has ended his reading session for today and now he invites everyone to join the discussion about the topic. He flashes Chin-sun a gentle smile and you could swear the girl is biting her lip.

On the corner of your eye you see Taehyung smirking.

“What?” you ask.

Taehyung takes a sip of his coffee lazily (it’s always caramel macchiato), peering at Jimin. “Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if our boss really wants to settle not only with Chin-sun, but anyone in general,” he says languidly.

You furrow your brows. “What makes you think that? I mean, look at him. He probably waits with sex till marriage.” you snort.

Taehyung chuckles at your words. “Ah, sweetheart, you really know nothing about Park Jimin.”

“What do you mean?”

He moves closer to you, leaning towards your ear. “What I mean,” he whispers, “is that Park Jimin isn’t such a prude everyone thinks he is. At least he didn’t use to be.”

You raise your eyebrows at him with disbelief. “What? He’s secretly gay?” you mock.

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “I wish, but no, he isn’t,” he answers with a sigh. “Do you know Min Yoongi from emendation team?” he then asks, pointing at grey-haired man with feline eyes sitting behind Chin-sun.

You nodd your head. Min Yoongi is a hard to read guy. Always suspiciously silent, practically never leaves his office. Something makes you wonder how did Taehyung end up befriending him enough to casually gossip about the boss. You will ask him about this on another occasion.

“So here’s the thing,” Taehyung begins, lowering the volume of his voice. “He used to study at the same university in Seoul with Jimin. They even had been together in the fraternity. Yoongi-hyung told me some juicy details about our boss’ life back then.”

You frown at his words. “And you are telling me this now?!” you hiss.

“I found out literally two days ago!” Taehyung exclaims, maybe a little too loud, so you quickly place your index finger on your lips, shushing him.

“Fine. Continue.” you whisper, looking around to see if anyone pays attention to you.

“Well, Park Jimin used to be a trouble back then. A golden boy of his family in Busan, but a campus fuckboy and obnoxious heartbreaker in Seoul. He smoked cigarettes, drank enormous amounts of alcohol, got wasted on every weekend, missed classes and changed hair colors as often as his girlfriends. By the way, don’t you think he would slay pink hair?”

“Taehyung can you please–”

“Okay, okay. Enough thirsting over Jimesus. So, as you can see, there was no place for Sunday’s mass and Bible contemplation meetings in his life. And here’s the awaited plotwist. His parents somehow found out his son wasn’t living good catholic life on his studies and got extremely pissed off. They simply gave him an ultimatum: if he doesn’t stop his shenanigans, they will cut him off their money and they won’t make him Sunday’s Spirit heir.” Taehyung stops his rumbling for a while, letting you proceed all the bewildering informations about your dear boss he has just revealed.

Your eyes simply widen at the revelations.

Park Jimin, the man who organises Bible contemplation lunch breaks, a regular churchgoer, someone who you always thought has a cross tattooed on his back, was a playboy who slept with a half of the female community in the university?

Interesting.

“Rest of the story is simple. He changed his behavior, got a master degree in journalism and came back to Busan to work here. What is funny, his first position was the same as yours now,” Taehyung ends his story with a light chuckle. “Now you understand why it’s hard for me to believe he really thinks about getting married and having at least three kids.”

You look up at Park Jimin, who’s standing now in the centre of the cafeteria, with his arms crossed over his chest, nodding at one of the journalists words. His gaze is so intense and filled with such an authority that makes you understand why Chin-sun literally squirms when he looks at her that way.

It’s not hard for you to imagine him in much different surroundings.

Him, standing with a cup of beer in his hand in the middle of the crowd of drunken people at some frat party. There’s a leather jacket on his shoulders and he’s wearing tight-fitting pants that hugs his gorgeous thighs much better than his usual slacks he puts on every day before he sets off to work. He scans the room with a mishevious smirk dancing on his features, biting and licking his lips as he looks for his prey for tonight.

He then spots her, his pick for the night. He runs his fingers through his silky locks and approaches the girl, whispering dirty promises to her ear as he sways their bodies to the rhythm of loud music blasting through the speakers. Later that night he has her underneath him, begging him to touch her. He fucks her hard, leaving bruises all over her limp, exhausted body. There will be soreness between her thighs in the morning and a few violet love bites on her neck, a gentle reminder that all of this wasn’t just a dream.

But there’s no warm body next to her she could wake up to, no ‘good morning, baby’ or a second round of love making between the sheets. Because Park Jimin isn’t like that. He waited until her breath slowed down and eyelids fluttered shut, drifting her off to sleep. He left in the middle of the night, a cigarette caught between his swollen from kisses lips. He fumed the poison and smiled to himself, wondering what his parents would think when they found out. A golden boy of his family, future heir of the Park’s legacy, coming back from one of his sexcapeds with girl which name he didn’t even remember.

The Lord himself must have already cursed him and he’s currently planning the punishments for him in depths of Hell. But does Park Jimin look like he really care?

You stare blankly ahead, imagining those scenes in your head. You can’t help but squeeze your thighs because God, yes, Park Jimin is hot, even if he reads Breviary before he goes to sleep. What a shame he has changed.

A smooth like honey voice pulls you out from your airy-fairy slumber.

“Miss Y/N?”

You jolt in panic after hearing your name, glancing around and praying that wasn’t the person you think it was. But this silky, melodious voice you would recognize everywhere.

God hates you though, he knows what kind of scandalous things you were daydreaming about and now it’s his time to punish you.

Looking up, your gaze settles on no one other than Park Jimin, who stares at you with his left eyebrow raised, pursing his lips. He extinguishes the aura of pure dominance around him and you involuntarily blush, squirming under his intense glare. You’re royally screwed.

You clear your throat, trying to calm down rapidly beating heart. Without success.

“Yes, sir?” you manage to answer innocently. Certainly not like you weren’t thinking about being fucked by him minutes ago. You don’t even have time to be surprised he remembers your name.

Park Jimin looks unamazed by your sweet tone; he almost seems bored, but definitely irritated. “I asked you a question and I’m waiting for your response.” he says lowly.

Fuckfuckfuck. God have mercy on you. What was the question? Shit, you don’t even know what fragment he had read before.

In act of complete desperation you elbow Taehyung for help but this little shit pretends he has no idea what’s going on, looking at The Last Supper with sudden interest.

You are purely, loyally, utterly fucked.

You adopt the most charming smile you could muster, knowing that it will have zero affect on Park Jimin and ask, “Could you repeat the question one more time, sir? I’m afraid I didn’t hear you correctly.” Jesus, when has your voice become so high-pitched?

A cruel smirks forms on Park Jimin’s lips. He shakes his head, tsking. Taehyung mutters something under his breath that sounds dangerously close to “It was nice meeting you, sweetheart.” You gulp, waiting for your sentence and hoping Pontius Pilate will be gracious to you.

“My, my,” Jimin muses. It makes you feel like a little girl being scolded by the teacher due to her outrageous behavior. You bite your lip so hard you might draw blood, waiting for your boss’ next words. “Of course you didn’t hear my question, because you weren’t paying attention to our discussion.”

In the corner of your eye you see Chin-sun shaking her head with detestation. What a bitch, you think to yourself.

You take a deep breath then, nails digging crescent moons on the skin of your palms. You don’t like being in the spotlight, you never did, but now you have no choice but face the consequences. “My deepest apologies, sir. The behavior I exhibited was highly inappropriate,” you say, bowing your head. Jimin eyes your figure from head to toe and you might actually feel his burning gaze on your skin. Your cheeks flush in crimson even more.

The editor-in-chief seems to deliberate with himself for a while, turning his head slightly to the side, not breaking the eye contact with you. Finally, after a moment that seems to last an hour, he speaks.

“I think you need a lesson that will teach you to pay attention to our weekly discussions, miss Y/N. That’s why I want you to write a 4000 words long paper about the role of Mary Magdalene in Jesus Christ’s life which we had discussed today but you, unfortunately, didn’t acknowledge it.”

You freeze. Like a scene in the movie, everything stops. The embarassement you felt earlier is quickly replaced by pure anger and irritation. He wants you to write a fucking paper? What is this? University lectures?

Never before in your entire life have you felt so humiliated. All eyes are on you; you could practically sense how they are trying not to laugh out loud. Eunwoo and Taehyung look at you with apologetic faces while Chin-sun smirks, whispering something to Jimin’s ear.

“I apologize once again, sir,” you grit through your teeth with a forced smile. Jimin nods then, not even bothering to look at you again. You’re dismissed, that’s what his behavior is saying.

“Our meeting is over, you can go back to your work.” Jimin announces and walks away from the cafeteria with Chin-sun by his side.

You wait for everyone to leave and the you let out a groan of annoyance, burring your head in your hands.

“Hey, it could have been worse. He didn’t fire you after all.” Taehyung laughs but he quickly shuts up as soon as he sees your glare. You stand up from your chair with a scowl written all over your face, and storm out of the lunchroom.

And may the God help you.

Later that unfortunate day, you sit by your desk again, scrolling through the Ask and you shall find page absentmindedly and waiting for the new asks to come. Everyone has returned to their work like nothing has happened but it doesn’t stop you from feeling all those eyes constantly on your back. Maybe you weren’t fired but the humiliation and embarrassment of being told off by your boss publicly makes you want to disappear and never show up at the editorial again.

“Y/N,” Taehyung’s deep voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You look up at him and find the man smiling at you lightly. He’s wearing a long, camel coat and a big scarf around his neck with ridiculous patterns that reminds you of Persian diwans. He places his black camera bag on the desk, which means he’s leaving the office. “I’m free of office work for today so I just wanted to say goodbye.” he explains and you just nod.

“Bye, Taehyung. See you on Monday.” you say maybe a little bit to wryly and he feels that, letting out a long sigh.

Taehyung seems to deliberate with himself for a moment before he decides to speak again. He clears his throat audibly. “And I, uhm, I’m sorry. It’s my fault that you are in this situation. I started this conversation and I should be the one writing this stupid paper for Mister Prude.”

You can’t help but chuckle at the new nickname Taehyung gave Jimin. The anger you felt before drifts away from you slowly, and you smile at your friend apologetically. “Oh, God, Tae. I’m such a bitch sometimes, sorry,” you blurt out.”I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at him. Besides, maybe that’s good I’ve got homework. I don’t remember when was the last time I wrote some-”

Your words are interrupted by a loud laugh that resonates through the office. You look in the direction of the voice just to see Chin-sun with her manicured hand on Jimin’s chest, throwing her head back from the laughter, too dramatically for your taste. She seems to have changed her clothes, a black pencil skirt long forgotten and replaced by a red, bodycon dress. Her dark hair is also styled differently, curled and loose. She looks beautiful, matching Jimin’s appearance perfectly.

“Where are they going?” Taehyung whispers to you, furrowing his brows. You shrug your shoulders, tearing your eyes of Chin-sun and Jimin. “Maybe our Mary Magdalene’s plan to win Jesus’ heart is working. Poor Eunwoo,” he sighs, looking at his watch to check the time. “Anyway, I gotta go. I have to drive all the way to some shithole near the city to take photos of an old lady who swears she saw saint Francis or other dude with halo speaking to her,” he grumbles and you giggle at his words. “Good luck with your paper, sweetheart.” he leans and places a small peck on your cheek.

“Bye, Tae.” you say, watching him leave the office right after Jimin and Chin-sun.

You let out a long, tired sigh, counting the time to leave the office and finally be back home, with a bottle of red wine and new season of Game of Thrones that are waiting for you to watch the whole week. Then, when you’re about to stand up and make yourself another coffee, a new ask pops up in your inbox with the title ‘Sex S.O.S’.

You raise your eyebrows because honestly, what kind of title is this? Curiosity wins the battle with a hot cup of an americano and you click the show more button. You put on your prescription glasses and start reading.

Dear Sunday’s Spirit editorial,

My name is Kang Seoyeon. I study medicine at the University of Seoul, I’ve got an amazing group of friends and a loving boyfriend. And here’s where the actual problem begins. I’m from the catholic family with long traditions, and as you can guess, he isn’t.

We’ve been together for almost 2 years now and since my parents don’t want me to live with him before the marriage, there’s also no sexual life between us. I was actually surprised they agreed I can date a non-religious person in first place, so the rules weren’t that horrible at the beginning.

My boyfriend always seemed to be understanding about the fact that I’m catholic and he has never had issues against it because I stated this on the start of our relationship, but lately… he’s been distant. We meet up less often and I feel like simple kissing after 2 years isn’t enough for him. I even thought about initiating something that wouldn’t necessarily involve the real intercourse but I’m too inexperienced and shy for that. We are slowly drifting apart.

I don’t know what to do. I love him so much and I don’t want to lose him just because of some stupid rules I need to follow. I’m scared he will leave me for some other beautiful girl who wouldn’t have anything against sleeping with him, especially after considering the fact that he isn’t virgin unlike me and he experienced this kind of pleasure before.

I hope you will help me.

Yours faithfully,

Kang Seoyeon.

You blink once, twice. Read the message again and then, something snaps in you.

To Hell with these stupid, old-fashioned rules straight from the Middle Ages. To Hell with celibacy till marriage, masturbation prohibition and living according to God’s will. To Hell with Park Jimin and his ridiculous moral code (and his Bible contemplation lunchbreaks).

Unofficial eleventh commandment: If a girl wants a dick, she deserves to have it.

And that’s exactly what your response to the girl is in a nutshell.

Your blood boils in your veins with anger as you’re typing furiously on the keyboard, not even bothering to check if your sudden outburst makes any sense.

Dear Seoyeon,

It’s Y/N here, the journalist who you wrote this message to.

I don’t know what kind of response are you expecting from me but honestly? If you think I’m going to recommend you some praying to Saint Rita then you’re wrong. I’m done with this shit.

Let me make this straight: if you want to fuck your boyfriend, do it. Maybe God wouldn’t approve that but don’t worry, he won’t send you to hell because of some dick in your pussy.

They are plenty of worse things in this world than having sex with the person you love. Look at me. I’m literally writing to catholic newspaper while using words like ‘God’ and ‘Fuck’ in the same sentence. And that’s not even a small piece of what I’ve done in my life.

So you go girl, suck your boyfriend off. Make him beg. He will never leave you after this. You have my blessings and Jesus is giving you metaphysical thumbs up from above. Sex is amazing thing and you don’t have to wait for it until you say ‘yes’ in front of some guy in black cassock. Just go with the flow.

May the God help you!

Love, Y/N.

P.S. Watch out that guy. He seems suspicious. If he’s been really sex deprived for two years he will die after you give him a head.

Sent.

You exhale loudly, staring at the screen. You did that. Six months into working in Sunday’s Spirit and the time when you lost your temper has finally come. You should probably feel ashamed or have some type of conscience pangs but actually you aren’t even near this state.

Grinning to yourself, you delete the message you had sent to the girl from your inbox and check the time. It’s almost 5pm and it looks like you haven’t even realised you’re the only person at the office right now. Since it’s Friday and Jimin has already left, seems like everyone has decided to set off earlier too.

You turn off your computer, packing your things to the bag. Wrapping a scarf around your neck tightly, you leave the building, welcoming the coolness of the early Spring evening in Busan.

When you’re about to cross the street, your phone buzzes in the pocket of your coat. You stop for a moment, smiling to yourself when you read the message.

[04:23pm] from Tae: hey

[04:23pm] from Tae: i know you are probably planning an evening with mary magdalene n jesus but

[04:23pm] from Tae: wouldnt u want to go for drinks with me tonight?

[04:23pm] from Tae: same place as usual

[04:24pm] from Tae: as a wise man once said: nothing helps better for the writer’s block than vodka

[04:24pm] from Tae: so what do u say?

You don’t need to think twice when you quickly type a response. Game of Thrones and wine can wait till another time.

[04:26pm] from me: how could i say no to kim taehyung and vodka?

[04:26pm] from me: see u there

Kim’s is a place like no one other in Busan.

You wouldn’t even know about its existence if it wasn’t Taehyung who took you there first when you started working at Sunday’s Spirit, solemnly promising free drinks. Who would you be if you didn’t agree to that?

When you arrived at the bar, it eventually turned out the alcohol was costless hence it’s his family business since over thirty years and his brother Namjoon is a bartender, not because Taehyung willingly decided to pay for you.

Kim’s is located in rather industrial part of the city, sandwiched between factories and huge housing estates, not looking really inviting at first glance, but the place has its own, unique charm. There are some stories, shrouding the building’s history in mystery. Some people say it used to be headquarters of the most dangerous mafia in Busan, some even believe it served as the secret arsenal during the Korean War.

But what’s definitely true, it’s the fact that Taehyung’s parents bought this place in swinging times of 80s for a small amount of money and turned the place into disco bar which had become a must-go spot for young people in Busan.

Kim’s on the outside, with its large red neon sign hanging above the entrance, looks more like a night club than a bar, but on the inside the magic of kitschy 80s still remains the same (Taehyung swears retro is in fashion these days and that’s why he didn’t let his parents redecorate when they wanted to).

You always feel like you’re traveling back in time when you visist Kim’s.

The place is quite big, with a large dancefloor in the middle and red leather sofas strewn around the place along with the tables. Walls are made of brick and colorful, vibrant neon lights are shimmering on them. Oh, not to mention the huge disco ball on the ceiling. Everything accompanied with the quality music provided by Namjoon.

There are few billiard and foosball tables in the corner of the bar, always occupied by the same group of middle-aged men on weekdays and university students on weekends. But the thing that attract attention of the customers the most, is the bar with Namjoon behind it.

When you enter the place, you spot Taehyung and his blond mop of hair immediately. He sits on one of the bar stools, talking to his older brother. He’s wearing beige pants and floral button-up shirt that seems to match colors with his pinkish-looking drink he holds. You notice a new pair of sapphire earrings and a huge ring from the same collection on his forefinger. Classy, as always.

Taehyung grins broadly when he sees you. He puts his drink on the counter and stands up to greet you. His breath smells like strawberries and vodka when he leans to place his usual, small peck on your cheek. “Hi, sweetheart,” he says with his signature smirk plastered on his face, scanning your figure. “You look gorgeous. Last time you did this kind of make-up you wanted to get laid.”

You rolls your eyes at his words, sitting on a stool next to him. “Hi, Taehyung. Thank you for appreciating my efforts to look like a decent human being but no, I’m not planning on getting laid tonight.” you answer, waving to Namjoon who makes drinks for a group of girls a few meters from you. He smiles bashfully at you, showing his dimples.

“I’m not saying you want a fuck, calm down. I just assumed since it’s not everyday that you put eyeliner on,” Taehyung explains himself. “So let me do that again,” He takes a deep breath, placing a hand on his chest in a dramatic manner. “Y/N, you look absolutely breathtaking. I could stare at you for hours and I wouldn’t mind that even a bit. My homosexuality is at risk right now.”

You ignore his exeggarated outburst, rolling your eyes. “I’m not using eyeliner everyday because there’s something called dresscode in our work, you know?” you say. “Besides, my mum says you should look good on every occasion because you don’t know when you will meet the love of your life.”

Taehyung puts a hand on his heart and sighs with relief. “Thank God I always look good.”

You chuckle and then your eyes wander for a moment to Namjoon, who seems busy listening to whatever the pink-haired girl is telling him with polite smile on his face.

“Here,” Taehyung nudges your side, bringing your attention back to him. He hands you the same pinkish drink as he was drinking when you arrived. “Hyung told me it’s their new specialty or something. It’s called Flamingo’s Beach,” he says and you take the glass in your hand. “I have no idea what Namjoonie-hyung put here but as long as it looks good, it’s good. Cheers!” Taehyung sips his one and watches you with raised eyebrows as you’re taking a generous gulp of the drink. “And…?” he asks.

You lick your lips, humming to yourself. “Not bad. Tastes like strawberries.”

Taehyung opens his mouth to say something but he gets interrupted by his brother. “Y/N, hi. How are you?” Namjoon approaches you with two beer mugs in his hands.

His hair is back to his natural brown color now, purple strands long forgotten since the last time you saw him. It looks like he’s been working out lately, his posture more bulky and it makes his black shirt stick to his body tightly. Namjoon’s good-looking, you always knew that, but he seems to be even more handsome now.

“Hey, I’ve been good, thank you,” you greet him with maybe too much enthusiasm for your liking. You always had a weak spot for him. “How’s the bar going?” you ask.

“Busy, as you can see,” he replies, chuckling to himself. “I would love to talk to you more but I have some work to do in back room, so…” Namjoon trails off sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head with his hand.

“Oh, it’s okay. We can catch up another time.” You smile at him and you could swear his cheeks flushed.

“I’ll be going. See you.” Namjoon stammers out, not even waiting for your response before he disappears from your sight.

The pregnant silence sets in between you and Taehyung, something heavy hangs in the air and you feel it, tapping your fingers on the counter to the rhythm of one of the ABBA songs, waiting impatiently.

Taehyung looks like he’s debating with himself in his head. You narrow your eyes. He’s adopted a face you know pretty well, too well even. He looks everywhere but keep avoiding your gaze. He wants to ask you something, you’re sure of it, but he doesn’t know how.

Finally, after a moment of awkward quietness, Taehyung finally opens his mouth. “So, here’s the thing,” he starts and you wait for the bomb to drop.

Last time when he approached you like that, he asked you if you would be down for a threesome with him and some guy he met on Tinder. Your eyes almost popped out of your head when you heard his blunt proposition. You were eating lunch at cafeteria and the words casually slipped from between his lips as he chewed on his egg sandwich, like he didn’t just propose you having sex with him and instead asked for a lift to home after work.

Taehyung begged you for a whole week, pleading and convincing it’ll be fun. When you eventually agreed (sex draught make people do stupid things), the other guy didn’t show up. You ended up drinking tequila shots with Taehyung that night in his apartment, and you can’t quite recall how it happened, but somehow you found yourself unzipping your friend’s pants and the rest is history. He passed out right after he came. Now when you think about it, you feel a sudden urge to ask him if he remembers that.

You will do it next time, you promise yourself.

Taehyung though doesn’t ask you about having a threesome or robbing Park Jimin’s house this time. His intentions are pretty much different.

“See, Namjoon split up with his girlfriend few weeks ago,” he says and you prick your ears. “He’s not in good condition right now, as you can see. It was a nasty break up, he found out she’s been cheating on him,” He lets out a long sigh. You bite your lip, imagining Namjoon’s disappointed face when he discovered the truth. What a bitch cheats on someone like him? “So, I thought maybe you could… cheer him up a little bit?” Taehyung ends hesitantly, with a glint of hope in his eyes.

You frown. Cheer him up? Did he just imply what you think about?

“Look, I get it, he’s sad and angry, but what the fuck, Taehyung? What do you want me to do? Do you want me to be his rebound? Make him forget?” you exclaim. Taehyung quickly shakes his head but you don’t let him say anything. “I feel sorry for Namjoon but I’m not going to take advantage of him when he’s literally still hurt.”

“No, it’s not like that!” Taehyung rushes to explain. “Well, maybe it sounded like that but I swear, I didn’t mean that!”

“Then what should I do? Wipe his tears? Tell him a joke? Or maybe-”

“Of course he wants you to suck his brother’s heartbroken dick, doll.”

A sudden, low voice interrupts your conversation. Your eyes follow the direction when it comes from, looking to Taehyung’s left where not even a meter away a very familiar grey-haired man with feline eyes sits.

“Min Yoongi,” you say matter-of-factly.

The leader of emendation team from Sunday’s Spirit editorial raises his hand in which he holds whiskey, greeting you and Taehyung. “Hello, doll. Hello, Taehyung,” he says, not even bothering to look at you.

You elbow Taehyung searching for explanation but he shrugs his shoulders, turning to face the man as well.

“First of all, since when do you call me ‘doll’? We have never spoken a word to each other. Secondly, how long have you been sitting here and listening?” you ask Yoongi.

He snorts, smirking. “Long enough to know how Taehyung comforts his brother after break up.” he simply answers and Taehyung’s cheeks blush in crimson at his words.

“You come here often? I’ve never seen you here before,” you continue, crossing your arms over chest.

Next to you Taehyung lets out a sigh. “Yes, he does. Albeit I haven’t seen him for a while here,” You look at him in confusion. “Yoongi-hyung is Namjoonie-hyung close friend from university days.” he clarifies.

You raise your eyebrows at that. “So Namjoon went to the same school as Park Jimin?”

“Not the same. We met under different circumstances.” Yoongi cuts in.

“They’ve been together in underground rap group, or some shit. Didn’t like each other at first but eventually stuck together till the end of studies.” Taehyung ends and grey-haired man nods.

You can’t help but chuckle at that.

“What’s funny in that?” Yoongi scowls.

“Nothing. I just imagined you and Namjoon in snapbacks, rapping about the unfairness of social hierarchy,” you say, grinning at him.

“Well, you may believe me or not, but we even made a mixtape.” Yoongi reveals proudly, taking a sip of his whiskey.

Your eyes widen in curiosity. “Then what happened? Why aren’t you in Seoul now, still producing music? Why do you work in this stupid newspaper and Namjoon’s a bartender?” you ask interrogatively.

“Life happened, doll. We didn’t have enough money to publish our works so we decided to quit it.”

“Oh,” you breathe out.

You could see the nostalgia written across Yoongi’s face. You feel sorry for him, for Namjoon. Everything is always about the money. That’s why you’re working in Sunday’s Spirit even though it was never your dream in first place. Even though you have much higher ambitions than being Ask and you shall find column author.

Ever since you were little, you loved writing. You never complained, not even once, when your teachers in school assigned you to write something. They kept saying you have an extraordinary talent and it would be a shame if you didn’t do anything with that.

During your high school years, you were the leader of school newspaper’s team, still writing your own works every time you didn’t have something different to do. After that, you got to the university in Seoul, your another dream came true. You got a master degree, an apprenticeship in the Korean version of highly popular, world-widely known magazine. And then, nothing. No job applications available. No newspapers or publishing companies wanting you, dismissing you right away because they didn’t have any vacant places.

This is how Sunday’s Spirit, even if that’s not your dream job, happened. And quite literally saved your ass.

“I’m sorry.” you say after a while.

Yoongi smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t be. What’s in past, stays in past.” he ends the conversation, drinking the rest of his whiskey.

You find this as a perfect possibility to do what you’ve come here for: get wasted, forget about this prick Park Jimin and his stupid assignment. You turn around on your stool to face the bar again, calling for the red-haired bartender named Hoseok who’s substituting Namjoon right now. You order a round of tequilla shots and quickly pours two of them in one go.

“Easy, tiger,” Taehyung teases, still sipping his pink drink as you wipe your chin with the back of your hand. Taehyung has stated a long time ago that he enjoys only casual drinking, which makes you and you lightweightness snort at him.

“Loser,” you mumble under your breath, deep down knowing you’re oh so much going to regret this after.

You focus your attention on the dancefloor now; technicolor lights glittering as the crowd of sweaty people bounce to old Madonna hits. You feel like your spirit might actually experience new kind of awakening during the chorus in Like a Virgin. You mouth the lyrics, the vodka already half-way to your bopping head. Your drunken self almost asks Taehyung and Yoongi if they would agree to be your backup dancers.

You eyes scan the room carefully and then, you spot him. He’s sitting in the corner, his arms splayed over the backrest of the red couch. A devil himself. A black horseman of the Apocalypse. A man who looks like every girl’s next mistake. Taylor Swift’s ‘we are never ever getting back together’.

A true sin.

Jet-black hair parted in the middle, onyx eyes and lucious smirk written across his lips as he bites them purposefully. He’s wearing a leather jacket and you wonder for a while if you would find inked tattoos on his body. He cocks his head to the side, his eyes glued to the same spot as he waits for something, or rather someone.

“Who’s that?” you ask, not even hiding your curiosity at this point.

Taehyung turns around as well, his eyes glancing to the dark-haired man briefly. “Ah, this, sweetheart, is Jeon Jungkook, Park Jimin’s best friend.” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You raise your eyebrows, watching as Jungkook’s face expression immediately changes when waitress approaches him. He says something to her that makes her roll her eyes. She tightens her grip around the tray she’s holding, asking him for his order.

“Don’t worry. You are not the only one thirsting over him. I would let him top me too,” Taehyung whispers to your ear and you flinch.

“I’m not thirsting over him! I came her for drinks, not to get laid, I told you.”

“Okay, okay, loosen up a little. Tequilla makes you aggressive. Besides, it looks like he’s got his pick for tonight.”

Jungkook stretches out his hand and fixes the waitress’ glasses that seem to rode down her nose a little. The girl frozes in place because of his action and he grins, calling her cute.

“He’s trying to ask her out for two months,” Yoongi interrupts suddenly, again. It looks like he has nothing better to do tonight. “I’m serious. He’s here every Friday. Normally, he would have given up after the second time she had rejected him but there’s might be something in this girl that makes his dick hard and his heart soft.”

Jungkook’s eyes girl’s body as she bends to pick up the glasses from other tables and maybe that’s the alcohol swimming in your veins but you could swear his face lights up when she sends him another irritated glare when he calls her name.

“Does Park Jimin comes here often as well?” you ask before you could stop yourself.

Both Taehyung and Yoongi shake their heads.

“I don’t think so. Jeon comes here because he lives nearby in this huge ass apartment complex. His father runs a chemical factory and he works there.” Taehyung explains.

Jeon? Chemical factory? Something clicks in your brain. Right, you know who his father is. The King of Washing Powder. Another rich as fuck Busan’s snob.

“God, I hate him. I fucking hate him. What a prick. Douchebag. Asshole of the century,” The string of profanities leaves poor waitress’ mouth as she walks to the counter with tray in her hands. “How’s your day, love? You look beautiful today, love. Fucking leave me alone, love!” she mutters to herself, taking the beer mugs from Hoseok abruptly which makes the bartender raise his eyebrows in confusion.

“How’s your assignment about Mary Magdalene going on, doll?” Yoongi asks then, startling you.

You roll your eyes at him. “I literally got it today, Yoongi. I haven’t started yet.” you answer, gulping another shot.

On the corner of your eye you see Yoongi’s smirking. “I’m surprised, to be honest. You aren’t the only one who doesn’t pay attention to shit Jimin’s says,” he trails off. “I work for him from the moment he started this ridiculous Bible lunch breaks and I swear, he’s never called out someone like that before.”

“What do you mean he’s never called out someone before?” Taehyung joins in curiously.

“Look, I slept through the majority of these sessions and Jimin knows it, but he has never lecture me about it,” Yoongi remarks. “Maybe you’re an exception. Or he’s become more strict because of this bitch Chin-sun.”

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. You know Chin-sun has been making heart eyes for Jimin for a long time but what why it might have an influence on his behavior?

“Lee Chin-sun? What the office’s Mary Magdalene has to do with that? Besides the fact that she’s drooling for his dick every time she sees him,” Taehyung snorts.

Yoongi chuckles lowly. “Oh, so you two really know nothing about what’s going on between them right now,”

“What’s going on right now? Spill.” Taehyung says abruptly. You sigh when you see the way his eyes flicker with mischeviousness. One thing Taehyung loves more than photography and fashion is gossiping (and dicks).

“First of all, Chin-sun is a fucking bigot. And well… she might be closer to being miss Park than we thought.” Yoongi muses.

Taehyung eyebrows practically disappear in his hairline. You’re sure you mirror his expression right now.

Yoongi asks Hoseok for another glass of whiskey and continues. “My friend Seokjin’s wife is Jimin’s personal assistant and secretary. She heard this and that, quite juicy things I must say,” he says in a lower tone, like he’s revealing government secrets to them. You lean closer into his direction along with Taehyung. “Chin-sun’s father recently bought the claims to the most popular, conservative TV station in whole South Korea. But, what is more interesting, it looks like Park senior has some shares in it as well.”

You’re astonished. You knew there’s something looming in the air but you didn’t expect this. A TV station? Even your slightly drunken brain can calculate it’s very interesting.

“So the marriage between Chin-sun and Jimin would be pretty convenient for their families, especially after considering the fact that Jimin is the heir.” Yoongi adds, gulping the first sip of his new whiskey.

“Poor Eunwoo,” you whisper to yourself.

“But why so soon? Why do they want to legalize their relationship so suddenly?” Taehyung asks.

Yoongi lets out a heavy sigh. “There’s a rumour going around that Jimin’s father isn’t in good condition right now. Seokjin-hyung mentioned something about the heart disease. So, if that’s really true, you have the answer why he wants his eldest son to settle down already. Everything’s about the money, I told you.”

Taehyung whistles. “Woah, so Mary Magdalene is really about to be CEO Jesus’ wife soon!” he exclaims, clapping his hands. “Brilliant. Finally something spicy is happening in this boring editorial.”

“I wouldn’t be so enthusiastic if I were you, Taehyung. This kind of business never ends well,” Yoongi says coldly, placing his glass on the counter and standing up from the stool. He glances at his watch and throws a few bills next to his empty glass. “I’ll get going. It was nice talking to you, doll.”

“What about me?”

“Shut up, Taehyung, you’re not pretty lady.”

“I feel offended.”

“And I don’t care,” Yoongi mutters. Maybe that was alcohol swimming in her veins but you saw Taehyung lifting the corners of his lips in amusement. Weird. “Good luck on your assignment, doll. See you all on Monday.” Yoongi glances to your way one last time, adjusting his jacket.

“Bye, Yoongi.” you wave to him and a small, even sincere smile appears on his face when he as well raises his hand lazily and leaves. “Why didn’t you tell me he’s actually nice, Tae? I was always too scared to start a conversation with him because I felt intimidated.” you say after a while.

“I’m sorry, should have I set you up for a date with him?” Taehyung mocks.

A groan escapes your lips. “Could you please stop insinuating things?”

“You need to get laid, seriously. Like soon-soon. You get easily irritated recently. You need a d i c k,”

“I don’t need a dick!”

“A cock, Y/N,” Taehyung emphasizes. “A penis in your precious vagina.”

“Shut up!”

Several shots and a few drunken dances to Cindi Lauper and Bon Jovi, you’re pretty much wasted. And maybe, just maybe, you need a dick. And Taehyung, like a dipshit he always is, thinks that’s actually funny.

“Don’t wanna homff,” you slur, supporting your weight on Taehyung’s arm that shakes with laughter at your drunken antics, as well as his whole body. “I wanna danfce witfh somebodyyy,”

“Holy Mother of Jesus, you must be really drunk if you started referring to Whitney Houston’s songs. And you smell like booze,” Taehyung mutters under his breath and you whine, tugging on his arm.

“TaeTae, Taehyungie, pffleasee, can we go back?”

Taehyung ignores your grumbling completely. He exists the bar, walking (or rather dragging) you to the cab. As he tries to push your body to the car, he sees in the corner of his eye Jeon Jungkook, standing in front of his black SUV. The waitress from earlier accompanies him as well. It looks like he’s trying to convince her to let him give her a lift to home. The girl shakes her head at first but eventually gives up, stepping into the car. Jungkook grins to himself then, clenching his fists in gesture of pure triumph.

“I fuckin’ hate Park Jimin and his stfupid newspaper,” you mutter incoherently as you bury your head in the crook of Taehyung’s neck in the back of the cab. Old, korean songs are playing in the radio when you’re driving back home. Taehyung smiles to himself, hearing your light snores. But then, he falters.

Ah, yes, he almost forgot. It is going to be a long way to the third floor of your apartment building.

Next day, you wake up in the middle of noon with raging headache and an abrupt need to throw everything up. Frankly speaking, you had worse hangovers during you university days but it doesn’t change the fact that the state you’re currently in still sucks.

“Oh, good God, what have I thought?” you mutter to yourself while standing in the shower, letting the water cool you down.

Truth to be told, a drinking escapade when you have a whole ass paper to write in two days wasn’t the smartest idea you could come up with. You know that for sure, when you’re sitting down in front of your laptop with prescription glasses on your face and a cup of tea in your hand.

There’s a blank document opened on the screen, with only your name written in the corner and the title in the middle. You feel pathetic and useless, staring at it for 30 minutes straight. If you keep sitting like this, you might actually call Park Jimin right now and beg him not to fire you due to your incompetence.

“Get your shit together, Y/N.” you say to yourself, clenching your fists.

At first you fought about making some mind-map, outlining the most important parts of your essay, as you always used to do when you were studying. But there’s a huge difference between what you’re working on right now and what you usually did during academic days. Above all, at that time you were writing about things you had more knowledge about, not about Mary Magdalene and her role in Jesus Christ’s life.

“Ah, fuck it.”

You open an online Bible page and quickly type ‘Mary Magdalene’ in browser. All fragments when she’s mentioned shows up in front of your eyes. You fix your glasses and before you could stop yourself, you whisper, “Let’s get it.”

You don’t know how much time has passed since you started reading, but when you glance a the clock it’s nearly 7pm.

You went through every single page in the Bible when Mary Magdalene appears or when for some reason her name comes up in conversations. You read two thesis in which you found quite interesting facts about the heroine of your work. Also, you watched some conspiracy theories on YouTube about her, in which people claim that she was actually Jesus’ wife. You were bewildered, even in your post-hangover state.

And after all of this researching, you have settled a plan. You’re a journalist for God’s sake, you’ve been writing your entire life and none assignment will break you. So you start typing on the keyboard, filling the blank document pages with words, hoping that Park Jimin will approve your efforts.

On Sunday, you look like a ghost.

You’re a mess, cured from hangover but still in bad shape, especially after spending the whole night writing in front of your laptop. There are bangs under your eyes and you hair looks like you could cosplay a scarecrow. Your eyes are sore from staring to the screen for so long and you feel like you might collapse anytime if you won’t drink coffee in five minutes.

In between writing next paragraphs, you answer a call from Taehyung.

“How’s your assignment going, sweetheart?”

You let out a long, exhausted sigh. “It’s fine, I guess.” you respond to him.

“That’s lovely! I knew you would slay this, babe,” you hear him saying.

“I’m not done yet, Tae. I still have like a half to write,” you mumble and then let out a yawn, closing your eyes for a brief second before you speak again. “I would love to talk to you more but I really need to get this shit done as soon as I can, so I could have some decent sleep before Monday. I don’t want to look like an old witch when I hand in the paper to Park Jimin.”

“I know, I know. You got this, sweetheart. I’m sure you will make Mister Prude’s dick hard because of this.” Taehyung assures you.

You crack a tired smile even though you know he doesn’t see you. “Thank you, Tae.”

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” he says and hangs up.

You take another gulp of your coffee and start writing again.

It’s a little past midnight when you’re, with your last amounts of force you posses, typing the last words of the paper. As you look at your laptop screen, eyelids half-closed, you dream about nothing but going to sleep.

You did that. You really did. You wrote this stupid paper for Park Jimin and you’re actually proud of it. You carefully save the document three times (to be hundred percent sure) and as soon as you close your laptop, you pass out.

Little did you know what is waiting for you in editorial in a few hours.

You stare at your reflection in small mirror you hold, thanking God that he has enlightened the person who discovered make-up. You won’t say you look stunning but, after five hours of sleep you had in last two days, you would risk it all and say you appear much more than decent looking. You’re wearing your new black jumpsuit that makes your legs look longer and you even used a different shade of lipstick, painting your lips in crimson red.

And all of this for nothing, because when you stormed into the Sunday’s Spirit editorial to give the paper straight to Park Jimin’s hands, his secretary with polite smile said he’s coming to work later today.

You pursued your lips and handed the woman your blood, sweat and tears (you’re actually sure a few tears rolled down from your face on the keyboard while you were writing it), wishing you saw your boss’ face when you place the printed pages on his expensive desk.

“I changed a little bit the topic of my work while I was outlining it,” you tell Taehyung as you both sit together by your desks later that day. “I focused more on a role of Mary Magdalene character in world ruled only by men. I showed how a powerful woman she was, standing at Jesus’s side even though the church for the centuries referred her to whore,” you explain.

“Wow,” Taehyung muses. “You turned Mary Magdalene into feminism icon fighting against patriarchy.”

“It’s not like that!” You hit him in the arm. “You may laugh as much as you want but I actually got into her story.”

Taehyung smirks. “Looks like being scolded by Park Jimin wasn’t that bad.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up. I got humiliated in the middle of fucking cafeteria. I still hate him. And also, I don’t know what he thinks about my essay.” you say with a sigh.

“Don’t worry. He’s probably having an epiphany right now while-”

A voice from the speakers that certainly doesn’t sound like gospel choir interrupts him.

“Miss Y/N, please report to the Park Jimin’s office immadietly.”

“-or he isn’t.” Taehyung ends.

Once again, you’re frozen in place. It’s okay, you tell yourself, maybe he just wants to talk about my essay. But what if he didn’t like it? What if your sudden feminism outburst about Mary Magdalene was too much?

“Holy fuck.” you blurt out quietly.

Taehyung gives you an encouraging smile but he doesn’t look much convinced in positive intentions of summoning you to their boss’ office, he just doesn’t say it aloud. “Well, maybe it won’t be that bad! Maybe he wants to congratulate you,” he tries to comfort you, without success. You look horribly pale and scared to death.

“I repeat: miss Y/N, please report to the Park Jimin’s office immadietly.” Jimin’s stone cold voice pierce through the silence again. You shiver. The journalists in the editorial send you impatient glares.

“Whatever happens, remember that I love you.” Taehyung whispers, squizzing your hand, which makes you even more nervous. He gives you thumbs-up and you take a deep breath, trying to calm your trembling body. A whole Sunday’s Spirit team follow your movements with their eyes.

You stands from your desk on wobbly legs and walk to the door with golden sign hanging on its surface.

Park Jimin

Editor-in-chief

You take the knob in your shaking palm and twist, stepping into the lion’s den.

The atmosphere seems to shift when you walk into the room. You could hear your heart rapidly beating through the dead silence that lingers in Park Jimin’s office. “You wanted to see me, sir?” you ask after closing the door, subconsciously cursing yourself for sounding so weak already.

“Yes, have a seat,” Jimin says. “Give me a second. I need to finish something.” he adds when you sit down, not even bothering to spare you a look.

Jimin sits behind his desk, eyes glued to the computer screen. His hair is pushed back from his forehead, his jaw clenched. Oh, great, he looks pissed, you think to yourself.

He isn’t wearing his suit jacket like usually, which surprises you. His white shirt’s sleeves are rolled up, revealing a glimpse of veiny hands and his Rolex. This is the first time you see him like this. He looks so… unlike him.

Strange.

You use the time you have to take in your surroundings. Jimin’s office is painted in fair tone of grey. The rumors were actually right, there’s a smaller version of Michelangelo’s Pietà standing proudly on of the drawers. Behind the desk, on the wall, hangs a wooden cross with gold-plated figurine of Jesus Christ, and just underneath it there’s a framed picture of Lady of Fatima, which he once proudly showed to the whole editorial team on one of the lunchbreaks, saying his grandmother brought him this from her pilgrimage.

You focus your attention now on the wall filled with numerous diplomas and certificates, all of them signed with Park Jimin’s name.

You had read some of his works before you started your job in Sunday’s Spirit and you must admit: Park Jimin is a talented, smart journalist you aspire to be one day. It’s actually sad, you think, that he can’t pursue his career, wasting his abilities by working in catholic newspaper owned by his father. And as you know from Yoongi, his situation isn’t going to change soon. Maybe he was right after all. Money really does rule this world.

After a few minutes that seems to last forever, Jimin breaks the silence. “Do you know why are you here?” he asks, finally averting his attention to you. He stares so deeply into your eyes that you feel you might faint from the intensity of his aura.

You clear your throat, and then respond. “I do believe it’s about my paper I handed in to you this morning.”

Jimin raises his eyebrow at that. “Your paper? No, everything’s fine about it. I read it and I must say, you did a great job,” he says and you furrow your eyebrows. So if nothing’s is wrong with your essay then what does he want?

“Then… why did you call me in, sir?” you hesitantly ponder.

Jimin laces his fingers together and leans closer over the desk. “Well,” he begins, “Maybe you forgot or you really didn’t know about it, but I used to run the same column as you do now,” You nod your head, recalling what Taehyung told you recently. Jimin continues, “I was actually the one who created it. That means I am still, for this day, its administrator. Which leads to another conclusion: every single ask that is send to our editorial and your responses to them can be monitored by me.” he explains, gauging your reaction. You still don’t have an idea why is he telling you that, so you just sit still and wait.

Then, Jimin reaches for the paper that lays on the left side of his desk and hands it to you. “Could you please tell me what is this?” he asks, pointing at the paper.

You glance at it briefly. “These are the questions I got last week and my responses to them.” you reply straightaway.

Park Jimin doesn’t seem much satisfied after hearing your words. He then takes another paper and gives it to you as well. “And this particular one, Y/N? Could you please read it and tell me what is this?”

Ignoring his forego of ‘miss’, you take it to your hands and start reading.

Dear Sunday’s Spirit editorial,

My name is Kang Seoyeon. I study medicine at the University of Seoul, I’ve got an amazing group of friends and a loving boyf-

You gasp and immadietly put a palm over your mouth. Under Seoyeon’s ask there’s also, clear as day, your much inappropriate response to her. In which you persuade the girl to suck her boyfriend off.

Holy fuck. Jesus Christ. Shitshitshit!

Jimin said he monitors everything that people send to the editorial along with the responds. Of course he had to read it. Why have you been so dumb? How could you believe that simple deleting from your inbox would be enough? Why can’t you do something properly for once?

You gulp, trying not to cry because good God, he’s going to fire you. He will kick you out and write a bunch of negative letters to your future employees, in which he will explain in details how disobiedent, reckless of a worker you are.

“Did you also forget how to speak?” Jimin asks. You almost cry out right away from the coldness of his voice.

You muster up a courage and look at him, and that’s a huge mistake because as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re lost for words.”I-I don’t know what to say, sir,” you stammer out. “I have nothing for my defence. I can only apologize for my irresponsible and inappropriate behavior I exhibited.” you say, bowing your head down.

Jimin pursues his lips. He stands from his chair and walks to you, leaning his body on the desk. He takes the paper from you to his hands and starts reading. “If you want to fuck your boyfriend, do it. Maybe God wouldn’t approve that but don’t worry, he won’t send you to hell because of some dick in your pussy,“ he quotes your response to the girl and your cheeks flush in red; you wish nothing more than to disappear and never see your boss again. But he’s relentless and continues reading, spilling the crude words, humiliating you even more. “So you go girl, suck your boyfriend off. Make him beg. He will never leave you after this.“ Jimin chuckles to himself darkly and you shut your eyes. “Look at me when you are spoken to,” he demands. You quickly oblige, lifting your chin a little to meet his intense gaze. “Is that really how a good, catholic girl should act?” he asks in a mocking tone.

You shake your head. “No, it isn’t.”

Jimin clicks his tongue. “Do you think he really won’t leave her after this?” he asks out of the blue.

You furrow your eyebrows. What kind of twisted game is he playing now? “I don’t know, sir.” you answer honestly.

Jimin smirks. Devilishly, sultry and completely illegal. He then licks his lips and leans closer to you. You could swear his eyes are darken than before. Something has shifted in his demeanor; he looks daring. “Why don’t you show me then, how this poor girl should suck her boyfriend off, Y/N?” he whispers lowly.

Your eyes widen. Did he just-?

He didn’t. He can’t. Maybe you misheard him, maybe you started imagining things that aren’t real. Oh, sweet Lord, the look of absolute seriousness written on his face tells you very much different.

Park Jimin, your boss, the man who goes regularly on masses and reads Bible, wants you to give him a head. In his office.

May the God help you.

You should probably slap him in the face for his immoral proposition. You should save your dignity, leave and never come back again. But then, you clear your mind from all those twisted thoughts running through it and you realise that you’re walking on a very thin line. Line which is called unemployment and bankruptcy.

You think about your landlord who praised you recently for keeping up with rent every month regularly. You think about your student loans that you still need to pay.

And fuck, you hate Yoongi because he was damn right. Money wouldn’t buy you happiness, but it can provide you that.

That’s why you put away the humiliation, the what ifs. You shut your mind screaming at you and listing the future consequences. Maybe Jimin just tests you, but the way he looks at you denies it. He wants to see you on your knees in front of him. Perhaps he only wants to play before he fires you but you put that thought aside.

You at least need to try.

Jimin searches for any kind of protest in your eyes and when he doesn’t find it, he’s back to his domineering self. “What are you waiting for?” he asks, his voice an octave lower. “Get on your knees.”

He has a calm expression on his face and you wonder for a moment how many times has he been in similar situation before. Having a woman on his mercy and using her the way he likes. And now you know. All those stories you heard about, are actually true. Park Jimin isn’t a prude. He’s dirty.

You fall to the floor with a light whimper. Maybe it’s the last chance for you to leave, but the confidence that emanates from Jimin doesn’t falter your movements. You hate yourself for that but God, you want to see this man being a mess for your touch. Even if that’s fucked up.

And it’s wrong, so, so wrong, when there’s a cross hanging behind you, when he’s your boss who claims to be a good catholic, when you do that because you’re too afraid to lose your job. But in that moment, the morality doesn’t exist.

Jimin stands up to take his belt off, looking at you from the above as he slowly, purposefully pulls it from the belt loops. He doesn’t encourage you or say anything, he just waits. You gulp when he yanks his black slacks down, along with his underwear.

For a few, solid seconds, you just stare.

You aren’t a connoisseur of dicks. Dick is a dick, but Park Jimin’s length is just as perfect as the rest of him, semi-hard against his lower stomach. Your hands move to his sculpted thighs, running up and down, tracing the prominent lines of his toned abdomen. The muscles tense underneath your touch.

You don’t remember when was the last time you’ve gone down on someone. Maybe it was Taehyung few months ago when you were both too drunk to care? You can’t quite recall. Every move of yours is uncertain, but Jimin doesn’t mind. Maybe your uncertainty turns him on even more.

He watches as you take him in your palm hesitantly, hot and already stiff, stroking him several times until he hardens in your hand. The sight is purely erotic, filthy, and you lick your lips before placing a light kiss on his tip. Jimin hisses. That’s a warning. No teasing.

You pump him, trailing a thumb over his slit, spreading precum all over his cock. Jimin doesn’t say anything but from the shuddering breath he lets out you assume he likes it. You take a deep breath, wrapping your lips around his dick and swirling your tongue around the head.

Jimin groans, a guttural sound resonating through his whole body and you take it as a sign to continue. You ease more of him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and bobbing your head up and down around his length obediently. Some twisted and fucked-up part of you wants him to praise you, call you good girl with your lips around his dick and throbbing core. He does none of that. His hands tangle in your hair as he withdraws, and you know exactly what’s coming next.

It’s an unspoken question on his lips and your jaw falls slacks on command.

A forceful push of his hips and he’s burried deep inside your mouth till he hits the back of your throat. Tears brim in your eyes and you gag, breathing heavily through your nose. It hurts a little, a dull ache but the content sigh and fucked-out expression on Jimin’s face is worth it. So you let him fuck your mouth the way he wants, let him pull your hair harder, wreck you a little more. It’s so easy to submit to him, to let him overwhelm you in every sense possible.

Your eyes fall shut and Jimin stops his movements, pulling from your mouth. Drool dribbles down your chin and you wipe it with the back of your hand. Jimin lets out a shaky breath, staring down at you so intensely it makes your insides tighten, even if you don’t see him yet.

“Look at me,” he rasps and you do, how could you not. The sight of your boss’ flushed cheeks and sweat forming on his forehead will be imprinted in your mind forever.

You curse yourself for wanting him to fuck you senseless right against his deck, with a hand around your throat muffling your screams, fuck you so hard you won’t remember your name anymore, no matter how wrong it is.

“Good girl. You’re so pretty like this, letting me fuck your mouth,” Jimin nothing but purrs, filling you to the brim again, until there are tears forming in your eyes and running down your cheeks, until he hits the base of your throat again and again and you fight back choked gags every time. “Just like that, fuck-” he moans, lowly and beautifully, head thrown back and mouth parted.

He’s close, you could feel that, so you take him deep once again and when your throat tightens around him one last time, he lets out a gutural groan and comes. You swallow every drop of his bitter release and when he pulls out from your mouth, you nearly fall forward.

Jimin catches you, placing his hands on your shoulders, balancing your exhausted body. You look at him through your half-lidded eyes. He looks so young now, so innocent, his cold demeanor’s gone and replaced by pure bliss written on his face. For Park Jimin, cheeks rosy, disheveled hair and loosen tie, you would do it all over again.

He then does something unexpected. He reaches for your face, brushing your tangled hair away and placing the strands behind your ears. This is a loving gesture, something exclusive he definitely shouldn’t be doing. You’re frozen, you can’t move a muscle while he wipes your cheeks from the reminiscences of your tears. He trails his thumb over your swollen lips absentmindedly, faltering there. For a moment he looks like he might say something, but he quickly shuts his mouth, regaining his previous posture.

You take this as a sign to leave. You get up from the floor, your knees sore from the uncomfortable position you’ve been in. You walk to the mirror that hangs on the wall of Jimin’s office. You sigh, seeing your current state. There’s no way someone would believe you that you haven’t just sucked a dick.

Your cheeks are flushed in pink, there are smudges of mascara under your eyes and your lipstick is smeared in the corners of your mouth. Not to mention your hair is still a mess.

You are painted in all shades of wrong.

In the reflection of the mirror you see Jimin buckling up his belt and straightening his tie. He runs a hand through his blond locks and looks up, catching you staring at him. You quickly look away.

“Don’t worry. No one will notice anything. Everyone should be off for their lunchbreaks by now.” he says. He sounds so pathetically normal, yet there’s still a slight rasp in his voice.

You glance at the watch on your hand and check the time. It’s a little past 12. You brush your hair with your fingers quickly and proceed to leave, but you stop, remembering you have to ask about one last thing. You turn around to face him.

“Are you going to write a bad opinion about me to my future employees?” you ask, flinching at the hoarseness of your voice.

Jimin raises his eyebrows. “Bad opinion? No, absolutely not,” he answers, shaking his head. “I was never going to fire you in first place.”

You fight back the shocked expression that threatens to appear on your face. You quickly rush to leave this damn office and never look in his eyes ever again. What were you even thinking?

“And Y/N,” Jimin’s voice makes you stop with your hand hovering over the door knob. Single tear rolls down your cheek and you gulp. “I’m sorry.” it’s all he says.

You don’t ask him what he meant by that. You don’t deliberate if he was sincere or not. You leave the office as soon as you can, running to the nearest bathroom, closing the door behind you and leaning on it.

He wasn’t going to fire you. He just wanted to use you, demand to get down on your knees and please him the way he wants. It was all a game for him, and you became his plaything.

“I’m so stupid,” you mutter to yourself, burying your head in your hands. “God, I’m so stupid.”

You feel sick, used, but at the same time you can’t get away with creeping feeling that you enjoyed it, wishing he wanted you just as much as you wanted him in that moment.

You sigh, closing your eyes. You’re probably foolish for thinking it won’t have any consequences. You’re just about to face them.

The coldness of early Spring hits you when you exit Sunday’s Spirit editorial. You hug your body tighter with your coat, standing in front of the building awkwardly. You take a few deep breaths, trying to clear your mind, but nothing really works. There’s a vacant space inside your body, like your soul has drifted away and left nothing but emptiness.

You feel hollow.

You don’t know how long have you been standing there, inhaling fresh air and waiting for your blood to start circulating properly in your veins again. When you’re about to head to the underground station, on the corner of your eye you see Jimin’s black Mercedes. You probably shouldn’t stare but you helplessly do.

Probably if you didn’t, it would hurt less.

He approaches the car, looking perfectly fine as always, which you couldn’t say about yourself. And he isn’t alone.

You recognize dark curls of Chins-sun’s hair, contrasting her beige coat beautifully. The corners of Jimin’s lips lift when he sees her. You don’t know if it’s a honest smile or a forced one. You wonder for a while how does he look like when he’s truly happy. Maybe he’s happy now, when Chin-sun is by his side.

What you are really sure about Park Jimin, is that he’s a man of many maybes.

Something which definitely doesn’t look forced are his palms, cupping the cheeks of Chin-sun’s flushed face. He starts tracing circles on her skin in intimate gesture and murmurs something. Maybe he asks her how was her day. Your lips still tingle where he trailed his thumb over it bitten, swollen surface. Maybe he still remembers how they felt around his cock when he was relentlessly bringing tears to your eyes and stabs to your heart.

The way he leans and kisses Chin-sun’s cherry colored lips is purposeful, perfectly measured. Maybe he sighs into her mouth with content, a beautiful sound you have witnessed with your own ears, as you were working him to his climax. Jimin’s hands grip Chin-sun’s dark locks but it isn’t the similar manner he did to you earlier, as he laced his fingers through the strands, when you wished him to do nothing more than pull harder and harder, until the pain in you scalp was replaced by dull ache, until a whimper fell from your lips and eyes squeezed shut. He kisses Chin-sun lovingly and there’s no roughness in that. It’s gentle caresses and soft murmurs.

After a moment he breaks off, soothing his palms over Chin-sun’s shoulders. She sends him a smile and opens the passenger’s door, getting into the car. And then, when you swallow a lump in your throat, when you decide to turn around and go, run as fast as you possibly can, when you dream about nothing more but never seeing him again, you catch eyes with him.

Jimin looks pathetically apologetic. There’s something in his dark brown orbs you can’t read. Maybe it’s guilt, maybe regret. Park Jimin is a man of many maybes, yet he stares at you with expression you could only mistaken for sadness.

You wonder if he sees the way your eyes stare at him blankly. You wonder if he knows how he nearly wrecked your body and made you feel things you shouldn’t. If he hurts the same way as you do now. However, Jimin quickly diverts his head away from you, closing the door to his car behind him as well. You laugh quietly at the ridiculousness of this situation. A bitter laugh that escapes your mouth and deepen the hollowness inside you.

A hand touches your arm and you don’t even flinch, knowing already who it is.

“So you know the news,” Taehyung says, looking at Jimin’s car leaving the parking lot. How long has he been standing behind you?

“What news?” you ask, turning your head to look at him.

“Chin-sun is really going to be miss Park officially,” he replies. “Jimin proposed to her this weekend. The wedding is in may. But that’s not important right now. How’s your conversation with him, sweetheart?”

You feel sick. You excuse yourself, mentioning something about needing to catch earlier train and texting him later. Taehyung calls after you but you don’t listen. You start running.

You run until you couldn’t breathe, until there’s a soreness in your throat from the coldness of air. You run until you reach your apartment, stumbling into it on wobbly legs. Your back touches the wall and you slide off, sitting on the floor.

You don’t cry. The tears don’t strain your eyes. It’s only this damned, dull hollowness.

There’s written in the Bible that a guilty person is the one who broke God’s law, who committed a sin. The said person will be judged by their actions after their death. Because every human being has a conscience, the thing that sets the line between good and bad, so when we did something wrong, we should feel remorse.

When you sit on the floor and stare blankly in front of yourself, you know you have sinned.You both did. You wonder if he, trailing patterns of tender touches on his fiancee’s skin, feels the same as you. You wonder if guilt eats him up as much as devours you. Maybe there’s hollow ache in his chest, just like in yours. Maybe he doesn’t feel anything.

And may the God help you both find your redemption.

1K notes · View notes

spaceskam · 5 years ago

Text

In The Mood For Love

for day 5 of @alterarnm : movie fusion!

ao3

Maybe Alex was foolish to trust him.

David was nice and kind when they married and Alex loved him. He loved having a husband, someone to curl up to at the end of the night, someone to kiss, someone to take care of and to be taken care of by. He didn’t even mind that Alex had lost his leg not long after their wedding. Of course, like any marriage, the honeymoon phase wore off and now, two years later, it felt like he’d downgraded from husband to roommate. David worked long shifts, sometimes even going on business trips and leaving Alex alone for days.

Alex’s loneliness rose when they moved into their new apartment. He’d seen their next-door neighbors: a husband and wife, both beautiful in their own way. The wife looked familiar somehow, but Alex never pressed because it wasn’t his business. However, he noticed that the wife was gone often as well. He almost felt sorry for her husband until he realized he was in the same position.

They passed each other nearly every night, Alex and her husband, as they crossed paths to fetch dinner at the market a block away. Most times, he was on his way home as Alex was on his way there and he would already be shoveling noodles into his mouth like he couldn’t wait. It made him smile on days that he struggled to find something to smile about.

After a week of near-isolation since Alex worked at home, he left a little earlier for dinner. The next day, he left a little earlier than that. Then a little earlier, a little earlier, a little earlier until he walked out of his apartment at the same time as the husband. They shared polite smiles and walked the same path, Alex always staying a few feet behind him. They didn’t speak, but it gave him a little more solace to know he wasn’t alone.

They did that every day for the next week until the husband didn’t come for a few days. He never even learned his name.

“I missed you,” Alex said, grabbing David in a hug when he got home from his business trip. He’d offered to pick him up from the airport, but the offer had been declined on the account that David wanted to relax before he got home. Yet, he still didn’t seem relaxed.

“Give me a moment, will you? I’ll see you in bed,” David promised him, peeling him off as he went to the bathroom for a bathroom.

David got in on the other side of the bed and didn’t touch him once.

Michael assumed it was common.

As newlyweds, they needed space so they didn’t get tired of each other too fast. Caroline always came home to him, so there was no harm. Well, until she didn’t always come home. She started needing to go on business trips with her employer, halfheartedly explaining that, as an assistant, she was needed. It got worse when she insisted they move into a new apartment.

Michael moved all of the furniture himself and he decorated the apartment himself. Caroline was home less and less and he began wondering if she’d notice if he messed with things. Each week, he’d move something from its place and wait until she noticed. She never did.

Still, Michael survived. He was a florist and he kept himself busy at work, enjoying the excited faces of young boys getting bouquets for their first girlfriends and rolling his eyes as the panicked husbands who’d done wrong and needed a gift. He’d bring Caroline flowers often, but he eventually stopped when she was rarely home to receive them. But it was okay. It was hard to allow himself to feel lonely when he was around people all day.

The moment he noticed that the word to describe his feelings was indeed loneliness was when he began walking to the market with his neighbor. They never spoke or shared names, but their silent walk had begun to be one of Michael’s favorite parts of the day. Which made him feel guilty.

When Caroline had first begun dating him and she discovered he was bisexual, she’d been so hesitant. She told him that she couldn’t trust him to be faithful, but he promised that he was. He always was. He assured her every time she accused him that he was faithful to her forever. She had full access to his phone, to his social media, to his computer to check whenever she got scared every week or so. He even married her to prove his loyalty. Walking and having dinner with the man next door felt like he was lying, like he was too close to being unfaithful. That man was beautiful, but he refused to hurt her. So he decided to stop walking with him.

“Let me check your phone,” Caroline demanded when he went to greet her after she got home from her business trip. He didn’t even get a hug in before she asked. He’d offered to pick her up from the airport, but she said her employer already got her a car and she didn’t want to mess up the plans.

“I haven’t done anything this week, but okay,” Michael agreed, handing it over, “I’ve missed you so much.”

She walked away with his phone in her hand without saying anything back.

Alex’s suspicions started when he tried to hug David from behind and he tilted his phone out of his line of view.

“Why are you hiding your phone?” Alex laughed, trying to kiss his cheek. David shrugged him off and got up to leave the room. Alex decided not to follow him. He was too scared to follow him.

He sat and pondered for a while. Had he done something wrong? Was David angry at him? The longer he thought about, the more he felt like that had to be the case. Maybe he wasn’t trying hard enough. So he followed him into the bedroom.

“Are you mad at me?” Alex asked, “Did I forget something?”

“I’m not mad at you, Alex,” David sighed, looking at him with bored eyes. It was frustrating to see that and it hurt him in a place that he didn’t realize just a look could. Someone who used to look at him with love just… wasn’t anymore. He swallowed hard. “I just need my privacy.”

“All you have is privacy!” Alex argued, “You-you don’t even touch me anymore. Either you’re mad at me or you think I’m ugly or something! What did I do to make you not want me?”

“You want me to touch you? Then come here,” David demanded. Alex blinked in surprise, but slowly made his way closer to David. He wasn’t really in the mood to do anything physical after feeling so rejected, but he would take it when he didn’t want it if it meant he got something at all. David grabbed his hand and pulled him down, giving him a kiss that didn’t last. “There.”

“That’s it?” Alex asked. David scoffed.

“What do you want from me? I work all damn day to provide for you, but you can’t even appreciate that. I don’t have the time to just fuck you all day,” David said. Alex took a step away from him, trying not to feel to angry.

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to love me,” Alex almost pleaded, “Please just love me.”

David stared at him, angry and maybe even a little guilty. But he simply stared and Alex didn’t know if he was supposed to say something or not. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do after this.

“Are you cheating on me?” Alex asked softly, voice breaking. David scoffed and stood up. “Are you?”

“I can’t believe you’d even ask me that,” he spat, pushing past Alex and storming into the bathroom with his phone in tow.

Maybe he got a little paranoid after that.

Alex paid more attention to things. Their bank account, the amount of time David was on his phone, how he smelled when he came home after late nights or business trips, the new checkered blue tie he got from a coworker that he’d always insisted before wasn’t his style. He noticed that some things correlated too much with his neighbor’s wife next door. One night, a little curious as to why a few hundred dollars came from their bank account in the middle of the afternoon, Alex called his office. His assistant answered.

And wouldn’t you know that voice was the same one he heard when he called David in the middle of the night when he was on his “business trip”.

“Where’d this come from?”

Michael stared at the really expensive bag that was in his wife’s closet. He knew they didn’t have the money for that kind of thing. Any time they spent more than $50 on something, it was something they spoke about beforehand. It’s how they paid their bills.

“What are you doing in my closet?” Caroline demanded instead, anger laced in her tone, “Don’t go through my things, what is wrong with you?!”

“I-I wasn’t, I was trying to find my shirt, it wasn’t in my stuff,” Michael explained, letting her grab him by the bicep and drag him out of the closet like he was a child. He tried to be gentle as he pulled away. “Where’d that bag come from, Caroline? That bag is hundreds of dollars.”

“My employer gave it to me,” she said stubbornly. Michael furrowed his eyebrows and scoffed.

“Why the hell would he do that?” he asked. Caroline rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“I’m not going to explain to you what it means to be good to your workers.”

“No, I know what that is, but usually that’s, like, a cash bonus. That’s a personal gift,” Michael pointed out. Caroline scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest.

“What are you trying to say, Michael?” she asked. He blinked a few times and he tried to make sense of why her boss would get her a personal gift. The first idea that popped into his head felt like a lie. There was no way she would cheat on him. She was always so scared he would cheat, so he knew she would never. Right?

“Is he creepy or something?” Michael asked because that seemed like the next step. Caroline scoffed.

“No! David is a good boss, you just don’t get it. Now stop going through my shit.”

Michael needed to clear his head and try to make sense of it, so he excused himself to go to the market. As he exited his apartment, he noticed his neighbor doing the same. He looked a little rumpled and sad, but he gave Michael a smile nonetheless.

“Are you alright?” Michael asked him, unable to stop himself. His neighbor looked like he’d been crying and, well, they were sort of friends. They’d never spoken, but still.

His neighbor sniffled just a little and nodded. “Yeah, it’s just been a long day. Need comfort food.”

“Same,” Michael sighed. They stared at each other for a moment and Michael realized that it didn’t have to be close to cheating. He could just have a friend. “Hey, do you want to go together? Just, like, as friends, I mean. Nothing creepy.”

“Um,” his neighbor said, looking around before nodding, “Okay.”

“I’m Michael, by the way.”

“Alex.”

They walked side by side this time, stepping in time on purpose until Alex noticed and smiled. It was charming and Michael couldn’t deny that.

“So,” he said, speaking when he realized Alex wasn’t going to, “What’s your husband’s name?”

“Oh, um, David,” Alex said, nodding slightly. Michael watched as he looked up and blinked a bit. Something hit him in the chest at that moment and it felt a little too obvious, a little too easy. Life was never that easy.

“What’s he do for a living?” Michael asked. Alex tugged his sleeves over his palms.

“Manages a marketing branch or something. Not too educated on what he does,” he said, forcing a lighthearted laugh.

When they got to the market, Michael held the door open and Alex gave him a smile. They walked together in silence again, never really parting as Alex got his salad from a vegan stand and Michael got his ramen from the ramen stand. For the first time, they sat down together.

“So,” Alex started this time, “That bag I saw your wife with the other day… Where’d she get it?”

Michael eyed him. He took a small bite of his salad, trying to seem nonchalant as he did so. It was hard to tell if he knew what he was asking, so Michael tried to play along.

“Why, do you want to get one for yourself?” Michael asked. Alex smiled almost to himself and shrugged his shoulder, looking up at Michael through his eyelashes.

“Maybe.”

“Well, I’d have to ask her since her boss got it for her,” Michael said. Alex simply nodded. “But… That reminds me of that tie I saw your husband wearing when he left for work the other morning, the blue checkered one. Do you know where he got it? My wife likes ties like that.”

Alex licked his lips and sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“Not sure, he got it from a coworker,” he said. They locked eyes, both unable to give a smile either way. They both knew. Michael just didn’t want to really believe it. But a man named David wearing a tie so similar to the one she’d forced him to wear at their wedding who happened to work at a marketing company? He didn’t believe in coincidences. Alex tilted his head a bit. “They must think we’re so stupid.”

“What exactly are you getting at?” Michael asked. Alex’s smile was rueful.

“I believe you know.”

Michael dropped his fork with a sigh.

Again, they stared at each other for a few minutes, trying to decide what happens from here. How exactly was one supposed to handle discovering the person they loved was cheating on them with their neighbor? Did the affair start before they moved into the apartment? Was that why she was so set on moving there?

Without more discussion, they both picked up their forks and finished their meals in silence. They walked home together in silence. It was a strange sense of camaraderie with a man he didn’t know very well at all. Hell, they had nothing in common. Except their spouses.

“Goodnight, Michael,” Alex said as they got to their doors.

“Goodnight, Alex.”

They both went inside to face these people who betrayed them. Michael wasn’t sure what Alex’s plan was, but he kept his ears trained for any sign of yelling. It never came.

Caroline was in the shower when he got home and he quickly got into bed. He needed to think more before he approached her about it. He had no evidence, not really. He just couldn’t seem to think of a valid reason otherwise. Even if he didn’t understand why she always thought he was cheating when she was the real culprit.

She got into bed and shuffled around a bit.

“Are you not going to tell me goodnight?” she asked after he didn’t speak. Michael breathed a heavy breath of submission.

“Night.”

Alex walked beside Michael to the market the next evening.

“How do you think it began?”

“I’m not sure.”

Alex got his salad and Michael got his ramen and they sat at the same table as yesterday. They took bites in silence, casually glancing at each other as they tried to understand. What was so bad about them that they didn’t deserve the respect of being told it was over?

Alex stopped halfway through his meal, placing his fork down and straightening his posture.

“Do you have those papers I asked for?” he said. Michael looked up at him, green eyes wide and curious and noodles pooling out of his mouth. He seemed to understand and he swallowed his bite, clearing his throat as he sat up straight as well. Only, he leaned forward, mimicking a way someone might sit if they wanted attention on their breasts rather than their face.

“Of course,” he said, “I hope they’re up to your standard.”

“They’re always up to my standard when they’re from you.”

“No,” Michael intercepted, “She wouldn’t fall for that.”

“Okay,” Alex said, readjusting in his seat and clasping his hands in front of him, “Why don’t you show me privately?”

“Well, I’d have to tell my husband I’m staying late,” Michael answered.

“Please do. We have a lot of work to take care of.”

Michael stared at him for a moment before he scrunched up his nose, shrugging his shoulders.

“I don’t know, that sounds so forced,” he said. Alex nodded.

“You’re right. That couldn’t be it.”

“And how would you feel about coming on a business trip with me? I need your assistance.”

Michael let out a wistful sigh, batting his eyelashes Alex’s way as they took the long way to the market. Alex smiled in a way that felt more slimy than he actually was, trying his best to capture the true form of his husband.

“Oh? And what would my benefits be for that?” Michael asked.

“You know I’d take care of you,” Alex told him.

“In what ways?”

“No, he’s not explicit like that,” Alex cut in. Michael nodded and they paused their steps to backtrack their scene.

“Well, you make it sound so convincing,” Michael corrected. Alex walked with an uncharacteristic swagger.

“So you’ll come then?”

“Would my room be close to yours?”

“Absolutely,” Alex confirmed. Michael smiled.

“Then gladly.” They walked a few steps more, falling out of character as they did so. When Michael looked over at him, he was holding back a laugh. “What?”

“It just feels so cliche, you know? That it’d be before a business trip. I feel like even they aren’t that cliche,” Alex explained. Michael shrugged with a smile.

“Yeah, you’re right. It had to be some other way.”

Alex turned to him with a look in his eye as he schooled his features. Michael tried to get back into character as well as Alex tilted his head back just a little.

“I’m bored. Take off your clothes.”

Michael couldn’t keep it together at that, laughter bubbling out of him to the point he bent over. Alex laughed with him helplessly.

“How did you keep a straight face when you said that?!” Michael asked, looking to Alex with unashamed wonder, “Where did that even come from? Oh my god, dude.”

Alex snorted, shaking his head at him. “From some show, I don’t know. What, you don’t think that’s possibly what happened?”

“Not a chance.”

Michael bought his salad that evening.

“My husband’s bisexual. Forgive me for being so blunt, but he doesn’t always answer my questions.”

Alex watched as Michael stirred his tea with his finger and then sucked it off. He’d gotten frustrated with work and decided meeting up with Michael for a lunch break sounded good. He was correct.

“That’s a shame. I’m an open book,” Alex said in a low tone, channeling his inner David. It came easy when you knew a man for six years, one of which was entirely the seduction part. Alex was nothing if not stubborn. “Ask me what you want.”

“Do you really enjoy being with women? Or was that just what held you over until you found a man so you could be gay?” Michael asked. Alex could tell that question haunted him, something that he was probably asked more than once. He moved closer to the edge of his seat.

“I love being with women,” Alex said, the words foreign in his mouth, “It’s all soft skin and curves. I miss it sometimes. There are just some things my husband can’t provide.”

Michael sighed, elongating his neck and dragging his fingertips across it as he pushed his hair back. Alex watched each movement before going back to his eyes.

“What else do you miss about being with women?” Michael asked.

“I’m afraid all of my answers might be inappropriate.”

“Oh, I don’t mind.”

Things got a little too real as Michael’s foot dragged up Alex’s metal leg. Realization hit his eyes, but he never reacted and he never broke character. So Alex didn’t either, accepting the way Michael switched to his foot being between his legs to drag up the one he could actually feel. Alex ignored the way his heart raced.

“Tell me what you miss.”

“Strong thighs,” Alex said, leaning forward just a bit, “Long hair. Boobs.”

And somehow that got him to break character, a perfectly Michael smile breaking out onto his lips as a tiny giggle fell from him and his foot broke contact. Alex smiled back, letting his shoulders fall.

“What?” he asked.

“Boobs,” Michael repeated, laughing a little harder. Alex threw his arms out in defense.

“Listen, I’ve never had to flirt with a woman before, I don’t know what I’m supposed to call them,” Alex laughed. Michael shook his head, trying to dial back his amusement. But his amusement was honestly just too cute and Alex couldn’t help but soak it up while it lasted. It was in these moments that he didn’t feel so alone.

“Well, personally, I don’t call them anything when I’m trying to seduce someone because I don’t think there is a sexy word for them,” Michael defended. Alex scoffed.

“C’mon, there has to be one because erotica novels exist, right?” Alex pointed out, “Breasts? Tits? Fuckin’... chest balls?”

“What?” Michael demanded, his voice raising a few pitches before he threw his head back in laughter and he held his stomach. A few people looked over at them in curiosity, but Alex’s eyes stayed on him.

“I don’t know!”

“You are so lucky you’re gay, man,” Michael said, slowly but surely dialling down his laughter. Alex watched him with a smile as he did so.

“Hey,” Alex started once he calmed down, “So, you know how I write for a queer magazine, right? Well, what’d’you say about working with me about how it is to be a bisexual man when it’s still a struggle?”

“You wanna interview me?” Michael asked. Alex nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. Michael shrugged.

“Okay, sounds good.”

They decided the least suspicious way to carry out the interview would be in a motel room. They couldn’t do it at either one of their apartments because if their spouses found out, it’d be quite obvious that they knew about what was going on between them. They weren’t quite ready for that yet. Hell, they didn’t even understand that yet. Even if months had passed since they realized.

But the unforeseen problem came when their agreed upon day rolled around and Alex’s stump was too swollen to fit into his prosthetic. He was sore and frustrated, but they agreed. So Alex got his crutches and slowly made his way to his car, ignoring the throbbing.

Michael was waiting outside of the motel room for him, but he couldn’t help but meet him halfway when he saw he was on crutches.

“Are you okay?” he asked. Alex gave him a tired smile.

“Yeah, just, um, just a bad leg day,” Alex explained. Michael gave an exaggerated frown.

“Well, is there anything I can do?” he wondered. Alex shook his head.

“Not really. Can you get my laptop though, please?” Alex asked. Michael agreed without hesitance.

A few minutes later, they found themselves sitting on opposite sides of a queen sized bed. Alex was sitting with his laptop propped on his lap, mindlessly rubbing at his stump as he asked questions. Michael couldn’t help himself as he scooted a little closer.

“I can massage it if you want, I bet that’ll help some of the aching,” Michael offered. Alex eyed him suspiciously. “Nothing weird, I promise, I just hate seeing that you’re in pain.”

“No one but my doctor and my PT have touched it since I lost it,” Alex admitted. Michael stared at him, unsure if that was a rejection or not. But then Alex untied the knot at the end of his sweats and hiked them up over his knee.

“Just tell me if you want me to stop.”

Michael scooted closer and pulled Alex’s stump into his lap, touching it gently at first. They never spoke about how he lost it, but Michael knew it couldn’t have been easy. The skin was warm to the touch and his underworked muscles were tense, clearly in need of a rougher pair of hands from a different angle than its owner. So he got to work.

Alex’s head fell back against the wall and Michael tried not to look. It was harder than he expected though. Soft little noises were coming from this man he’d spent nearly every day with these last few months, sharp intakes of breaths and desperately controlled moans. He tried to keep his thoughts in a pure place as he massaged harder and Alex’s noises got more unhinged. He wasn’t a cheater and neither was Alex. He was helping a friend who was hurting.

“Thank you,” Alex said once he was done, face flushed, “Sorry if I‒”

“No, it’s okay,” Michael said, smiling at him, “I understand.”

Michael went home that night feeling guilty and Alex went home that night feeling it even moreso. They both tried to be good, tried not to think about their friend in that way when their spouse was in the next room. But somehow, as they took their own separate showers, their thoughts went to each other. It was easy to touch themselves to the thought of finally being touched by someone else again.

By the time the next day rolled around and Alex was still haunting his brain, he knew it’d gone too far. Even though it wasn’t what his wife was doing, it still felt so wrong. He was married and yet he hadn’t thought about his wife in too long. He was too busy thinking about his neighbor.

And still as his lunch break rolled around, he couldn’t help but dial Alex’s number.

“Hey, is everything alright?” Alex asked when he picked up. They never spoke over the phone. They didn’t even text. They had each other’s numbers for emergencies only. How could Michael explain that this was an emergency?

“I just needed to hear your voice,” he admitted shamefully.

“Okay,” Alex said softly. It was clear that he also thought it was too far. They’d crossed a line and nothing real had even happened. How the hell did his wife do this and so much more without guilt? He couldn’t do this anymore. “I’m writing your article.”

Maybe one more day.

“Read it to me?”

“Of course.”

“We shouldn’t do this.”

“But‒”

“I’m married!”

“So am I,” Alex said as David on purpose, but as himself on accident. Because it made sense a little to him now. Sometimes you just couldn’t control who you fell in love with. “But I can’t resist you anymore.”

Michael looked at him, face torn between desire and hesitance. He was leaning against a tree that was in a park that was technically on the way to the market. It was a simple detour, but it was dark and they were alone and he looked beautiful.

“David,” Michael said, shaking his head, “This is wrong.”

“I know it is, Caroline,” Alex answered, stepping closer.

Yesterday, they’d crossed a line. They touched and while it was meant to be platonic, it felt like more when Alex felt more. They’d spoken on the phone and that should’ve been platonic, but it couldn’t be when Michael felt more. They both knew it was more. They both knew it was wrong.

This had to be their last reenactment. This had to be the right one.

“You make it so hard to resist you,” Michael told him, “They way you carry yourself like that. You’ve been through so much and yet you’re still so strong.”

“Me?” Alex scoffed, shoving his hands in his pockets in an attempt to keep them to himself, “God, I’m just trying to survive around you. You flaunt yourself for me, I know it. The way you dress, the way you do your hair, the way you say my name…”

Alex was in his space before he even knew it. They were so close, hardly a centimeter apart. If either one of them breathed just a little harder, their chests would touch. That had never happened before. Until it did.

“Alex,” Michael said, his hands going up to press into Alex’s chest. Their foreheads met as Alex held onto his wrists, keeping them close.

“Just like that.”

They shared breaths, so close he could kiss him if he wanted. And he wanted. But Alex couldn’t bring himself to do it and Michael couldn’t either, yet neither of them could manage to break contact. He wanted this. He wanted him.

“I can’t be them,” Michael whispered, tears building in his eyes, “I won’t be them.”

“I know,” Alex agreed, nodding slightly against him. He couldn’t move away though and Michael didn’t push him. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I know.”

They breathed more and slowly, slowly Michael’s fingers locked with Alex’s. Alex felt more in that moment than he did on his wedding night. He didn’t have the heart to ask Michael if it was the same for him.

“I love you,” he admitted, telling him and the darkness and no one else. He could see those tears falling down Michael’s cheeks as he clutched his hands.

“I love you too,” Michael said, voice breaking, “But I can’t. I won’t. I won’t do this. I won’t be like them. I’m not a cheater. Neither are you.”

“I know,” Alex agreed, “I know.”

They stayed there, trying to work up the courage to leave the one place of comfort they’d found in years. Michael was able to gently push him away first, their grips on each other unraveling as they put more and more space.

The space kept getting bigger and bigger until Michael was out of sight. Alex didn’t realize he was crying too until he was gone completely. His heart ached like it never had before, a new shade of loneliness tearing into his gut with no sign of stopping.

He leaned against the tree and sobbed until he could remember how to walk.

-three years later-

Alex stood in his house with pride.

He’d signed his first lease by himself with no roommates and that felt good. Everything felt good. He was three years single, two years out of Roswell, and one year of feeling like the man he knew he could be. That was a good thing.

Still, even though three years had passed, he thought of Michael regularly. He’d see ramen and smile at the sloppy way he shoved it into his mouth. He’d see curly hair and feel his heart try to escape his chest. He’d hear wild laughter and he’d miss him a little more.

It was hard at first. He avoided going outside until he finally managed to tell David it was over, but by then Michael had already ended it with Caroline and moved somewhere else. He never got the chance to really say goodbye which seemed to hurt even more. Every once in a while he’d be tempted to call him, so he eventually deleted his number so he wouldn’t have anything to be tempted by. That was when he finally was able to get the hell out of Roswell and move to Santa Fe. Maybe it wasn’t much of an upgrade, but he felt it.

He felt it and he was ready to move on, to try again.

With a content sigh, Alex made his way outside so he could go grocery shopping for the first time for his new house. He locked the door behind and made his way to his car, unlocking it just as his neighbor locked theirs. Human instinct caused him to look up at the sound and he had to do a double take as a man with unmistakable curls stood in the driveway beside his.

Alex stood frozen, unwilling to believe this was real until he saw his face. Hell, even when they locked eyes, he couldn’t believe it was real. In what world was he allowed to live beside this man twice? What was this?

“Alex?” Michael said, his voice so real that Alex nearly fell to the ground. He held onto his car for balance, staring at him. Michael came closer in slow strides and all Alex could do was think of why he deserved this.

Perhaps this was his good karma for doing the right thing.

“Michael?” Alex said even as he stepped up to him. And Michael smiled that same brilliant smile. Tears came to Alex’s eyes without warning at the sight and it made that smile fall.

“Are you alright?” he asked, stepping closer. Alex let out a breathy laugh and nodded.

“Yeah. I really am.”

He deserved this.

#alteraroswell2020 #malex #malex fic #michael guerin #alex manes #roswell new mexico #my fic

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honeymoonjin · 6 years ago

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enjoy your stay - chapter eleven

A/N - I don’t put links in anymore so that this comes up on search, but check the masterlist linked in my bio for links to every previous/future chapter.

Word count 3k (as usual). Tell me your thoughts! This was a very fun chapter to write. Honestly, probably my favorite chapter so far!

ENJOY YOUR STAY ↳Boss!Namjoon, Chef!Jin, Receptionist!Hoseok, Bellboy!Jimin, Bartender!Jungkook, Accountant!Yoongi, Photography student!Taehyung ↳Some inappropriate language and cursing. Later chapters have sexual content.

SUMMARY ↳Working the graveyard shift at a hotel isn’t the most exciting job in the world, but your coworkers are certainly happy to have you here.

CHAPTER ELEVEN ↳You grow closer to Yoongi when he helps you out with your terrible financial skills. Jungkook doesn’t like that one bit. When Namjoon sends you on an errand, you discover something unexpected.

“You can just sit anywhere, sorry, it’s a bit messy.” You bite your lip awkwardly as Min Yoongi steps into your cramped apartment and takes it in.

Before he had come over, you had spent the time since finishing your shift to clean up as much as you could, which mostly involved madly dashing around the house chucking everything on the floor into cupboards and closets. Strangely enough, Jungkook was an extremely clean kid, and all the unwashed clothing overflowing in the hamper was yours, and the dirty dishes in the sink from when you had cooked and never cleaned up.

Jungkook was out with a friend, a neighbor from back in his hometown that had stopped by while he was passing through, and you were glad he didn’t leave a mess for you to clean up. Man, that kid really loved doing laundry. It was a little concerning.

Yoongi had arrived exactly on time, though you confess you had spotted him in the carpark staring at his watch until two minutes til eight, which apparently gave him the exact amount of time he needed to take the elevator to your floor and knock right on the hour.

He perched gingerly on one of the chairs at your kitchen table, dumping his car keys on the tabletop and you join him nervously. He was dressed in a teal suit with an embossed pattern and unbelievably glossy shoes. You wished you had gotten out of your sweatpants and baggy sweatshirt while you had the chance.

“So,” he said with a sigh, “let’s rip the Band-Aid off. How poor are you?”

You blink dumbly. “That’s a little forward. Is that how you speak to all your clients?”

He quirks his eyebrows pettily. “It’s not how I talk to my paying clients, no.”

“Point taken. Although, to be fair, you’re well aware of the price I offered to pay.” You ignore his tired sigh and grab your laptop and pull up your bank account, wincing at the fact that the largest number had a minus in front of it. “It’s not looking so good, chief.”

He sighs, leans back to rock the chair on its back legs. “Y/n,” he begins patiently, “I’ve seen your weekly pay amount on the reports. Excuse my French, but how the fuck have you managed to spend this much money? Are you doing meth?”

Your face crumples. “No,” you mutter petulantly. “Besides, would I look this good if I was doing meth? I don’t think so.”

“Well, unfortunately for you, you don’t get a pretty person benefit,” he drawls sarcastically, but you count the fact that he doesn’t disagree a win.

“Well, I got stung with a particularly pricey car repair, and I’m buying groceries for two now, so…”

“You’re pregnant?”

You reel back in shock. “Wh- No, Jungkook lives here, now.” You furrow your eyebrows and pout at him. “You really think I’m a beautiful, pregnant meth addict? Words hurt, Min Yoongi.”

He pushes his tongue to one cheek and shakes his head good-naturedly, lips twitching a little. He clears his throat a little before speaking. “I only have thirty minutes, so let’s make this snappy.” He pulls your laptop towards him and you sit in a bewildered silence as he messes around with your bank account for a few minutes. “Alright,” he accounces, swiveling the laptop to show you, “I’ve set up an account for bills, an account for groceries, an account for savings, and a spending account. Then I’ve gone ahead and made some automatic payments into each account. All you have to do is change the amount that goes into each account according to your budget, then you’re sorted.” His eyes practically twinkle with self-satisfaction.

You twiddle your thumbs and nod, impressed. “Where do I find my budget?”

He tilts his head and freezes. After a minute of him searching your face only to find a blank stare, his mouth drops open. “You don’t have a budget?”

You think back, eyes darting up to the ceiling to concentrate. “I don’t know, I don’t think so. Nobody’s given me one. Where do I get one?”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen the light of triumph die so fast from someone’s eyes. “You don’t get one,” he sighs out, “you make one. You should have a budget at all times, it allows you to keep track of money and make sure you’re not spending more than you’re earning. Something you seem to desperately need.” He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head in despair. “You remind me so much of Hoseok. This whole time I thought I was attracted to men, turns out I was just attracted to idiots.”

You blush. “Oh, so you like m- Wait. That’s hurtful. Min Yoongi, more like Mean Yoongi.”

He flicks his tongue out, wetting his lips before he speaks in a teasing tone. “Mean Yoongi is stopping you from the serious threat of bankruptcy out of the kindness of his heart, so I’d be a little nicer to him.”

You glare and cross your arms. “Min Yoongi, more like Mean Yoongi, sir.”

He laughs. “You…” His mocking gaze softens, and you’re rewarded with his sweetest smile, the one with closed lips and his chin squishing up. “You really are something else, Y/n Y/l/n.”

Your blush comes back with a veangance and you can’t seem to stop from grinning like a maniac. You avoid his gaze, determined to win back the upper hand. “Anyway,” you deflect, speaking a little louder than needed, “I’ve said it before and I’ll most likely say it again, but I never expected you to do this for free.”

He gets the hint, leaning forward on the table, gazing at you curiously. “Why do you keep offering? I haven’t…been with a woman before, in fact I don’t even know if I’d like it, so it’s not like you’re going to enjoy it.”

You drop the playful act and return his stare. “You haven’t been with a woman before? Man, even I’ve had sex with women. Don’t you feel like…I don’t know, like you’re missing out?”

He breaks the prolonged eye-contact and focuses on a scratch in your table. “I didn’t.” Even though he’s looking down, you can see his eyes flicker back and forth before he comes to an apparent decision. “Okay,” he exclaims, looking back up at you with determined eyes, “here’s the deal: I save you from the verge of financial death, and in return, once you have a proper budget in place, you show me what I’ve apparently been missing out on.”

“Ha!” you exclaim, “I win! I knew I still had my womanly wiles. Wooing once-gay, now-bi-curious young men like it’s nothing.”

He puffs out a breath of air and pouts a little. “I really am attracted to morons, huh?” He glances at his watch, and stands up, adjusting his cufflinks. He rounds the corner of the table and places a hand on your shoulder awkwardly.

You look up at him in question. He takes a moment to collect himself, then bends down and places a single chaste kiss right on your lips. By the time your brain catches up with you, and your lips part in surprise, he’s already stood back up. “What was that?” you ask incredulously.

He raises his eyebrows at you like it’s obvious. “Foreplay.”

You jaw falls slack, and you’re struck silent. Finally, you let out a little hum of acceptance. “Huh. Min Yoongi plays the long game.”

He’s smiling at you, no, grinning, and your mind is still reeling with the feeling of his lips on yours, and then the door is opening, and Jeon Jungkook is coming in and freezing in the doorway.

You realize Yoongi’s hand hasn’t left your shoulder, and he’s standing directly in front of you. “Hi, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s normally wide eyes are narrowed as they dart back and forth between the two of you. “What’s going on?” he questions suspiciously.

“I’ve been struggling a little bit with finances, so Yoongi kindly offered to help me out.”

“Well, it sure looks like he’s helping with something,” he replies, bitterness lacing his tone.

Yoongi removes his hand from you and steps back, but the tension in Jungkook’s jaw doesn’t ease. He steps away again, almost mockingly. “Listen, buddy, I was just on my way out, she’s all yours.”

Jungkook nods with a smug grin on his face. “That’s right, she is all mine, and next time you give her some private fucking counselling, you can keep your dirty paws off, got it?” He storms forward, shouldering past Yoongi roughly so that he stands between you two.

Yoongi ignores his antics and gives you a look. You curse internally. You’ve just spent the past half hour coming on to Yoongi and now Jungkook’s making it seem like you’re spoken for. Behind Jungkook’s back, you shake your head silently. Yoongi wets his lips, his gaze softening for a split second before he turns and narrows his eyes at the other boy. “I think you should calm down. Nobody likes a jealous ‘boyfriend’. I’ll see myself out.”

Jungkook doesn’t turn around to face you until the front door shuts again, leaving the apartment in tense silence. “I don’t want him coming around here anymore,” he states matter-of-factly.

You shake your head at him. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“Well, excuse me for being protective. You’ve been burned before, Y/n, I saw how upset you were after Jimin. I don’t want it to happen again with Yoongi, that’s all.”

You want to tell him nothing’s going to happen, but you bite your tongue. Lying never works out in the end, so you just stay silent.

He sighs patiently, then pulls up the chair Yoongi left, sitting away from the table across from you so your knees touch. “Baby,” he coos, “I just want you to be happy. I want us to be happy together.” He leans in and brings you in for a kiss, slow but domineering.

In the back of your mind you wonder if he could taste Yoongi on you, but that was absurd. Besides, he had already bypassed your lips to dip his tongue into your mouth, scooting his chair closer, pushing your legs open with his knees so that he could move his body as close as possible to yours. The same as every time this happens, his kiss makes your mind go blank and your instinct take over. You can’t think; the only neurons in your brain that are firing are the ones that say ‘more’.

His palms rest on either side of your face, and he tilts your head back to get a better angle. When you bite down on his lower lip and tug slightly, he growls in the back of his throat and the noise shoots straight down to your core.

His kisses get hotter and wetter and his touch grows feverish, hands moving down your side, over your breasts, and finally arriving at your hips, where he tucks his hands behind you and down over your ass to lift you off your seat and onto his lap.

The two of you let out a groan in unison when your crotch lands solidly on his. His hands lift again, but this time under your shirt instead of over it, and he begins pulling it over your head.

You raise your arms to aid him, but the clicking of the door opening causes the two of you to freeze. After you hear a familiar scoff, you hurriedly bat Jungkook’s hands away and pull down your shirt, peeking over to the open doorway.

Yoongi stands there, mouth set and jaw taut, and silently he stalks over to the table, where you realize that his keys still lie. He snatches them off the table and returns to the doorway. “My apologies for the intrusion,” he spits out, and slams the door behind him.

You’re left with an overwhelming sense of dread and shame, and you feel the fog of arousal lift.

Jungkook growls again. “I can’t believe that asshole, strutting into my apartment like he owns the place.”

You frown, pushing on his chest so you can get off his lap and stand up. “It’s not your apartment, Jungkook, it’s mine. I’m just letting you live here.”

He watches you step into the kitchen and start making yourself a cup of coffee. He follows you in. “It’s our place, noona. We’re in this together. It’s you and me against the rest of the world.”

He wraps his arms around your waist as you stand at the counter and rests his chin on your shoulder. You slam the spoon down irritably. “It’s not, Jungkook. What we did was fun, and I hope you had fun, but let’s not make this into some grand notion when it’s just not.”

His voice resonates in your right ear when he speaks. “Don’t be like that. You know I love you, noona. I want to make this work. Let’s be together. Don’t you want me?”

You push his face away, and he relents, letting go of you to lean back against the benchtop beside you instead. You don’t meet his imploring gaze. “I like you Jungkook, of course I do.”

His voice goes cold. “You fucked Yoongi, didn’t you?”

“What?” you exclaim incredulously. “No, Jungkook, I didn’t.”

He crosses his arms. “I was gone for the whole morning. I bet he had a shower after and got dressed just so I wouldn’t get suspicious.”

“Oh my god, Jungkook! Nothing happened. You need to calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” he whines angrily.

“Well, you can’t accuse me of cheating every time you leave me alone! It’s not healthy, Jungkook.”

He scoffs and kicks the cabinets with his heel petulantly. “Stop treating me like a child,” he demands, voice rising into a shout, “you’re not my mother!”

“I’m fucking glad I’m not,” you shout back, “somebody should give her a goddamn medal for dealing with your needy ass for eighteen years!” You forget the coffee, leaving the spoon and mug on the countertop and leaving the kitchen, needing to get some distance.

When you reach your room, you shut your door and slide down against it, collapsing into a miserable heap on the floor. You shed some hot, angry tears, but it’s no match for the heartbroken wailing coming from the kitchen.

You don’t get any sleep that day.

When you left your room late that night to go to work, the apartment was empty, and your car was still in the carpark, which meant Jungkook had left early to take the bus.

You didn’t go anywhere near the bar throughout the whole shift, and although your other coworkers probably noticed the bags under your eyes and your melancholic disposition, they didn’t bother mentioning it.

The shift drags on, and although it feels like it should almost be over, you note that it’s only just gone midnight when you check the clock on Namjoon’s desk. As you glance at his desk, you see an interesting flyer for an art showing. You point it out, and Namjoon’s face lights up.

“Taehyung’s got his work up in a gallery,” he boasts with a proud smile on his face. “Well, it’s the university gallery, and it’s for his finals project, but I saw the photos when he was setting them out at home, and that kid’s got talent.”

“Is it paid admission?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” he admits, “I haven’t got the time to actually go myself.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose in deep thought. “You know what, you should go.”

“Sorry?”

“It closes at 2 this morning, and I’m sure he’d love to see a familiar face. The hotel will survive you being gone an hour or so. Don’t worry, I’ll still pay you for your time.”

You give him a confused smile. “You’re going to pay me to look at your younger brother’s photos?”

He laughs good-naturedly. “Well, when you put it like that… I just don’t want him to think that nobody cares about his project, you know? He put so much time into it, and it’s really great. I’m still convincing him to let me buy them and display them around the hotel. Maybe you could sweet-talk him into it.”

“I’ll go,” you respond. You have no good excuse, well, no excuse you could tell him for why you didn’t really want to come face-to-face with his brother again, and besides, you were a little curious to see how his photos of the hotel turned out.

The university is only a short drive away, and the while the gallery looked pretty bleak and small from the outside, inside it was all hardwood flooring and sleek lighting. The exhibition wasn’t just photography, but sculptures, paints, and graphic prints too.

When you first saw Tae at the end of the wing, holding a flute of champagne and wearing pink-lensed glasses, a silk scarf and embroidered blouse, you couldn’t help but grin. He seriously was the complete stereotype of an artist. He was speaking with an overweight and underdressed man who looked completely entranced in Tae’s enthusiastic re-enactments of the process of taking each shot.

The photos themselves were the second thing you noticed. Like the ones you had come across in his hotel room, they used focus and lighting to give a strange sense of nostalgia. Maybe it was the fact that you had worked there for months now, but there was a haunting familiarity to each one that really took your breath away.

The moonlight reflecting off the pool as it was overtaken by leaves and budding flowers; the gleam of freshly shined shoes against lush patterned carpet; a white-gloved hand reaching up to grab a room key; an eye glancing to the side with a neon vacancy sign in its rounded reflection.

You pause in the middle of the gallery, ignoring the people milling around you. There was a little mole on the inner curve of the nose. A mole you saw every day in the mirror.

Why did Taehyung have a photo of you in his exhibition?

TAGLIST (send me an ask or message to be added, and you’ll get notified each time I update EYS).

@xxqueenwxtchxx

@fandomarchive00

@cvbachacbitch

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@thisgirlis-shy

@sweetcheeksdna

@boononx

#bts fic #bts imagine #bts au #bts scenarios #bts x reader #enjoy your stay #jin x reader #yoongi x reader #hoseok x reader #namjoon x reader #jimin x reader #taehyung x reader #jeongguk x reader #jungkook x reader #bts smut

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thedailyimagines · 6 years ago

Text

Imagine being a hero, and Reggie has a crush on you.

Anon requested: “Imagine where male reader is a superhero, with powers like Vixen from Legends of Tomorrow, and Reggie Mantle is your biggest fan and you kiss him”

Vixen is a DC comics superheroine in possession of the Tantu Totem, which allows her to harness the spirit of animals. She’s a total badass and a queen.

This is a superhero au, so Riverdale is now Riverdale City (RC for short).

Y/f/c = your favorite color

~~~~~~~~

Riverdale City has enough strange things going on that they had their own mafia and meta human supervillains. And with the rise of crime, there came a superhero. The first time anyone saw him, they thought they were just another bad guy.

Until he stopped a bank robbery and left the robbers tied up for the police.

From that point on, Riverdale recognized the newly dubbed ‘Beast’ as their hero. He was only trying to help the people of the city.

<—>

Reggie was waiting in line for his coffee in the early morning. There were places with shorter lines or the coffee machine at work, but this place had the best coffee in his opinion (and he didn’t trust the Stone Age coffee maker that Archie Andrews brought in). As long as he got to the coffee shop early enough, he wouldn’t be late for work.

The TV in the corner of the room was playing the morning news. The dark haired news anchor on screen was talking about the latest crime spree that had been cut short by the Beast.

“The Beast stopped several shooters from entering a public library yesterday evening, saving many young readers and librarians from a trip to the hospital. Police reports say that these men are currently unknown to having any connections to the recent mafia power surge in the area, but investigations are being held. Let’s go to Moose Mason with the sports.”

“Thank you Midge. In other news, the Riverdale Bulldogs led a stunning victory against Greendale last night, scoring...” Reggie tuned out the sports anchor and went back to his phone. It was really any news about RC’s vigilante that interested him. If he was being honest, Reggie would admit that he had a small crush on the hero.

Besides, if he really wanted to know the sports news, he could just go to work. Being a journalist had its perks.

The barista called his name, and Reggie took his coffee and left. Arriving in front of his building for work, Reggie was about to walk in when a large boom and screaming erupted from inside. He briefly saw his coworker y/n among the many faces running away before he caught Archie by the arm.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Boomer came into the office, started threatening F.P. to make an announcement on television. He refused and Boomer started making shit explode.” Boomer was one of the worst villains that the city had seen. Formerly an employee at the office, Penny Peabody had been fired for assaulting a younger staff member after they accidentally spilled her coffee.

“And F.P.?”

“As far as I know he’s still in there. He told everyone to head for the fire stairs.” Reggie cursed and headed for the building. Thank whatever higher powers there were that the office was on the third floor and not the twentieth.

“I’m going to go find him, stay here and make sure nobody goes in.” Reggie left Archie at the door and sprinted through the last of the stragglers towards the stairs. Reaching the third floor, he found the office was silent and dark. Everything was thrown about and burned.

Ignoring the smoke, Reggie made his way to F.P.’s office and peeked inside. His boss was pinned under the boot of Peabody, and she was getting ready to make him a smear on the floor. Reggie grabbed a stapler on the ground by him and chucked it at her head. It made contact with a loud thud.

Boomer whipped her head around, eyes glowing-literally glowing-with rage. Her gaze fell on Reggie and a grin grew on her face. Reggie started thinking that he had fucked up pretty badly now.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise. Looks like some of your employees actually care Jones.” She took slow steps toward Reggie, a fireball forming in her hand. “In all honesty I thought it would have been your son that came, but I guess he can wait till later.” Boomer threw the firey explosive at Reggie. He raised his arms and closed his eyes, knowing it would do nothing to protect him.

The fireball exploded, but it didn’t hit Reggie. Opening his eyes, Reggie saw a man in a black and y/f/c suit standing in front of him, the fire seemingly not affecting them. Holy shit.

“Boomer. And here I thought you were in prison. Guess I was wrong. How about you let these two go outside, and we can go one on one, fair fight?” The vigilante kept their tone casual, nudging Reggie with their foot towards the door. Reggie saw F.P. was crawling over there already, his foot twisted at an odd angle.

“You should have burned!”

“Superpowers. Animal traits. Some animals can withstand extreme heat. Now that that’s out of the way, can we please skip to the part where you go to jail?” Boomer screamed with rage and blasted more fire at Beast. Reggie dashed and grabbed F.P., dragging him towards the elevator. He didn’t want to chance the injured man’s foot on the stairs.

Jones was already in the elevator when another fireball landed close to Reggie, knocking him away from the metal doors. F.P. started to try to get to his employee, but Reggie gestured for him to get away. He could take the stairs. The elevator closed and headed for the ground floor, leaving Reggie in the middle of a meta human fight.

He was nearly to the stairs when a hand grabbed him by the throat and lifted him up. The hand grew hot, almost burning against his skin. Boomer glared angrily at the hero across from her.

“One more step, and the idiot gets burned alive.” Beast stood still and raised his hands up, taking a step back.

“Let him go Boomer.”

“Alright then.” Boomer hoisted Reggie up and threw him towards a window, making her way towards the stairs to escape. Beast used his powers to become faster and moved to catch the journalist before he went crashing through the glass.

He caught Reggie just before he went out the window. Beast set the man down against the wall, checking for any major injuries. There was slight bruising and some cuts, but the dark haired male would be fine.

“Are you alright?” Reggie blinked, still a little shocked from nearly dying. He said the first words that came to mind.

“Has anyone ever told you...you’re a badass?” The masked male smiled.

“Never to my face, no. Can you walk?”

“Uh, yeah. I think so.”

“Good. Get downstairs and call yourself an ambulance.” Starting to stand, Beast was about to leave before his arm was grabbed by the journalist.

“Don’t suppose I can get an interview?” Beast blinked, y/e/c eyes surprised behind the black mask. Then the hero started laughing.

“Most people just say thank you. But yes, I’ll find you later for one.”

“Promise?” Beast took Reggie’s face in his hands, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. After a moment he pulled away and smiled.

“Of course. Gentlemen’s word.” Beast stood and ran towards the stairs, pursuing Boomer to stop her. Reggie touched his lips and grinned.

This was going to be one hell of an interview.

~~~~~~~~

Yes, your hero name is Beast. Vixen didn’t sound right for a dude superhero.

I don’t own the above gifs, all credits go to the owners.

#thedailyimagines #imagine #male reader #riverdale imagines #riverdale #reggie mantle imagine #reggie mantle #reggie mantle x reader #vixen!reader #reggie mantle x male reader #reader has powers like dc hero vixen #superhero!reader #superhero!au

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writing-royza · 6 years ago

Text

Tainted Blood, Tainted Soul: Chapter Twenty - Hunting the Hunter

A/N: Happy Sunday, everyone! I'm sorry for the delay; it was two busy weekends in a row, and I had no time at all during the week to write, followed by just a really bad week. Someday, I'm going to just get a hotel room somewhere in the city and spend the entire weekend doing absolutely nothing but recharging my mental batteries and writing fanfiction. But I'm back, feeling better, and I'm ready for you to enjoy Chapter Twenty!

I do not own FMA.

Chapter Twenty - Hunting the Hunter

CENTRAL MILITARY HEADQUARTERS, CENTRAL CITY

0843 HOURS, APRIL 23RD

Breda hung up the phone, sitting back in the chair with a frown of deep thought and a tingle of unease in the pit of his stomach. The call had not gone as he had anticipated or hoped… and that did not sit well with someone as used to thinking three moves in advance as he was.

"It could just be that there's a problem with the lines out to Ishval," Fuery suggested. He had pulled a chair over from the phone kiosk to the left so that he could listen to the call, and still sat leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "They were only meant to be temporary ones, just until the military could run long-term lines out there."

Despite the plausibility of his explanation, he didn't sound confident.

"Yeah… but with the information we've got, I don't want to take chances." Breda folded his arms over his chest, still watching the phone with a concerned and perplexed frown. "Did Rebecca or Falman say whether they had had any luck getting in touch with them?"

Fuery shook his head. "Rebecca said that Riza had called her the day before they left, and promised to touch base once they got to Jadad, but there was no word after that." He shifted nervously in his chair. "You don't think that… well, maybe something went wrong with the truck? Like it broke down, or they had an… accident?"

"Hard to have an accident when the landscape is flat with hardly anything to run into," he answered dryly. "As for mechanical trouble, they're both resourceful enough to either fix anything that went wrong. If they had to abandon it, they would hike to whichever was closest - Jadad, or some Amestrian settlement." He rocked the chair back, still thinking. "If it were Jadad, and we can't get through, then neither can they. An Amestrian town wouldn't have the same problem."

He dropped the chair back to all four legs, and got to his feet with a stretch. "All things considered, if the Promised Day didn't kill them, a three day drive won't either. Once we can re-establish communications with Jadad, I bet you anything they'll be there and already hip-deep in work."

Fuery caught up quickly, falling into step beside him as they left the communications centre. "And what about the message we were trying to get to them?" he persisted. "They still need to know about that."

"We also still need to tell Grumman," Breda pointed out. They emerged into a hallway, joining the pedestrian flow of soldiers arriving for the start of the work day and the few tired-eyed night shift workers heading for the exits. "If we can't reach the Colonel or Lieutenant, Then he takes precedence."

They ducked into a stairwell, climbing toward the third floor of the half-demolished building. Tarps flapped gently along one side of the structure where it would otherwise be open to the bare and blasted parade ground and what had once been neatly maintained lawns. The cleanup alone, to make things restoration-read, had taken a week and a half, with the rebuilding only just getting underway.

Breda caught a glimpse past the tarp as they started up the second-to-last flight of stairs – the sky was overcast with the promise of rain, the air already thickening slightly with accumulating humidity. The kind of weather the Boss hates, he thought idly. Just as well he's not here.

The outer waiting room of the Office of the Führer-President was deserted when they arrived. A pair of empty couches faced each other over a glass-topped coffee table, with a single desk sitting just inside the doors. Breda glanced over as they passed, noting a few particular details on it that marked its most recent occupant. Paper with familiar handwriting, an empty dog bowl tucked out of the way in the foot well, and the brass nameplate reading '1st Lt. R. Hawkeye.'

Fuery knocked twice on the tall, wooden double doors at the far side of the room, waiting for the confirming call of 'Enter!' before grasping the long brass handle and pulling the heavy panel open.

It was clear, from the moment they entered, that they were walking in on another conversation. Grumman watched them enter, seated in silhouette against the window behind the large desk. Standing in front of it, his hands folded behind his back and looking back at them over one shoulder, was Alex Louis Armstrong.

Both newcomers paused in the doorway to salute. "Sorry if we're interrupting," Breda said by way of greeting. "We can wait outside if –"

"Nonsense," Grumman interjected, waving away their formalities by beckoning them forward. "I suspect we're all discussing the same thing, here." He nodded in Armstrong's direction. "The Major here was just updating me on the situation with Mr. Collins of the Central Times."

Fuery winced. "Is he going to press charges? Lieutenant Hawkeye said she sent a letter of apology to his office, but–"

"She won't be charged," Armstrong rumbled, his face composed but his eyes twinkling lightly with humour. "I spoke to Mr. Collins' editor and it appears that the reporter received a rather strong backlash from his coworkers. Something about 'pushing the envelope' and 'starting trouble' with 'still-healing soldiers."

Grumman was openly grinning, his fingers laced together under his chin. "Perhaps Mr. Collins will be wise enough to learn from this mishap to keep his mouth closed and his ears open, instead of the other way around. This does come as a relief, though. We'll add it to the list of things to be communicated to the Colonel at our next check in. Speaking of…."

Grey eyes settled on Breda and Fuery, his expression turning expectant. "How did things go this morning?"

"They… didn't, sir," Fuery admitted. "That's why we came to see you. The temporary phone lines that East City ran out to Ishval last week appear to be down."

The new Führer-President went very still, his gaze boring into the two younger men. "Down," he repeated, his tone carefully neutral. "Down how?"

Fuery faltered under that stare, the one that had been subduing unruly soldiers and insubordinate officers for decades. "I'm… I'm not sure what you mean, sir…. If they're down, they're down. They're… not working."

The expression softened, Grumman's hands lowering to rest, folded, on the desk. "I'm sorry, with both of them in unfamiliar and politically restless territory so soon after being wounded… I had hoped to rely on our communications to make sure they stayed as… recovered as they seemed to be." He smiled, though it wasn't much more than reflexive. "When you say 'down,' do you mean temporarily or permanently?"

"Temporary, for sure," Breda put in. "I think our next move is to have East City try and establish radio contact with Jadad, instead of telephone."

Fuery was nodding in agreement. "The signal will be scratchy, but it should at least be understandable. We'll have to give Rebecca a message of everything we want to say, and have her take down all of the Colonel's and Lieutenant's responses." He shrugged. "It's not exactly the fastest or smoothest way to share information, but given the circumstances…."

Grumman was already nodding. "It's at least more of a plan that we had a moment ago. The only question remaining is what information we would like relayed." He looked back to Armstrong. "The news of Mr. Collins, of course, but is there anything else? Any news of the East-Central Slayer?"

"Unfortunately, there is." Breda had gone from optimistic to grim in a matter of seconds. "Rebecca got in touch this morning to update us; that's how we knew that the lines to Ishval are down. Things out there have taken a bit of an unexpected — and suspicious — turn."

Leaning back in the carved wooden Presidential chair, Grumman's face was composed, but with more than a hint of resignation. "Don't they always," he murmured. "Go on; what's happened?"

"Well… if you remember, sir, the last contact anyone had with the killer was when he robbed the blood bank at the East City Military Hospital," Fuery began. "He stole six pint jars of blood in varying types, killed a male nurse who caught him in the act and a guard who tried to stop him leaving, and then disappeared. He hasn't been seen in the city since then."

"Bizarre sort of thing to steal," Grumman murmured.

Armstrong was frowning as he absorbed the information. "What was the date of that last attack?"

"April 21st. Two days ago." Fuery paused a moment to let that sink in before adding, "The last time he took a longer break between killings was when he murdered the hospital administration clerk here in Central and then moved on to East City."

The large man eyed him thoughtfully, blue eyes watchful above his moustache. "And you believe that the reason there have been no attacks since the 21st is because the killer has migrated once again?" Fuery nodded. "Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"

Breda and Fuery both shook their heads, but Grumman got to his feet, beginning to come around to the front of the desk. "There is some… information I've not yet shared," he said grimly. "I was keeping it to myself for now, in the hopes that the fewer people knew about it, the less risk would be posed to the Colonel and Lieutenant."

He stood with his hands behind his back, grim in the morning sunlight coming through the window. "The reason for the two of them going on to Ishval was only in part due to the threat of legal action by Mr. Collins. That is the part I told you, because the other is… much worse." Grey eyes flashed in warning. "What I am about to tell you does not leave this room, except to inform the rest of the investigative team. Am I clear?"

At the three nods and murmurs of 'yes, sir,' he continued. "It would appear that Lieutenant Hawkeye has caught this killer's attention. When or how, I do not know – I don't think even she knows the answer to those questions. She and the Colonel were staying in my old apartment in East City for the duration of their investigation there, and in that time… the killer sought them out, broke in, and caused a… confrontation."

The blood drained out of Fuery's face at the same time Breda's jaw clenched. Armstrong's moustache bristled, his blue eyes wide. "Are they all right?"

"Physically, yes." Behind his back, Grumman clenched his left hand tightly around his right wrist to keep himself calm. "The attack was mostly focussed on Lieutenant Hawkeye, and, strangely enough, involves blood." He took a deep breath before saying, "He forced her to drink his."

Somehow, Fuery's jaw didn't wind up on the floor, although it tried mightily. Breda swallowed hard, looking sickened, and brief flashes of shock, sympathy, and anger crossed Armstrong's face so quickly that catching them all was difficult. The big man was the first to regain his power of speech.

"And did she… get rid of it?"

"After he was chased away, yes. I'm told she was so disgusted by it that she vomited almost immediately." He shook his head wearily. "Though if this is the perverse purpose he puts his own blood toward, I shudder to think what his plans for the bottles he stole is."

Breda gave a full body shudder, shaking himself back to reality. "I can see why you didn't want to tell us, sir. It's like something out of a horror story."

Beside him, Fuery went still, his shoulders stiffening and eyes widening. "…Say that again."

"'…It's like… something out of a horror story?'"

Recognition dawned in the young man's eyes, his gaze introspective as he nodded slowly. "That's because it is. A vampire forcing a victim to drink his — the vampire's — blood… that's straight out of classic vampire lore. It's called a baptism of blood; it's how one vampire turns a new one." He grinned sheepishly, coming back to the present as he glanced around at the other three, all of them staring at him. "…I read a lot of monster stories as a kid."

Breda's expression turned skeptical. "That's the key word here, though, isn't it? Stories?" He shook his head. "This guy is just… a guy. Somebody who's probably read the exact same stories you did, and is just cracked enough to believe that he's an actual vampire, so he tries to act like one."

"Stories, perhaps," Armstrong rumbled darkly, "but I know for a fact that monsters are real." He reached up, rubbing at his left shoulder, still tender from where it had been dislocated on the Promised Day. "I fought one on the Promised Day… and served another in the military for several years. I'm not above believing that the monsters in cautionary tales could be real; the ideas had tom come from somewhere."

"Usually folklore, dreamed up by scared people to explain the unexplainable," Breda countered. "I'll agree that monsters do exist; I can't deny the existence of the Homonculi or their Father. What I'm saying is that there's got to be a better explanation than some pointy-toothed bloodsucker, or at least some kind of proof."

"After hearing all the accounts from Central on the Promised Day… after have my own soul ripped out and then slammed back home by a mystically evil being I've never even seen…." Grumman moved to lean back against the desk, folding his arms over his narrow chest. "After all that, I think I'm willing to come down on the side of belief."

Breda still didn't look convinced, but Fuery spoke up before he could voice his skepticism. "So if this guy is some kind of vampire, and if he turned Lieutenant Hawkeye before she left for Ishval…. Could he be going after her? And stealing the blood for…." He swallowed hard in distaste. "For… provisions until he reaches Jadad?"

The room went deathly silent for a long moment, before Armstrong spoke. "…It might be best to have East City establish radio contact with Jadad as soon as possible."

EAST CITY MILITARY HEADQUARTERS

0953 HOURS, APRIL 23RD

She sat with her shoulders hunched beside the radio receiver, headphones clamped to her ears with both hands and a frown etched into her face. Rebecca shook her head, hearing the padding over her ears creak with the movement. "Still nothing, try again."

Beside her, still tired from a hurried day and night of train travel, Falman inched the frequency dial over notch by notch, his other hand holding his own headphones tightly against one ear. "We're going to have to start going backward along the frequencies before much longer. There might be a dust storm somewhere between here and there that's scrambling the signal, or –"

"Wait a second, go back a little! I think I heard something."

A second later, a fuzzy signal dissipated most of the white noise, occasionally disappearing back into static. "…tention, Eas…uarters…Jadad Cen…tions…se resp…."

Rebecca bounced once in her seat in happy victory, causing Hayate to lift his head from the floor beside her chair. "Yes!" Leaning forward to the microphone, she pushed the button for transmission. "Jadad Central Communications, this is East City Headquarters. We copy, but you've got bad static."

There was a short pause, then, "…opy, East Cit…. you know…ry offic… name…keye?"

She could feel the happy triumph of just seconds before fading into worry. Exchanging a glance with Falman, his own concern writ large on his face, she leaned toward the mic again. "…Yes, we do. We're actually calling to talk to either her or Colonel Mustang." A brief pause. "The phone lines were down; this was our only option."

The pause from the Ishvalan end continued for another moment, before was a crackle louder than others and a new, deeper voice sounded. "…ecca?"

She relaxed slightly, although not much. "Right here, Colonel. Falman, too."

"…ood. Could u… elp." There was another pause, and when he continued, Rebecca suspected it had been because Mustang was taking a calming breath. "Hawk… n't here…. ng happ… took off."

"'Something happened and she took off?'" she repeated softly to herself. Casting a look at Falman, she found him looking back at her with equal puzzlement.

"That's out of character," he said, just as quietly. "Lieutenant Hawkeye never just… 'takes off.'"

Rebecca turned back to the microphone. "Colonel, do you know where she is? We have a message we need to get to her. It's urgent."

"She…mewhere ins…ity… ot sure whe…. ive me… sage, I'll… et it… when… ind her." There followed a moment of hissing static, and then, "…ave mess… too."

Her frown deepened, not understanding the last few words past the obscuring bursts of static and white noise. Either the Colonel had a message as well… or just a mess. With Riza having gone off 'somewhere in the city,' it could be either one. "Go ahead, sir," she said, reaching for the notepad and pencil she had brought with her. "What's your message?"

"…eason t… eve… iller migh… pire. I… eird…est… lanation….… bit Hawk… rned her… too.… ried to… rid of… n't work. She… ent pers… not… at all." He paused for a moment, then added, "With… o far?"

Rebecca looked down at what she had scribbled hastily as he spoke. 'Killer, vampire?, bit Hawkeye, turned?, tried get rid of didn't work, different person.' "I think so. Did you say she's a different person? Not herself at all?"

"…es….off aft…failed… een since….Grumman we're…looking… city… on't think… find unle…want…be fou…."

"Got it." Jotting down the last note, she read it over again. 'Took off after failed' - presumably he meant whatever they had tried to get rid of a vampire curse - 'tell Grumman they're looking, in city, don't think find her unless wants be found.'

"…at's y… age?"

Falman jumped in as Rebecca started writing out her short notes into something more intelligible. "Grumman told everyone about the attack on you in East City," he said, speaking slowly to combat the static. "Fuery figured out the vampire angle as well. The last attack was two days ago –"

The radio spat static, causing him to pause, and Mustang spoke again. "Fue…igur… out?!"

"Yes, sir. And the last attack was at a hospital. The killer stole six bottles of blood and killed two staff members before he escaped." Silence, but for a faint buzzing on the airwaves. "We think he might be –"

"He…ing here."

Falman grimaced; for having been hurled headlong into this – the strangest of strange cases – with little to no warning, he was handling it remarkably well… but his own weariness was wearing on his ability to keep up. "Yes, sir. We think he might be."

There was yet another momentary pause, and when Mustang's voice came back, it was all business. "Than…eads-up.…wha… can… ind Hawkeye…. Get…ssage to…man, check…tonight.… lines down… don't… ike it.…eep search… you know…ind her."

Either the static was clearing a little bit, or Rebecca was beginning to understand static-speak. "We copy. East City out."

Both she and Falman sat back, pulling off headphones and laying them on the desk. Rebecca rubbed a worried hand across her forehead, massaging the beginnings of a headache. "I suppose we ought to call back to Central and bring the others up to speed," she muttered. "Though how we're supposed to present this vampire stuff with a straight face, I don't know."

Falman's usually sober expression was grave. "I believe it," he said quietly. "I fought beside the Homonculus Greed on the Promised Day, and I watched Bradley take apart a tank, Captain Buccaneer, and a Xingese warrior with no more trouble than swatting a determined mosquito. If a being such as that exists, who's to say that vampires can't?"

A chill crept up Rebecca's spine, and she only barely suppressed a shiver. Getting to her feet, she picked up her notepad and started toward the door. "Either way, we have a job to do. Let's just hope we're wrong in thinking the killer could be headed farther east."

CITY OF JADAD, RECONSTRUCTION OUTPOST OFFICE

1015 HOURS, APRIL 23RD

Roy pushed open the door and stepped into the dim, cool interior of the house-turned-office. Barely ten in the morning and already the sun was promising high warmth from a cloudless blue sky. Roy took that as a good sign; maybe such bright sunlight would force Riza to stay put in whatever hiding place she had found.

And maybe it'll prevent the killer from getting here much faster….

Miles looked up as Roy entered, his smile reflexive and not much more. "Did you manage to get through?"

"Barely. The temporary phone lines are down, so we had to rely on radio contact, and the static was pretty strong." He pulled a folded piece of notepaper from its place tucked into the waist sash of his Ishvalan tunic. "This was the message relayed to me through East City, from our new Führer-President."

Frowning studiously, Miles read the shorthand notes out loud as though for clarification. "'Last killer attack negative two d.' Two days ago?" He continued after a confirming nod. "'Stole blood, nothing since. Poss. coming here.'" He grimaced. "And if our vampire angle is correct, that blood will sustain him until he reaches here, and perhaps both him and the Lieutenant when he does."

Roy's stomach flipped sickeningly at the thought of her drinking more blood, this time voluntarily. "I don't think that's our biggest issue at the moment. The fact is that he's probably already on his way and if so, he's likely almost here. Two vampires in a city full of unsuspecting civilians?"

"It will be like letting two wolves into a pen of sheep," Scar put in, descending the stairs from the second floor. "Which leaves us with three options: lie in wait for the killer to arrive and bring him down when he does, find Lieutenant Hawkeye and make sure she can't or doesn't attack anyone, or… find her and wait for the male vampire to turn up and corner them both at once."

The sickening flip subsided to an uneasy rolling. "Use her as bait?"

"In a sense." Red eyes went toward the large map pinned to one wall of the main room. "The trick is finding her."

Mentally ordering his insides to get a hold of themselves, Roy turned toward the map, studying it as he approached. Symbols on a variety of colours covered most of the westward section of the city, next to tiny printed reference numbers beside each building. With more refugees trickling into the city every week, what had begun as a small 40-acre inhabited zone had spread to roughly a quarter of the city have at least some population.

Of course, that still left three quarters unpopulated.

His arms folded loosely across his chest, Roy ignored the habitable zone, and focussed his attention on the areas left free of such markings. "How many locations of significance are there in this open part?"

"Dozens," was Scar's grim answer as he joined him. One large, calloused hand lifted, pointing out different spots. "Temples, marketplaces, schools, a seminary, parks, courthouses…." He frowned. "Although you mentioned she would likely have to avoid religious sites."

Dark eyes scanned the enigmatic clusters of two-dimensional buildings. "I know it's a lot… but would you mind marking those kinds of places off? I don't know if we can figure out exactly what sort of place she would look for… but we should at least try."

Silently, Scar retrieved a marker from Miles' desk, returning to begin tracing the outlines of certain buildings with the red felt tip. Roy studied each one, comparing it to mental criteria and either dismissing it as a choice, or keeping it in mind.

The whole process took nearly half an hour, in which Miles disappeared briefly into the office's small kitchen and returned with small, steaming cups of strong coffee. Even with cream and sugar added to negate the bitterness, Roy was forced to cough in surprise at the first sip.

Getting himself under control, he turned back to the map as Scar took a step back with a satisfied nod. "All right. So if we exclude temples that still gives us…?"

"Fifty-seven possible locations." Scar gave him a sidelong glance. "If you're certain she'll look for a significant and public place."

Roy nodded firmly. "I'm almost positive. It's Sniper 101: get high up with a good vantage point over as wide an area as possible with as little ground cover as possible. That being said, if the building is under two storeys, she'll avoid it."

Miles joined them, holding a clipboard full of building reference numbers. Both he and Scar set to work, checking the heights of red-traced buildings and either putting a red line through them or leaving a red dot in the centre. In the space of ten minutes, all selected sites went from potential to 'probably not' or 'possible.'

Looking over, Miles lifted an eyebrow. "Next?"

Roy had spent the checking period planning the next round of cuts. "Any place surrounded by other buildings or that you know to have more than, say, two windows per wall." He shrugged. "It's a pretty common trope that sun and vampires don't mix well."

Miles nodded as Scar turned back to the map. "I noticed something like that as I was escorting her to the yantir. She seemed… perhaps a little groggy or disoriented, a little bit shaky in the knees. Not quite the dramatic bursting into dust and ash that some legends describe, but I think all of us would rather that didn't happen."

Silently quashing the little flutter of panic in his chest at the thought of that particular possibility, Roy forced a smile. "I think you'd be right. How many possibilities are we down to now?"

Scar was another moment in answering, murmuring when he did. "Twenty-six. Any other thoughts?"

Roy thought for a minute, then said, "Any place with religious significance. Temples and cemeteries, like we said before, but you mentioned a seminary as well?" The other man nodded. "I wouldn't expect her to go to close to that either. Any place for religion or the teaching of religion likely won't feel too welcoming to her."

Those subtractions only took a moment. "Twenty-one left."

"It would be best if we could narrow it down to under ten or just over," Miles said, his eyes on the map. "If we search those locations and don't find her, we can add possible sites back in little by little until we do."

Nodding agreement, Roy ran through the criteria in his head once again, trying to find something he had overlooked, something he may have missed that was preventing the selection from being pared down any farther…. "What about… any places that might see use sooner than the others? Places close to the inhabited zones that are maybe a little better off and might have Reconstruction workers visiting them at any time?"

"Ah." Miles consulted the clipboard list, looking closely at the column that told of a building's current state. "I can see eliminating… perhaps nine such buildings. Leaving us with a total of twelve possibilities farther into the city."

Scar handed him the marker, allowing him to take over crossing out the buildings they no longer needed. "Twelve is more of a workable number than fifty-seven," he agreed. "The temple can lend us some of their apprentices to help with the search."

Roy took a deep breath, still watching the map. Somewhere, in that open section, in one of those red-traced buildings, was Riza. A Riza who needed his help, needed to be found, needed to be brought home…. He just had to find her. "And will it be find-and-detain, or find, observe, and report?"

The two Ishvalan men exchanged a glance. "I think… it will depend on the situation, sir," Miles finally said, his tone careful. "If, when she's found, if they come upon her unnoticed… I would think that all they would need to do is report where she's gone to ground and keep an eye on the place until a new plan is formed." He hesitated briefly. "But, if she attacks outright, then whoever is on the receiving end will have no choice but to defend themselves."

It certainly wasn't the ideal situation, but Roy had a feeling it was going to be the best he could hope for under the current circumstances. "Agreed. Make sure the searchers know, then, that stealth is going to be an asset." The smile he cracked wasn't a full one, but it at least took most of the grimness out of his wry comment of "I'd really rather not have to find a new assistant."

"We'll do what we can, sir," Miles promised.

Scar had already taken a few steps away from the map on the wall toward the low table that served as his desk. Reaching down, he picked up three small packets. "If stealth doesn't work, these may buy time to either get away or prepare a defense." He kept one small canvas pouch for himself, and handed the remaining two to the others. "Based on vampire lore in the Ishvalan archives, these should be enough to at least give one of them pause when attacking."

Roy turned the little bundle over in his hands. "What all is in here, exactly?" The thing didn't have a strong smell, but what little there was was not exactly… appetizing.

"A combination of blessed sand, a holy rune of protection cast in silver, and three flowers of the garlic plant." Scar unwound the long string wrapped around the neck of his pouch, slipping it over his head so that the little bag rested halfway down his chest. "I can't promise it will completely repel a vampire, but they won't be anxious to get near it."

Putting his own pouch — or, protection charm, he supposed — around his neck, Roy glanced down at it once, then looked away. His eyes fell on the map.

"Let's get one of these made up for each member in the search party," he said, "and then get to it. Keep them in pairs, for safety's sake, and make sure they know what to do and what to look for. It's better to do this during daylight, so when there's an hour left until sunset, if we haven't found her, we'll pull them all back and regroup for tomorrow. Fair?"

Scar and Miles nodded grimly, and the curl of worry Roy had felt earlier now settled as a slowly shifting ball of uneasiness in his stomach.

The hunt was on.

#fma #fmab #Roy Mustang #Riza Hawkeye #royza #royai #fma fanfiction #royai fanfiction #tainted blood

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elzariel · 6 years ago

Text

Karma Fairy

This will be a LONG one, like, short novel long, but its been a long gig and I need to tell the world of this mess, hoping this'll pay my debt back to the karma fairy for letting justice rain on this.

The cast: Me MOS (manager on site) CB (cheeky bugger) HAH (horny asshole)

TLDR; HAH acts like he's the pro and brags to everyone, before talking shit about coworkers behind their back to other coworkers and boss, then doesn't do his job, expects boss not to find out he's skipping work, doesn't turn to work and when boss wants to ask him what the fuck, doesn't even answer his phone. HAH is in for a surprise when MOS will never hire him again and probably will cut ties with him all together, as he now knows what a shit person HAH is.

Background info: I'v been with this company for half a year now, but have recently moved from another town. My old boss offered to introduce me to the manager at the new town and said they could easily get me more work there. I agree that I'd love to keep working for them, as I'v been cleaning for years on several smaller companies, but its never ended happily. Turns out cleaning as a profession is a swamp of bad customers and crap employers. Who knew. All in all, this company has been nothing but nice and I love working for them. The two managers I'v worked for were stellar gents, I trust them and will bend backwards to keep the customer happy for these people. My current boss at the company, is a friendly, no nonsense guy. I'v met him like, twice before I got to the worksite, but he seemed to get along well with my old boss, so I trust this guy. A little scatterbrained and bad at choosing workers, but we all make mistakes. Also kinda crap at making inventory on what needs to be done when etc. but its okay, he has a whole town's cleaning jobs to run for a fairly big company.

My new manager, MOS, asks if I want to do a short gig, since they don't have anything stable to give me yet. I agree, as I want work asap. This would also raise my experience and give me kudos in the company for accepting short notice work, since MOS called me a day before the gig starts. (turns out nobody else wanted to do it except me and CB) Gig is at an office type building, to clean before the new tenants move in. Space has been cleaned after the last tenant left, but they want us to deep clean the space, since new tenant has had problems with in-door air quality at their last place, meaning they're gonna be absolutely anal about new place being clean. MOS makes it clear to all three of us working there, me, CB and HAH that this is IMPORTANT. The dust HAS to be gone. From EVERYWHERE. There is no slacking at this job. This is one of those gigs where it has to be spotless or we'll have to just re-do it until it is.

On day one, I meet my work buddies for this gig. CB, darker skinned immigrant worker, speaks fairly ok english and a understandable version of the language of the land. Does the jobs given to him, or so we thought. Not a bad dude, just has a shit ton of work on his plate, including another cleaning company next to ours, this raises tension with him and MOS. HAH, dude says he's a veteran of the field. Has been cleaning "forever". Keeps mentioning how he's a pro at window washing and seems oddly fixated on windows, as if he thinks this is his only job here. MOS said he hired this guy because HAH didn't have work atm. Never said that HAH would only be doing windows. From that day on, HAH would constantly, and I mean CONSTANTLY, keep talking how the windows will only take him a day to do, including the outside. How this job, that has been scheduled for 70 hours or in other words 5 days, will only take us like two, so we can take it slow and laze around. (Of course not when MOS is around, but he openly talks about going slow with me and CB. Even bitches at me for doing the bathrooms "too fast" as we'll "run out of work" if I don't slow down.) When HAH wasn't boasting about how fast this'll be, he is talking about sex. Not kidding. This man spent 80% of the time his mouth was moving talking about fucking, dicks, vags, railing women and the sort. Now I ain't a prude, but damn son, reel it in a little. He's 49, going through a divorce, with kids my age (29) and it seems like he has no other topics besides being a fast worker and how many women he's banged. CB humors him, but I only answer with curt, short comments. I'm not interested. I'm here to work, not boost someone's ego. We get trouble almost immediately. HAH starts on indoors glass surfaces, while me and CB start trying to figure out how the heck we're supposed to clean the windows that are second story high, we have our own saga with fighting a scaffolding set that's not only badly installed, but at the wrong spot, trying to get it moved, trying to have CB not die falling from cleaning on this thing, etc. It is not fun, its driving MOS insane trying to get the guys responsible for the scaffolding to help us. It goes on for most of the time we're there. In the end, all higher windows have to be cleaned with a seriously dodgy ladder.

Trouble starts on the third last day. Its monday. I come in to find nobody there. Okay, I assume CB has been working too much again and can't come in today, or will be late. Its a trend, but I'm like, its okay. We're almost done anyways. On Friday, HAH left super SUPER early, saying he's done all he needs and we'll do the windows outside on monday when it gets warmer. I shrug, almost tell him to fuck off since he's done jack shit all week, even though he was supposed to help us with EVERYTHING, not just windows, but let him leave because its his fault when MOS comes by later that day and he gets in trouble. MOS got annoyed as fuck when he did come by, but said I could leave early too since we're almost done. (or were we, dun dun duu)

At around lunch on monday, I call MOS to ask about the bathrooms in the foyer, if they belong to the office space and if I should clean them too. Here's the convo: "Yeah those are part of the office too." "Hey I wanted to ask, where is everybody? I'm alone here and we aren't nearly done." "Oh uhh.. Yeah HAH was there this morning, but since the usual electricians didn't show up before 9am, he waited outside the door for an hour and left, without calling me to get someone to open the door." "What?! He left???" "Yeah I don't think I'm hiring this guy again after this. Old friend or not. He's getting all kinds of cocky.." "Well, yeah, he left super early on friday too, saying how he'd finish the outside windows on monday but I guess thats tomorrow then?" MOS apologizes and tells me he's gonna come by in a few to do inventory on what needs to be done and check up a bit on what has been done. We're going to have a check-up with the customer on tuesday around noon, so we'll know what the customer wants re-done by wednesday. MOS shows up in about half an hour, I tell him the list of stuff that needs doing, at this point its mostly the floors, one bathroom needs a quick dust-up since its been in use. We walk around and spot some dusty window frames. MOS looks suspicious af and starts touching ALL the window frames indoors. There's dust everywhere. HAH was supposed to wipe these as he cleaned them, turns out he didn't. While we're doing that, we spot a few ventilation vents that need to be vacuumed, nothing major. Some walls are scuffed and we comment on how that could use a touch up. All in all it looks ok. Rest of monday is spent with CB, who shows up late, getting upper surface dusting done and me finishing small stuff like the bathrooms and some of the walls. By the end of day, I'v seen MOS outside with window cleaning stuff finishing the outside windows. I'm starting to suspect he is so done with HAH at this point. This is tuesday. I come in fairly early, as I can only work for 3 hours that day. In between that tuesday and the first day there, I'v gotten a small bank job from CB to do three times a week + I'm doing holiday leave for a bigger job in town, cutting my available hours to 3 at the office space. This means I'm there for 3 hours, finishing up dusting high up surfaces, when I walk past where MOS and HAH are talking in a room. HAH is making snide comments on how he's surprised (me) can use the floor cleaning equipment. I listen in, take a deep breath, and walk away. Not worth it. I don't have the energy to explain to this jackass I have a damn degree, that has 40% of it concentrated on machine usage and maintenance. I can use any and all equipment a cleaning job needs, be it floor cleaners, polishers, watervacuums or those mini-zambonis. Client shows up around noon. MOS is busy walking the premises with them and I immediately realize there's trouble. The client(s) turn out to be a group of people, with various faces and job titles. MOS looks horrified about 5 minutes in and it just gets worse from there. HAH has done a shit job. Like, major shit job. CB did some of the windows high up, but since he's clearly never been actually taught how to do it, he did it in whatever way that felt logical to him. HAH was supposed to spot clean after CB, but this combo just turned into a mess where ALL indoors window frames had to now be re-dusted with a wet cloth. Yes. All of them. 1000m2 of space, re-dusted. That's 10 763,9 sq ft for americans. HAH had the balls to walk past me re-dusting with "I did that when I cleaned the windows you don't have to do that" which I curtly responded to with "No, the customer literally just said everything has to be re-done." This caused HAH to start doing the SAME THING I WAS DOING. We now had TWO people dusting these window frames, like idiots, while the customer is there. I was so very VERY close to throwing my rag at this guy, telling him to fucking find something useful to do, instead of passive-aggressively following me. I was already doing the job, what on earth! On top of this, the customer found dust. But refused to tell us where he found the dust from. MOS is flabbergasted. How does hiding where it is help us clean? We have no idea, we went through the whole location trying to find this mystery dust treasure trove. Got some hits, cleaned those. MOS is defeated and deflated, he is tired and done after the customer(s) leave. Turns out we have to re-do most light-fixtures, some windows needed a re-wipe, the floors are still not done. I leave on tuesday early, with HAH still shit talking to MOS, now insulting CB's work ethic and results openly, getting more and more racist by the minute. I exit before I have to hear what he has to say about my cleaning. So its wednesday now. Its technically our last day there and everything has to be perfect, finished and spotless before anyone can go home. What does HAH do? Leave early. I come in around 9:30, by 10:00 HAH is gathering his gear talking about how there's only the floor to clean and we should be done. CB is coming later to help right, you'll be fine on your own with 1000m2 flooring to clean! (again, 10 763,9 sq ft) Apparently only some of the offices floors need cleaning, mostly what is needed is two front offices, the big entrance room, a hallway and the foyer. All this time HAH is talking, he is clearly talking about using the small floor cleaning machine we have there. He even points at it, making sure I know how to use it etc. Before he leaves, I ask him to help me move all our equipment, scattered around the office, to the main lobby room and clean up a little. I'm thinking, he can at least do THAT, right?? No. No he cannot. He brings maybe third of the equipment to the lobby, helps with none of the trash, and just poofs into thin air. I'm like, ok, I'm fine with this. I start by checking that everything is ok, spot clean some walls, then start on the floor. I use the little machine we have. At the lesser used end of the hallway it works fine. It looks clean etc. But by the time I'm at the lobby end of the hallway, I'm seeing streaks on the floor. This is a trend that continues through the two offices and the foyer. After I'm done with the lobby/main entrance room, I realize this isn't gonna fly. The floor is super streaky and I can't figure out what is going on. I'm technically done now, all the floors are ran through once with the cleaning machine, but I just don't feel right leaving without asking MOS about the floor, if there's something to do, if I can leave etc. I text MOS if I can leave, I'm done with everything, I think, etc. Ask about the streaking. Then I start my lunch. I know he's at a meeting so getting an answer might take time and I'm in no hurry, as I have no other work on wednesdays, I can stay here however long that is needed. I don't hear anything in 45 minutes and decide fuck it, I'll call him. MOS answers instantly, laughing how he was just about to call. We laugh about telepathy and here's the convo: "So are the electricians gone? They were supposed to finish today right? Are you guys alone?" "What? No, I'm alone. There's two electricians here with me, they seem pissed too, I guess nobody is in time here." "Wait what? You're alone? Where's HAH??? Didn't CB show up??" "Uhh no?" "What in the actual fuck!? What happened???" "HAH was here until about 10am but he left, said everything was done, he had nothing to do so he'd be off" "What the fuck does he mean Nothing to do?? The floors are- are the floors done?" "Well see, there's this weird streaking problem.. I don't want to leave before you ok me to leave, since this doesn't look clean to me, tbh" "Give me 20 minutes. I'll be there. I'll give you a ride home later." "I'm in no hurry, I have no other work for today" MOS shows up in exactly 20 minutes. "The polishing machine hasn't done a very good job has it.." "What polishing machine?" "Huh? You haven't used the polishing machine on the lobby yet?" "No??? I wasn't told that was to be done. All HAH told me was to use the small machine and we'd be done?" "No, we need to use the polishin machine on the lobby, foyer and probably the hallway too, looking at the streaking, the shit's stained too deep for the small machine to penetrate it. Fucking HAH! What the hell does he think he's doing!? Why the hell did we bring the polishing machine and watervacuum here if its not used! Idiots!" At this point MOS starts cursing and I realize its finally dawned on him how much work there still is to do, and its just me and him now. MOS calls around trying to reach anyone to help, CB can't come he's already used his hours today, again. (Turns out he isn't even doing his jobs at the other places he cleans well, he has been lazying around wasting time and not following customer wishes/demands for a while, MOS tells me I might be getting stable work sooner than later, as it seems CB is gonna get booted too if his shitty work quality continues) Its now about 1pm and MOS asks me, looking desperate, if I'm okay helping him for the afternoon and for the next day as well. I agree, saying I'd gladly take the cash and how this vexes me too. The floor looks terrible + I want to look as good as possible to MOS now that I know both CB and HAH have screwed over their graces royally. We take a couple hours to use the smaller machine again the offices, but with the Good Stuff used with the polishing machine, resulting in clean floors. While I'm doing the offices, MOS starts on the lobby, with the Good Stuff + the polisher. GS is a very smelly, acidic chemical meant to strip wax off flooring, so its serious stuff, but also proceeds to get this grimy, black substance to come out the plastic flooring, making us realize some poor fucker waxed this floor, thinking it'd help (spoiler it didn't, don't wax plastic flooring) and that was causing the streaking, as the smaller machine can't strip wax but it can streak it. Thing is, when you use the polishing machine, you literally throw water and cleaning agent on the floor, run it over with the polisher then use the watervacuum to remove the dirty water. Its a two person job or it takes forever, since you cannot let the detergent and water dry, or you have to re-do everything. There was NO way I could have done this alone in a sensible time! HAH either knew this and was a cruel shit head or didn't know and wasn't the pro he said he was. By the time its 3pm, we have the lobby half done and the offices finished. The next day would be the hallway and the rest of the lobby. Before we leave, MOS tries to call HAH to ask him what the fuck is up, but doesn't get an answer. I tell MOS not to bother, HAH knows he's in shit so won't answer. MOS drives me home and on the way he expresses his regret in letting HAH in on the job, saying how if he knew what a bastard HAH'd be, MOS would never have hired HAH. MOS also tells me how HAH spent the whole tuesday shit talking CB and my work, how if HAH was alone he'd finished in 2 days. TWO DAYS. MOS says that was the point where he stopped listening and decided this man was beyond help. This is also when I heard MOS talk about how CB's other locations have been complaining a lot, saying how CB would leave equipment everywhere, would not clean the whole time he was supposed to be cleaning, would not show up at work etc. Got pretty much told I could have free pick when CB was fired later this year on his locations. MOS also mentioned how he was going to find out if there was anything he could do about HAH's pay, since he hadn't been at work or if he had been at work hadn't actually worked. I told MOS some pretty exact times when I knew HAH was working, meaning HAH couldn't bullshit his hours to MOS saying he'd worked when he hadn't.

Sadly, I didn’t go on thursday after all, as I realized I had a medical appointment I thought was on friday but was on thursday instead, so I have no other ending to this, except the knowledge that HAH will never work for MOS again.

I apologize for the HUGE wall of text, but it was a wild week and by the end of it, I could literally see karma fairy when I closed my eyes. I just wish I could be a fly on the wall when HAH realizes what a shit show this gig was and how its gonna affect his work prospects with this company.

Epilogue: Also, as a sidenote, yeah, this whole thing was a mess from the customer perspective too. By the time we got to wednesday, the electricians weren't done, they were supposed to have been done DAYS before we were to be done. There was new renovations that needed to be done showing up constantly. Several smaller jobs hadn't been done etc. I feel bad for the new tenants, who were supposed to move in on FRIDAY, with walls to be painted and crap still MIA. So its almost as if the picky customer got karma'd too. They were so hellbent on having the cleaning done perfectly, that the renovations weren't done anywhere near in time, meaning the nice clean floors and bathrooms? Now dirty again from reno guys using them for a good two days after we finished. And as we have picture evidence of our work, they can't come back saying we didn't clean. We did our job and their reno guys fucked our work up, not our problem.

#long-post #karma is a bitch #worktrouble #customer service woes

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cojukpaihins1978-blog · 6 years ago

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Nothing you do will trigger the event, you just have to wait. Right now with the bug you cannot search for the nodes, they despawn VERY quickly due to this bug so finding a node without actually seeing where they land after a meteor shower is extremely lucky. The fact that you found a node though, tells us that the event itself is triggering, you just have to be very patient and wait. Getting political. I honestly feel that there is little if anything that one nation can do to impact the. Impact. You denied a fellow human being of her autonomy as you full well knew she needed that job and would've done anything for it. The fact that you have no qualms with this is quite sickening. Imposing or forcing ones beliefs or ideas on anyone is absolutely abhorrent and you are a different breed of nasty.. I finally ended up creating a new account with my twitter handle so I could go the the customer services chat. I did what everyone suggested, and just wrote gibberish until I got the option to talk to a person. After a lot of explanation she was able to unblock my account but I had to wait about 4 working days.. I think you touch upon an important point here, since the importance of gaining knowledge precedes that of spreading it. Right now, what use is it to start working towards one idea/doctrine, when so many people are researching, 괴산출장마사지 enriching what we know about the ancient heathens. So yeah I really agree with your argument.. It is part of Hickey's argument that art, having been decreed good for culture a priori and therefore good for us, is neutered, left with little need to articulate any value but that of its own existence. And the subject of beauty itself, he laments, has become one tepid potato a subject pooh poohed recently by Hickey's own students at the 괴산출장마사지 University of Nevada, Las Vegas. The windmills, quixotically enough, sometimes assume the form of the late Alfred H. The permanent changes to content means that instead of actually making new stuff, you just remove or permanently alter/ruin perfectly good old good content (Kessex Hills, Lion Arch, Twilight Arbor, etc.). Updates also barely added anything longterm. Sure, we got a few fractals, a single dungeon path that was hated, but all in lesser volume than we get now. There a documentary about a comedian who wants to lose weight and he goes about it scientifically, to see what being overweight has done to his body. One of the things he does is go on a modified treadmill that uses air to take the weight off his legs and he can experience what walking is like at a much lighter weight, the idea being that the air takes some of the weight instead of his body (I not too sure how it works). The joy he has when he walks as a "lighter" person is bittersweet and he comments on how good it feels. My coworker got lucky because my boss wasn't there today, so he actually hasn't seen just how ridiculous it looks. (We were told to just put it in the daily deposit as if it were real, and that the bank will send us a letter that it's fake. And the company will just take the $100 from some sort of reserve that was set up for this type of situation.) I work in a small retail store, and our policy is to have at least two people verify any bills larger than $20.

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chezzkaa · 6 years ago

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Numb pt 5

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Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 3200+ Warnings: graphic depictions of violence

Your bag hits the floor with a loud thud, but it’s nothing in comparison to the beat your heart sings too. You’d hoped it would quieten once Ryan wasn’t around, but the sound that rushed through your chest had followed you home. Up the snow banks and stairs, and through the lodge until it stands in front of you. Granting it your attention, it sings for a few more minutes before eventually fading with the nervous smile you put out of your mind. Absent fingers dive into your pocket, pulling out two small, smooth and dark stones, passing them across one another in your hand. Flashes of the gold inscribed against their surface sees you calming, tight giddiness in the centre of your chest relaxing. It doesn’t dim the smile, but it’s enough to think straight.

Then your phone is pressed to your ear, waiting for the distant rings while you continue to fold the stones. Your best friend’s voice greets you after the click, making your heart leap and the smile on your lips widen into a grin.

“Hey Y/N, what’s up?”

You try and sound as flippant as possible, suppressing the excited stretch of your lips. “Oh, hey Lauren, how’s life-”

She cuts you off, familiar with the tone and willing to take none of your teasing. “What’s his name?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Y/N. What’s his name?”

“How rude,” you hedge through a smile, “my energies are struggling in this new environment and my stones need charging, and you think I’m all foggy because of some-”

“Shut up, Y/N. I know damn well that your energies are fucked, I can feel it all the way from here. Stick your fucking stones in the moonlight, damn it. But don’t you dare try and get out of this. What’s the fuck’s name?”

“Ryan,” you cave, the eager blip fluttering in your chest seeing you glare at the stones, abandoning them on the windowsill in the hopes bathing in the moon will help. “Stupid fucking things, I swear ever since I’ve moved they’ve been acting up. I tried using them the other morning, right? And nothing, absolutely nothing. They’re not even touching the weird fuzzy whatever-the-fuck thing is going on and making me feel kinda out of it. But oh my god dude, he’s amazing. His eyes are so fucking blue, Loz, and oh my god his fucking smile!”

“Spill, spill! So help me, Y/N, if I don’t get every juicy detail I’m gonna fly to those mountains and-”

But you don’t give her to opportunity to finish, pouring your heart into the phone line, agonising over every description, every flirtatious smile, and every heart skipping laugh. “His puns are fucking terrible.”

“Marry him,” she demands, “marry him right now.”

“I’ll make sure to propose as soon as I get to work tomorrow.”

“Wait, he’s your coworker?”

“Lauren,” you fold the words over slowly, feeling her excitement vibrate against your cheek, “he’s practically my boss.”

“YOUR BOSS?! Fuck, Y/N.”

“I know!” you throw yourself sideways, splaying across the couch and grinning at the ceiling. “Trust me, I know. But hey, enough about me. My face is gonna fucking split if I keep thinking about it. Speaking of bosses, how are things with you? How’s Trevor?”

It’s her turn to gush, voice quickening with her enthusiasm. “Dude. DUDE. Cus of you guys moving and shit he decided to take me out. We got all dressed up, and I mean dressed up. Heels, black lipstick - I looked like I might kill a bitch. And bitch, I might. But he picks me up and we’re driving, right? And he pulls into a burger joint. My favourite burger joint. So we’re sat there in this grease filled room surrounded by people in pj’s while I’m in this fucking expensive dress and he’s in this hot as fuck tux and bow tie, and Y/N?”

“Don’t tell me,” you giggle, “you fucking loved it, right?”

“I FUCKING LOVED IT.”

---

It takes a while for you to start moving, slumping off the couch and to your knees. Shuffling towards the fireplace, it's as simple as lighting a match; last night's set up of tinder and newspaper catching almost instantly. Lost in the hypnotic flames and the comfort your best friend is always able to provide without even trying, the room is engulfed in amber; warmth wrapping its arms around you as you wander to the kitchen, flick on the kettle, and get a cup ready. Scrounging up what the herbal ingredients you’ve stashed inside the island counter, you’re careful when measuring out quantities, muttering under your breath before starting your tea. A few quick stirs and deep inhales levels you, the feeling of the floor far more solid beneath your feet.

It's only once you draw your bag closer that you stop, tea pressed to your lips and fingers coming across something smooth.

Drawing the folder out of your bag, you stare at the file. It’s worryingly large. Jam packed with stapled sheets and post it notes, paper clips so heavy the top threatens to fold under the weight. Turning it over in your hands, you come to face the case printed on the front before you drop it like you’ve been stung. Your palm burns, recoiling away as the energy that’d started to smoulder diminishes. Still, the title glares from the floor, demanding your attention as it screams.

Case no. 30574208 Head in Charge: Det. Insp. J. Dooley Lumberjack of Motbury Active: 2016 -

It’s not the whole file - but it doesn’t have to be; because you can already see the first name poking from beneath the discoloured card. Can already see the smallest section of a lime green coat littered with tiny frogs, caught in the corner frame of a photograph. Can already feel a painful sting encasing your neck uncomfortably. A sharp pain that shoots through the centre of the back of your skull, harsh and demanding.

You’re on your feet in an instant, circling it as though it’s going to lash out with quick, erratic steps. But it doesn’t. It stays deathly still, like the bodies you’re sure remain buried within it. Just photos, sketches blotched with trauma and cross hatched with wounds while the real things rot in the morgue.

As quickly as you were moving you’re stopping again, cold despite the heat that leaves you suddenly sweltering, skin slick with sweat beneath the numerous layers plastered to your body.

You know what will happen when you pick it up again. It’s going to consume you, you think reproachfully, discarding the offending fabric that has you struggling to breathe, shedding and strewing it across the living room. It’s going to destroy you, just like last time. And just like last time, you won’t be able to help them.

You’d realised what being a detective meant a long time ago, and you’ll never forget. Never be able to ignore the fact that for you to do your job, people had to die. Names had to stack up so you could find the pattern, so you could ram their faces beneath the suspect and hope for some crack in their facade. Hope that one would die covered in stains, or with fingernails chock full of DNA. And when you’d come to rely on a tiny body still clinging to the crime that had seen it taken too soon, you’d been sick. So violently that you’d shaken for weeks. So violently that everything you ate came back up, so you just stopped eating.

And you could feel it. Feel every sharp wound and tattered bullet hole, limbs so restless that you’d wanted to scream.

Never again, you’d sworn, never fucking again would you pray that the next body would be more broken than the last for the benefit of another. You don’t care if one death could save the many. It didn’t fucking matter if that tiny, tiny person held the key to stopping the next body arriving on the coroner’s doorstep; because a life had still been lost. You’d hoped for it, you’d felt it, because it’s what you needed to do your job.

A shock of pain shoots through your scalp as your hand swipes through your hair, the old habits of stress already seeing you pull too hard. Gingerly withdrawing your hand, the clump of hair caught between your fingers is enough to spur you forward. Snatching the file from the floor you toss it on the counter, completely intent on storming into the station and ramming it down Dooley’s throat.

But you stop as it falls open, the photo staring at the ceiling far too familiar to ignore. You approach it as though it’s explosive, peering at the treeline you see outside your window every morning, covered in red markings and arrows. Taking it in your hand, you flip the photo over and read the notes jotted on the back with a falling stomach and burning palm.

17/04/2018

Body, male 10 yo (no. 6). Found 500 meters past tree line. Footprints entering. None leaving. Within vicinity of victim 3 and 5. Wounds consistent. Small incision at base of neck. Lacerations.

You recognise the handwriting. Jeremy’s scrawl had always been all over your notes, and the later he’d stayed at the office, the worse it had gotten. The curves of his ‘g’s and ‘y’s are clumsy, ink smudging as he’s forced his numb, tired fingers to write down another death. Number 6. And now you have to look, have to see the body that’d reduced him to such sloppy functionality. The body found just beyond your treeline only a week before you’d moved in.

It’s the lime green coat again, tiny frogs leaping across the thick, puffed fabric donned by a smiling little boy. Mousey blonde hair sticks out at every angle, but he doesn’t seem to care, brown eyes wrinkling in delight while he laughs. You don’t want to look at the picture behind it, but you do. Taking in the tiny body curled in the snow, knees tucked into his chest. If he wasn’t wearing the coat, you wouldn’t be able to tell it’s the small boy from before. Tom, you tell yourself. Number 6. Tom.

You’ve seen a lot in your professional career, seen more vile, disturbing acts of violence than many can even dream of existing. Felt them prickle across your skin and scratch in your veins, itchy and raw. But this was more perplexing than it was nauseating, but it’s more certainly both of those things. Because rather than a beaten face covered in blonde and bloodied hair, there’s simply nothing at all.

The neck just… stops.

The wound is there, granted. But it isn’t messy. Blood and gore doesn’t coat the snow, nor does it soil the jacket. But it’s not a clean cut, either. Tattered around the edges, curling, bruised and blackened. Sagging.

And they’re all the same. As you search through the file’s contents you can’t find a single child with a head. Every body found in the same position, curled up as though they were sleeping. Found in the woods directly surrounding your home.

No wonder this place was so cheap to buy.

Curiosity burns intense over your concern, sitting heavily on one of the stools surrounding the island and shifting through the papers. The more you try to understand, the more confusing the case becomes. No matter how many times you fold it over in your head, you can’t comprehend the information you’re taking in. Only able to feel the pinch at the base of your skull, and a terrifying calm that numbs your chest and makes it harder to breathe.

And honestly it sounds more like an urban legend to scare children into behaving, or scare parents into disciplinary action. Because it just doesn’t make sense.

At first, it seems, the police force was inundated with complaints. Petrified townsfolk calling in as a snow storm rages through the night, the sound of knocking hammering against their doors. None dared answer. A group of kids messing around, you assume. And you notice that Jeremy had thought the same. Or perhaps a lost traveller caught in the harsh weather and seeking help. But there were no one there in the morning. Porches untouched by the snow but tattered by something, deep grooves tracing the frames of the entrance with vicious brutality. Camera’s cut out and sensory lights left undisturbed.

And then the trail of death started. Livestock, in the beginning. Bloody, brutal maulings that eventually left sheep with lolling necks and a glaringly absent skull - as though the bone has been sucked from the skin. But what bothers you isn’t the carnage, nor the senseless violence that has an animal killed and unused.

It’s the damage, the aggression once the creature was obviously dead. You can see it; can feel just how frenzied it all was. It’s not the first time, either. Every case you’ve witnessed like this leaves you with only one thought. Passionate, you’d argue. Angry. But the closer the timeline gets to the current date, the cleaner the kills become. Until they stop all together.

And the kids start disappearing.

The first one was just as messy as the livestock. Beaten and bloody, a pile of skin the only remnants of a face. But eventually, even that too disappeared. Like whoever it was, was getting better. Getting into the rhythm.

Your stomach twists, staring down at the file you’ve scattered across your counter.

It’s going to consume you, a small, defeated voice whispers in your head while you collect the pages, taking them to the scanner and copying the file before arranging it back the way you’d found it. It’s going to destroy you, just like last time. And just like last time, you won’t be able to help them.

You head for the car once you’re done, not bothering to wrap up against the cold.

---

The station isn’t fancy, barely recognisable as a place of authority when nestled between the other buildings. But regular shop fronts don’t normally have this many patrol vehicles lined up out front. 2, you correct while your foot meets the curb, only 2 cars. The late night doesn’t both you, and neither does the sterile atmosphere you step into. It’s a small space that offers a short line of chairs before the room is cut off by a reception desk, sliding glass protector open wide. Behind the divide you can see what you assume to be the staff room dotted with couches, and offices and files on the opposite side.

The door shuts gentle behind you, and with it’s quiet click you can hear the frustrated voices approaching the room. You don’t wait for them to arrive and beckon you forward, already moving to the reception and leaning against the ledger.

“I’m serious, Michael,” comes Jeremy’s exasperation through the walls, “I swear I just fucking had the damn thing.”

“Obviously not, asshole,” replies Michael smugly, “otherwise we wouldn’t be turning the station upside down.”

“I don’t get it. I had it at Jon’s, had it when I got into the car…”

“So you must’ve lost it on the way in this morning.”

“But I didn’t do anything else with it!” cries Jeremy, finally rounding the corner with his head hung in defeat.

“You must’ve,” insists Michael, coming into the room moment’s behind him. “If the boss finds out, he’ll be pissed.”

“I am the boss,” Jeremy groans into his hands, oblivious to your presence.

Michael, however notices you, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What do you want?”

You go to respond, but Jeremy interjects. “The damn case file before my fucking head explodes.”

“Not you, idiot,” laughs Michael, nudging his superior’s hands from his face and motioning to you. “You’re lover.”

“Gross.” Your nose wrinkles distastefully, as does Jeremy’s when he finally spots you. It doesn’t take long for him to beam, despite the teasing. “Never in a million years.”

“I’m way out of your league,” he insists around a comedic frown, “I’m arguably too good to be talking to you. But I will, because it’s weird seeing you back in a police station and I’m concerned.”

It’s your turn to laugh. “Don’t get used to it. I just wanted to return something I picked up by accident earlier today.”

“If you pull out this missing file I swear Jeremy is gonna fucking come.”

Jeremy’s expression agrees with Michael’s off-hand joke, the file you pull out of your bag seeing him light up. “Oh thank fuck! I thought I’d lost it, I was about to fire myself!” He takes it eagerly, holding it to his chest with a sigh of relief.

“Don’t leave your shit lying around next time,” you scold, “especially something as important and weird as that.”

He’s nodding until he realises the insinuation of what you’ve just said. Even Michael turns to you, the pair studying you critically. “How would you know it was weird?”

You shrug, seeing no harm in answering Michael’s question honestly. “You think I wasn’t going to look at it?”

“You said you’d never look at another case,” says Jeremy slowly, concern and excitement creating a strange, bubbling concoction in his chest.

“I didn’t really have a choice,” you admit ruefully, rubbing the back of your neck. “But it looks like you’ve got a serious problem to deal with. They all look… very angry.”

“Angry?” His brows furrow, casting Michael a quick glance before snatching a pad and jotting the word down. “What do you mean by angry?”

Instead of answering his question you pose your own. “What do you think it is?”

“A wild animal attack, mostly.” Michael grimaces as the words leave his lips, seemingly upset that they have nothing else to go off.

But you’re shaking your head, dismissing the thought. “No way this is an animal.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, more out of curiosity than ill intent, “but who the fuck are you, exactly?”

“Shit,” mutters Jeremy, jumping in before you can introduce yourself. He holds out a hand to you with a broad, proud beam. “This is Detective Inspector Y/N of the L.D. FBI squad. We used to work together, she was my boss.”

“My god.. You’re legendary around here.” Michael’s eyes are wide as he offers out a hand for you to shake, his grip firm and eager. “I didn’t realise you and the woman Jeremy’s been raving about were the same person. I thought you retired?”

“I am retired,” you say flatly. “What’s he been saying about me?”

“Nice things!” interjects Jeremy rather quickly, his hand covering Michael’s face to shut him up. He struggles, grunting and pulling away with a yelp. But Jeremy pays the complaints no more mind, now looking at you intently. “Does this mean you’re going to join the team as an external source?”

“No, I’m sorry Jeremy.”

His face falls. “No no, I get it. I appreciate you bringing it back. I owe you one.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that.” He eyes you up suspiciously, not trusting the smile crawling across your face. “Actually, I know exactly how you can pay me back.”

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obviouslyelementary · 7 years ago

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BATIM - chapter 1

This fanfic comes from my theories plus my ships so yeah. Sorry if its weird. No ships will probably happen though but they will be... implied.

Enjoy!

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“Listen here, Joey, I can’t okay?! I just... I can’t deal with this routine anymore”

“What?! We have been doing this for six months! Henry, listen, I know you are working a lot now, but as soon as everything goes live and we receive our income, we will hire more and more artists and you will only tell them what to do!”

“Like you do to me now, Joey? No, I don’t want this. When we agreed to start this studio, we said we would work in teams. All you do is drink and daydream about stupid things. I made Bendy up, I created his crew, I drew them all for you! Alice, Boris, The Butcher Gang, all the rest of the special characters! But all you do is demand more and more and I don’t have time to myself! I barely see Linda anymore because you keep stealing my time with her and she is pregnant! I have to have income and all you worry about is doing more and more! We have been this six months giving and giving money and not receiving anything back!”

“Henry, our cartoons are just airing! The toys are already selling! We have a whole team working on that!”

“A team?! You mean Shawn messing up with the fucking toys and Norman taking more time in the breaking rooms than fixing the tapes! Besides, you hired yet another voice actress to Alice and yet her toys haven’t started selling! Your marketing is horrible and Grant can’t stop complaining about how little money we have left!”

“Y-you can’t give up now Henry! We are starting to take off! We must persist! We must b-”

“I swear... that if you say ‘believe’ I will rip your face off”

The two partners stayed quiet, staring at each other. Joey’s exasperated face slowly darkened.

“Fine. Leave then. We don’t need you” he said, firmly, and Henry took a second before he nodded.

“Wonderful. Goodbye, Joey. Good luck” he mumbled and grabbed his already organized box. He walked out of his room, slowly, not looking back, stopping at the door as he opened it, all of his coworkers and employees standing in front of it.

“A-are you really leaving us, Henry?” Susie mumbled, shakily, and Henry looked at them all slowly, sighing and nodding.

“Yeah” he said and smiled sadly. “I will miss you guys. We all had a blast together. But I have to find a real job and have a nice family with Linda, yeah?” he talked and walked through the crowd before he stopped and turned to them. “And... if anyone of you even care at this point... take care of Joey please. Don’t let him ruin himself, or you”

The whole crew nodded.

Henry smiled and walked to the door, sighing and looking at the posters around the walls. At the last one, he touched Bendy’s face and smiled.

“I will never forget you buddy” he whispered, and then walked out of the door, out of the studio.

The light of day shone on him like a great relief.

Back inside the studio, Joey walked out of Henry’s room, his smile as wide as always, but clearly forced.

“So, what now boss?” Sammy asked, raising his eyebrow and crossing his arms. “Our last hope for this shitty studio to grow just left”

“Yes, and our debut Halloween special is just next week” Norman added, showing off the tape on his hand.

Joey laughed to them and winked.

“It will all be fine. Now we need to finish and wrap up everything for this special. All the drawings are done so let us continue everything and finish it by tomorrow! Susie, you come with me and Sammy to your next recordings. Norman, up to your booth. Grant, go check our bank for our top secret project. Wally... just keep cleaning I guess. Shawn, back to the toys. I want skeletons as soon as possible. Thomas, take care of those pipes” he said and nodded. “Everyone to your posts! We have no time to lose!”

“Yeah. We already lost anyway” Sammy mumbled and rolled his eyes, making Norman snort and turn around, walking away as the others scattered around the studio.

Joey watched all of them quietly, and then looked back at Henry’s room. He frowned and closed the door behind himself. One day, one day, Henry would regret leaving.

One day.

“Hey. Norman”

The projectionist looked over from his projector, raising his eyebrow at Sammy, who walked in slowly, slapping his suspenders against his chest.

“Yes, Sammy?” he asked slowly, leaning against the wall as the spooky cartoon was projected over the band booth. Sammy hummed and sat on Norman’s chair, watching him for a bit before tilting his head.

“Henry left a month ago”

Norman kept his face.

“Yes. So?”

“And the only cartoon we see showing around these halls is this spooky cartoon, even though Joey said we could easily continue our work with the drawings Henry had already done”

“Yes... what is your point?”

“My point” Sammy started, standing up and walking closer to Norman, cornering the taller man against the wall “is that Joey is extremely worried about this project of his, this top secret project, and he hasn’t started to take care of what is really important, our money”

Norman hummed.

“I see... go on”

“He is building another floor. One very, very deep. Rumors say it will have an elevator to reach it. It will be just under Shawn’s toy department” he said slowly, and Norman leaned closer, suddenly interested. “He is spending more and more money with this... upgrade... and we are buying it Norman! We have been locked in this place for what? Weeks? And he keeps saying that more will come, that this project will change everything... and yet we can’t know about it?”

“And there is also that new girl... Allison?” Norman continued, and Sammy nodded. “Weirds...”

“We keep hiring more and more people and we aren’t getting anything back. The man is insane. And yet... we stay. Why?” he asked, and Norman raised his eyebrow again. “I think he might have put a spell on us, Norm”

“Spell?” Norman chuckled. “Now you sounds insane”

“No. No I don’t. I can show you buddy, come on” he said, waving his hand and walking out of the booth. Norman frowned but soon followed, confused and slightly, just slightly scared.

They walked together through the several hallways of the music department, looking around and following a long way. After walking for a while, they reached a hallway blocked away with planks. From one small hole though, Sammy pointed to the room behind it.

Norman looked at him, and then leaned down, checking what laid behind the planks.

His eyes widened immediately and he pulled away, looking at Sammy, hands trembling.

“T-this... is not goods...” he mumbled and Sammy nodded, frowning.

“No. We need to investigate”

“Quickly”

“Awn fucking damn it!” Thomas growled as he tried to fix another pipe, the result being his face and overalls drenched in ink. “Why the heck has Mister Drew built these pipes?!”

“I wonder that all the time” Wally mumbled as he walked behind Thomas, scrubbing the floor and sighing deeply. “I have never worked so much for so little salary”

“No kidding” Thomas mumbled and grabbed another screw, trying to screw the pipes together to make the ink stop flowing. Soon, there was a pool of ink under him but the pipe was finally screwed together. “Finally!”

“I need more cloths...” Wally mumbled, sighing and holding up the drenched cloth he used to clean the floor. “I hate working here”

“Me too buddy” the repairman mumbled and then looked at Wally, smiling and slapping his shoulder gently. “But hey, think positive! Soon this crap place will be completely abandoned and we can move on! Now come on! We can grab some coffee upstairs!”

“Yeah” Wally said, a little more optimistic, walking after Thomas and leaving the pool of ink there on the floor. Both friends walked upstairs to the crew room, sitting down and grabbing some coffee. In one of the tables, Shawn seemed focused drawing on a Bendy plushie.

“Hey there Shawn” Wally said, smiling, and the painter looked up at him, giving him a grin.

“Heyya! How you boys doin’?” he asked, happily, and the two shrugged, making him laugh. “Yeh, tirin’ day, I agree” he said and looked back down at his plushie. “But good, in the end!”

“Yes, unless you are drenched in ink” Thomas mumbled and sighed, sipping on his coffee calmly. Shawn looked at him and shrugged while Wally chuckled.

“Sus-”

“Shut up”

Allison flinched at that, staring down at her feet while she thought of something to say.

“I’m so-”

“Shut up”

She sighed, looking at Susie. She was staring right into the wall, face mean and angry.

Allison had never meant to get Susie’s part. Joey hadn’t even told her they already had someone else who had tried out.

Besides, this whole ordeal was starting to scare her and she wanted out. She wouldn’t care less if Susie got the part for Alice.

Allison looked away towards the toys in the corner. She smiled, reaching for a Bendy toy and squeezing it, watching as it squeaked. At least she had some comfort in the toy department. It looked like the less scary part of that dark studio.

Probably because Shawn was a very nice guy and always made sure to make her smile with his jokes.

She giggled softly as she thought of him, and then blushed, looking down again and biting her lip.

Next to her, Susie seemed apathetic.

She sighed.

This was worst than hell.

“Ten thousand, Joey?!” Grant screamed at the owner of the studio, eyes wide. “Are you crazy?! Completely mental?! We didn’t receive even the double of that money for our last cartoon, we have nothing guaranteed for the next month, and you want to spend all of that in a crazy project?!”

“Yes, of course” Joey said, smiling widely. “Henry prepared everything! All we need to do is build it up and we will be unstoppable!”

“Unstoppable because we will already be stopped!” Grant growled. “I am not allowing this, Joey! Henry was right, you are insane!”

“I am not” Joey growled back, suddenly becoming was darker and meaner than ever. Grant’s eyes widened and he stepped back. “If you don’t authorize this, I will close you in this place and you will never get out, I swear!”

“Joey... you are crazy...” he mumbled and Joey smirked, almost maniacally.

“No... I am finally sane. And I see all, all possibilities and all paths. My mind is finally clear since that useless boy left. Now, I can achieve my full potential” he smirked and held Grant’s coat. “And you will help me!”

Grant swallowed thickly.

There was no way of saying no.

He was too crazy.

They were screwed.

#batim #bendy and the ink machine #batim fanfic #sammy lawrence #thomas connor #joey drew #henry #allison pendel #susie campbell #wally franks #norman polk #shawn flynn #bendy #alice angel #boris #fanfic #my fanfic

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crissle · 7 years ago

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transcript of the speech i gave at Vassar’s black baccalaureate service

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, and the Vassar class of 2017. Just saying that aloud made me feel old. Class of 2017? Most of y'all were born after dark-skinned Aunt Viv left the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. That’s wild.

I want to first thank you for allowing me to be a part of such a special moment in your lives. I am honored, privileged, and a bit in disbelief that you asked me of all people to give this address. I try not to have feelings, and I’m going to do my best not to cry today, but no promises.

I’m here to stand in the gap between you and your parents and guardians and any other elders in your lives that you stopped listening to because you thought they were wack and out of touch. I remember being in your shoes not TOO long ago, and it is my fervent prayer that something that I say here today will help you avoid some of the mess I went through. To be honest I’m a little nervous, but I figured there was no way could this be worse than when Betsy DeVos went down to Bethune-Cookman, so let’s get started. As you transition to life after Vassar the changes will be both inevitable and swift, so I’d like to begin by giving you some well-intentioned advice and warning you about the continued process of becoming an adult.

It means I frequently feel simultaneously overwhelmed and very bored. It means forcing myself to go to work even when I’m depressed or my anxiety is through the roof because I’m the grown up now, and the bills don’t get paid unless I do it.

It means sometimes sitting in my room alone and feeling like I’ve done nothing significant with myself.

It means going through bouts of just being unhappy and not having any option but deal with it.

So no, adulthood is not the “I can do what I want” paradise that it may have appeared to be when we were young, and I’m sure you can all see that clearly now, but there is even more growth ahead. Sorry if you thought the hard parts were over.

Many of you have likely never worked a full time job or completely supported yourselves before, so as you prepare to enter the professional workforce please understand that as a young person of color your biggest asset will likely not be your intelligence, work ethic, or creativity. It will be your ability to make the white people around you feel at ease. You’ve probably already been honing this skill during your time at Vassar. No shade. Lord knows my years in college in Oklahoma prepared me in the same way to deal with my bosses and coworkers. You will be tested the first time a colleague complains to your supervisor about your “unfriendliness”, when really you were just trying to meet a deadline and didn’t care to hear about Susan’s cat and its vomit. Or the time you collaborate with a group and when the work is presented to your boss, your contributions have been conveniently erased or “mistakenly” attributed to someone else.

There have been many times that I had to sit back at work and bite my tongue while a white male coworker skated by with few responsibilities and even fewer repercussions. This is what it’s like for most of us playing the corporate game. Keep the white people at work comfortable in your presence, and things are magically easier. Force them to see the blackness in your humanity, and watch the complaints to HR pile up.

If you feel like you are being unfairly targeted or punished at work, put those in feelings in writing and back it up with some proof before emailing it to the people who need to know. That’s right - I’m telling you to go full White Woman in the workplace. Learn now to trust your gut. Know that if something FEELS off, it probably IS off.

When things were getting rough at a previous job of mine and I suspected something shady was going on, I started carrying my iPhone all over the office and using the Voice Memo app to record what was being said when I wasn’t in the room.

I kept my own meticulous records of what was going on and those files ended up saving me in a major way. I’m thankful every day that I didn’t ignore my intuition about that job. Sometimes we get those sneaky feelings and think we’re being paranoid when it’s really God (or the universe, or your personal higher power, whatever you believe in) trying to warn us about the dangers ahead. There have also been plenty of times that I didn’t listen to that intuition at all and paid the price dearly. Please learn from my mistakes.

I dated a girl back in 2008 or 2009 (the years all start to run together after a certain point) that we’ll call Ashley. Ashley was fine, played basketball, had a nice car, great job, and most importantly - was taller than me. But there were lots of things about her that didn’t add up. Like how she claimed to be an engineer for Apple, but we lived in Oklahoma City which had only just gotten an Apple retail store at all the year before. Or how she claimed to be my age, but her driver’s license said she was born three years before I was. (She claimed it was a mistake at the DMV that she never got fixed). Or how she constantly gave away fancy things like Louis Vuitton purses and Gucci and bought an SUV back when gas was like $5.32/gallon and not even rich white people were buying SUVs. The list goes on and on.

There was a lot about Ashley that should have been a red flag, but I didn’t care. She was fine! She took me out all the time and seemed head over heels for me and opened doors and held my umbrella so I looked past the sketchy job thing and the fact that she was blatantly lying about her age and everything else. The universe gave me so many chances to walk away from that situation, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. If I am honest with you now, it’s because I never thought someone who looked that good could be attracted to me. If I lost her, I’d never get anybody that fine again. When she got a new job as an “engineer” at a bank, she asked me to come there one day and open an account so she could deposit a check into it. Now don’t get me wrong, I was definitely a fool back then, but that just felt like it should be a no. And so for the first time in our relationship, I told her no.

She let it drop, and I pretended that nothing was wrong and kept dating Ashley despite the millions of warnings the universe was tossing in my direction until I couldn’t ignore them anymore.

A few weeks later, I was home asleep when she pulled up at my house at 3 AM (problem number one) and told me she’d been arrested for embezzlement and her dad had just bailed her out. She claimed that it was all a big misunderstanding, but when I put two and two together I realized that she’d asked me to come to the bank that day so that she could pull off her little stunt and blame me if she ever got caught. To say that I was hurt by that betrayal would be a massive understatement. I couldn’t believe someone I loved and trusted so much could have treated me that way. Had I been even just 2% dumber I’d probably have a record right now because of that girl. I let the idea of loneliness and solitude keep me in a situation that I should have left months earlier, and it almost ruined me in a permanent way.

I tell you that story because my friend Kid Fury and I give out a lot of advice on our podcast, The Read. Most of it is about relationships and I get a lot of feedback from younger women who say things like “Wow, I wish I was as reasonable as you are about relationships” or “I wish I was okay with being single like you guys seem to be”. But I didn’t always make smart decisions when it came to love. I wasn’t always okay with being by myself and I didn’t get to this place overnight.

What I DID do was learn from all the ways that I messed up and spent time alone after every relationship to work on myself. From Ashley in particular I learned to always trust my instincts, and these days I spend a lot more time vetting people before I decide to date them. That’s not foolproof either, because love is always a gamble. You never know how things will turn out. The difference now is that I listen to the warnings the first time I hear them.

Since we’re already on the subject of relationships, I want you to know that sometimes you will have to un-break your own heart. Sometimes what you thought was the perfect relationship ends and you don’t get any real answers or resolution or closure. Sometimes you will have to sit alone in your heartbreak and just feel every bit of that misery. Sometimes you will have to know when it’s over and be brave enough to end things before they can get worse.

I want you to know that because if you decide to not feel those feelings… if you decide to throw yourself into sex or dating or selling laxatives on Instagram instead of processing the entirety of what you are going through… all you are doing is delaying the inevitable. Your future relationships will crumble under the weight of your unresolved emotions. You are not doing yourself a favor by pretending that you aren’t bleeding. It is fine and good to develop hobbies to distract yourself from the pain and loneliness of a relationship ending, but make sure you take the time to really get through your breakup.

Remember that never getting married isn’t the worst thing that could happen to you, but marrying the wrong person could be.

For young women in particular, I want you to learn to put yourselves first. Learn to prioritize your needs. There is so much to be accomplished in your personal life when you are happy with yourself alone. As a wise woman once said, there is an essential part of who you are that only becomes alive in the place where romance ends. Women are so conditioned in this society to take care of others that choosing yourself can feel unnatural. It can be isolating, because believe it or not lots of people don’t think women have the right to see themselves as truly equal to men. Weak partners will not know how to handle a woman who puts her happiness above anyone else’s but choose yourself anyway, and never compromise just for the sake of not being single.

When I was around your age, LiveJournal was a big deal on the internet. If you aren’t familiar, LiveJournal was a site for keeping personal blogs and participating in communities with like-minded people and I loved it. I blogged on LJ for years and made internet friends that I still keep up with on Twitter today, and when I take the time to go back and read what I was going through in my mid-twenties I am always blown away.

An excerpt from September 6, 2004: “I figure, why break up with him for being a liar (and probably a cheater) when everyone I’ve EVER dated has been a liar/cheater. Obviously I am destined to be either alone or with a liar/cheater. No sense in breaking up with this one when all I’ll be doing is waiting for the next one to come around.”

YIKES! I read that now and see a person whose self-esteem was so low that she should’ve been single and in therapy. It’s hard for me to reconcile that girl with who I am today, but I got here. The things that felt fresh and dangerous and new back then are old roads to me now. You will get there too. But you gotta keep going.

Another quote from my journal, this one dated November 5, 2008: “I don’t even try, anymore, even though I want things to be better. I want to do and be better. But I don’t put forth the effort that I know is required of me and I don’t know why. I just let things get worse and worse and worse and one of two things happen: It’ll get so bad that I’m forced to do something to change it or it’ll blow up completely in my face. If I do eventually change, I never manage to keep it up so either way it goes my life is a constant cycle of fail. I wish I knew why I couldn’t be one of those people who learns to make it right.

P.S. What is up with Rihanna having all these good songs lately?”

I remember feeling that way A LOT - sometimes for days and weeks at time. But it’s funny to me now that I remember those feelings but not the daily work it took to get out of it. I just know that I kept moving. I talked to my friends about what was going on and faithfully asked the church to pray for me every Sunday and Wednesday. When that didn’t fix it alone, I broke down and found a psychiatrist. (Which I highly recommend, by the way. Mine have saved my life twice. #NoShame.) If you’ve never been in therapy before, it might surprise you how helpful a stranger can be when you feel stuck dealing with life. And of course, I kept my journal. I kept writing. When my depression drove me to the point of feeling suicidal, I wrote my way out. But my journal wasn’t all tears and desperation and sadness. I laugh a lot too when I look back at who I used to be and what the world was like then.

Like this post from September 3, 2005: “Kanye West just got on TV and said ‘George Bush doesn’t care about black people’. Kanye West is officially my baby daddy.”

Or this one, from August of that same year: “I bought two fish, one male and one female. I named them Brad and Angelina. And I don’t think it’s any coincidence that they hump constantly.”

I encourage you to keep a journal and write in it as much as possible. I read a story on Humans of New York last year about a woman who has kept a journal every day since she started it as a class assignment in elementary school. Y’all, I would spend Beyoncé ticket money to be able to go back to 1996 and read my thoughts on being in 7th grade and what the Oklahoma City bombing was like for us living 90 miles away. I would spend VIP Beyoncé ticket money to be able to go back to high school and read the daily thoughts of a girl who was struggling with bisexuality and living with a very religious family in the middle of the Bible belt. So yes, please keep a written record of your life. One day it will be invaluable to you.

Take a lot of pictures of yourself and of everything around you, even when you think you look terrible. I don’t mean that you have to post them on Instagram or Tumblr every day, but no one ever grew older and thought “Damn, there’s too many photos of me lying around from when I was young.” The moments you are experiencing now will layer themselves into the person you grow to be. It’s a lot of fun to look back on trips that my best friends and I took in our mid-twenties and cackle together over the memories. When I was your age, camera phones were only just starting to become mainstream and it was a bit of a pain to hold onto lots of photos. So take advantage of the times we are in now. Save all those snaps to your camera roll. Record videos when you and your friends are just hanging out being goofy. Take those selfies, even if you think they’re ugly, and know that one day you’ll look back and touch the pixels of your 23 year old face and wonder where the time went.

One day, if it hasn’t come already, it will really hit you that you’re not one of the kids anymore. One day you will look around at your family and you will now be in the position that was always previously occupied by your parents, aunts, and uncles. Those kids that your siblings and cousins have? They get old fast! It is a cruel trick of life that childhood seems to drag on forever while adulthood flies past. Nothing prepares you for the realization that your parents are whole, complete people who had entire lives that existed before you were ever considered.

You will know in a way that young people are not capable of knowing that time continues to move and the world keeps turning no matter what. Children cannot quite understand that the games and technology and places and people they build their memories out of will all change one day. When I was your age, MySpace and BlackPlanet were more popular than Facebook and George W. Bush was the dumbest president America ever had. So yeah, the world will change in ways you cannot begin to imagine. You will realize that if you are fortunate you will be old one day, but also that growing older means learning different ways to say goodbye. One day it will be you turning up the brightness on your phone and increasing the font size on your MacBook and looking confused at whatever new app or machine the children of the future have invented.

Everyone won’t leave Vassar this weekend with a great job lined up in the career they’ve always dreamed of and go on to live happily ever after. If you’re like most of us, you will spend a significant amount of time being overworked, undervalued, underpaid, stressed, and tired. I want to encourage you today to hold on through the times when life will frustrate you the most. Understand that you WILL mess up, and the way you respond to making mistakes shows your true maturity. Hold on to the friendships you’ve had for years. Take the time to figure out who you are and how that person is different from who you want to be. Learn when to cut people off and how to genuinely apologize.

Ages 22 to 32 were by far the hardest I’ve gone through in my life. Imma just be real with y’all about that. I had a lot of terrible relationships. I had knockdown drag-out fights with roommates and best friends. I had terrible jobs and even worse bosses. My health wasn’t always great and I stopped trying to take care of myself. Depression and anxiety seemed to rule my days more often than not.

But if I hadn’t held on, I never would have worked up the nerve to move from Oklahoma to Harlem. I never would have started doing The Read with Kid Fury, which changed my life completely. I never would have been able to travel the world doing the work I love. I never would have found the real happiness and true peace that come with both loving and liking yourself.

Understand that your next steps into adulthood begin now, and that you cannot get to the rewards life has in store for you without walking the journey. (Unless you were born a cis-straight white man, and then the world is your oyster.) When I look back over the past decade of my life, I see a lot of struggle and heartache and days that I had to collect coins from the bottom of my glove compartment to scrape up enough money to find dinner. And now that I’m on the other side of that mountain I see how every last one of those days I spent hurting and miserable led me to being right here. I had to learn to trust the process laid out for me. I had to learn to let my dreams shift into my destiny. Like Oprah says, I learned to lean in with the universe instead of fighting it. So as you prepare to tackle the changes heading your way, do your best to hold your head high and remain true to yourself. Remember to hold onto your values, your ethics, and your purpose. It is these qualities that will successfully guide you through life.

I’ll leave you with one last excerpt from my journal, dated January 20, 2007: “My ex-boyfriend just moved to Harlem and he gets on my nerves talking about how great the east coast is. I really don’t give a damn about the east coast. I would never move to NYC, but maybe that’s just me.”10 years later, I can tell you that 24 year old me couldn’t have been more wrong about what she would or would not do and how her life was going to turn out. So have your dreams and goals, but don’t be so attached to them that you miss out on your purpose.

Congratulations to you, the Vassar class of 2017, and to the parents, family and friends who have helped you arrive. Good luck to you and thank you for listening.

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