#Jim chip coded

[girlsuccess42]

strongly believe that good omens two should’ve ended exactly like jennifers body: with hole screaming ‘YOU SHOULD LEARN HOW TO SAY NO’ over the credits

[themareverine]

WILD MAN

─ Logan Howlett x fem!OC

summary: Blizzards and pane glass windows—typical for a Thursday night at Laughlin City's favorite haunt. Until the Wolverine walks in, and hell hath no fury like a man ravaged by jealousy.

warnings: language, possessive behavior, angst, jealousy, implied sexual content, established relationship from my Mare & the Wolverine series.

a/n: i don't know what this is, really. went to write a different oneshot and it turned into this. guess my brain needed some jealous Logan. reposted from my deactivated account.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Inky midnights glare through the windows of Laughlin’s oldest haunt as the season’s thick, wet snow falls in an almost sideways blanket. The bar is flatlined, almost asystole. Heavy bass, thanks to Huey Lewis and the News, thunks from the stereo system like a jackhammer against her skull, trying to fill space that bodies aren’t.

Stale cigarettes and fried food in the air mingled with the highschool smell of sweat and testosterone, which may as well have been painted to the walls they were so familiar. Sticky floor, slick bartop, chipped tile in the bathroom—common ghosts for nearly eleven thirty on a Thursday night.

“Really comin’ down, ain’t it?” 

It’s more the sudden spike of cold overflow from the tap that jars Mare McAffery from attempting to glance around her reflection from the pane glass window. Surprised, she startles, slapping at the tap’s toggle before her fingers curl around the chilled glass. Slick with foam as it sloshes over the rim carelessly to the mix of drinks that have already found their fate on the floor at her feet. It isn’t her night. The lack of business has her brain running, her thoughts anywhere but here on a Thursday night among the snow, cigarette smoke, and canisters of beer she needs to change in back. 

She’d rather be home. Bundled in blankets, wool socks. Watching the kick of fireplace flames from the safe brace of Logan—just Logan. All of Logan. His arms, that absolutely breathtaking chest that ripples with life and hard muscle and heat. Feeling the rise and fall of his every breath, how the fresh wash of her hair tangoes with his heady scent of whiskey and cigar, wood and snow.

Feeling the warmth of his feet toying with hers under blankets as they stretch out towards flame, listening to the rich way he chuckles every time his nose brushes against the back of her ear. How his rough fingers pull through her cropped curls, teasingly carding as he dares to whisper about his day against the curve of her ear—-

She jumps when the edge of the bar comes up a little too quickly against her hip. Her heart shellshocks against her ribs like a violent engine. Feeling flushed, she bites the inside of her cheek. Lathes her tongue against the front of her bottom teeth. Praying to God the low light hides the color on her face seems fruitless, but it's there. 

Reaching for a bar napkin, her smile is slow as she slides the beer in front of Laughlin’s foremost gossip, affectionately christened Flappin’ Jim by the town’s population. No less than four decades her senior, stringy silver hair peeks out from beneath a nearly-threadbare Carhartt beanie, stained with what could only be assumed was engine oil. Jim has owned the zip code’s only machine shop longer than she’s been alive. 

She shrugs a shoulder when he mentions the snow a second time. “When isn’t it snowing up here?” The squared-off toe of her western boots scuff the floor cooler behind the bar as she reaches for Jim’s ever-requested cocktail straw, plopping it in the dark amber of his lager before his parted lips could continue, “I’ve seen my fair share of the white stuff—but never like this. You know how they say everything is bigger in Texas?” Jim chuckles, nodding as his tongue seeks out the straw, his gaze never leaving her, “Well, I swear to God, everything is colder and thicker in Laughlin.”

His laugh comes from his chest, phlegm from forty years of smoking Player’s. “Forget it’s your first snow with us, poor thing,” Jim waves a hand between the two of them, brows bobbing suggestively as his grin widens enough to reveal half-rotten mid-to-back teeth, “iffin’ you’re thinkin’ you need a ride home, darlin’, ol’ Jim’s got room for two on the old snowmobile—” 

Her brain nearly melts at the absolute atrocity of a mental picture that statement provides. She could think of not a single thing worse than going to the door with Flappin’ Jim, much less riding an hour west on a snowmobile in little more than jean’s and a leather jacket. Laughlin’s poster child for bad decisions and alcoholism. Perfect. 

Informing him of her lack of proper gear was the kind out. “Thanks for the offer, though, Jim,” her nose scrunches a little as she works at the try-a-hundred-times-a-day-but-still-nothing stain practically etched into the oak grains of the bartop, “Logan’s coming to get me, he knew the snow would be bad. Dropped me off this morning before work.” It’s nonchalant—surely women were dropped off and picked up by their boyfriend’s during bad snow in Laughlin. 

Never mind working a double, Jim’s brows popped tall as if it were an entirely new concept straight out of a Stephen King skincrawler. “Wild Man’s comin’ all the way down the mountain in this shitstorm?”

His thumb goes over his shoulder, despite evidence of his claim hanging in the window to his three o’clock left. He whistles over his shoulder for his buddy, Kenneth, to listen up. 

Kenneth’s head raises with interest, like a meerkat rising from his hole. “Lord’a mighty, Kenny boy—you was right, mus’ be better than’w thought!” 

More vapid laughter has Jim, and now Kenneth, hacking up a lung from their respective seats. 

Whatever population’s in the bar—eight souls —turns to look at her, snickering and the twist of their upturned lips all but nailing her to the back wall. Like looking from the outside in. May as well have all been pointing fingers at her—and, unsure whether her gaze should fall to Jim or past him to Kenneth, her raised brows opted to consider the older man sweeping his hat off his head.

Unwashed hair nearly glistening with what she can only assume is grease and oil, a thought that makes her stomach rise up to kiss the base of her ribs. His laughter turns raucous as his eyes skim over her, hazed. 

Swallowing a splash of stomach acid, her brow furrows hard behind the bridge of her glasses. 

“Pardon?” 

Wringing the bar rag through her hands, Mare ultimately realizes how this makes her look. Tosses it aside. Stands a little taller, wants to look down her nose at Jim, but realizes she’s shorter than he is, perched on a stool. More wind howls, biting at the bricks, flecks of snow tick tick ticking against the pane glass windows outside in the dark. Working a double has never felt so dehumanizing—she could melt into the floor right now. Whether from the tired headache blooming behind her eyes or the full attention from the bar, she’s not sure. 

A sharp smack! of Jim’s hand against the bartop makes her jump. “Oh come on, honeybunch,” the low accent matches every step that Kenneth, now, manages as he stumbles over to lean a plump hip against the bar. “E’ryone knows no mountain man like Logan Howlett comes off the mountain for just anythin’—‘less he’s gettin’ head,” Eyes skate her over her, visually-stimulated from top to bottom, ultimately parking at the cut of her tank top as he sloshes back the rest of his bottled MGM, “just how it works, sugartits.”

His eyes remain welded to her chest, but her jaw has long since lost its hinge. Any second now it would start creaking like a rusty gate, bone raking against bone. Opening and closing, like a fish choking on air. Slack and openmouthed, she blinks through the little flecks of dirt on the lens of her glasses, brain short circuiting to assimilate just how absolutely crude of a statement has just landed between her eyes like a stone to Goliath. 

Words don’t find her for a full handful of minutes before Jim and Kenneth’s attention are drawn away. Onto other conversation, this time bear hunting stories and the back-and-forth of rifles. Throat burning, like the inferno sands of Moab. Every sticky string of saliva moisture in her mouth is tapped dry, she attempts to raise spit on her tongue, to swallow. Virginal heat chases up her neck like a predator, sinking teeth into her confidence. Fans across her decolletage and collarbones. 

Queasy, embarrassment spins a weave down her spine and through her guts like a snake. Reminds her that wolves of the world so often hunt the lines of the innocent perimeters she’d fought hard to preserve—did everyone in town think she was sleeping with Logan? Like a broken record it spins, wobbling on the needle, screeching and clawing deep into the lines of her psyche. 

Years as a preacher’s daughter had provided her a certain level of naivete, certainly—-never ignorance. Wasn’t dull to the world beyond innocence, outside the lines of the pure and spotless idea of Christ and His church. She knew the world was spiraling, hell and brimstone around every corner. All parlor tricks and open gates, brazen. Like a painted woman in scarlets and pearls—or a drunk on a barstool at quarter-too. 

Mare hadn’t expected this level of forward. This, gall. Audacity. Snapping teeth of a big junkyard dog trying to look tough and scare her into shock—that’s what this was. Provocative, seeking a response. Gasoline on a snapping fire. Enough to make a harlot blush, and Jim knew it—it’s in the way he guzzles hops like his veins crave it, eyes following her even through the bottom of his glass.

He’d blurted what she’d suspected everyone in town to think, and for half of a breath, she wasn’t sure how to feel. Flushed and embarrassed, a given. 

Defiance lands like an airliner in her blood. Surprising, but not wholly unwarranted. Jaw setting with force enough to shatter the world, the heel of her boot grinds into the sticky floor as she turns to busy herself with empties. Glass cries out as she stacks them in the crook of her arm, fingers grabbing for whatever she can manage to stalk back to the kitchen.

Her heart pistons between her ribs like it’s been dropped into an Indy car, eyes flitting to and fro behind the bar. Anger. There's lots and lots of anger.

For handfuls of seconds she scours for a response. Something smart, smarmy—will fly in the face of what everyone in this town had been thinking about her since her boots had hit the province.

What Jim has actually implied—it burns. Like hot coals. For months she’d been walking the flames of the rumors; innocent little preacher’s daughter from the States.

“Y’even know how to spell ‘fuck’, darlin’?”

Far too busy brushing her dirty hands on the back of her jeans, Mare doesn’t even hear the squeak of Jim’s barstool swivel, “Well, I’ll be damned—if it isn’t the man of the mountain. How goes it, Logan?”

More snickering, and she about-faces, all-soldier as relief hitches itself like a wagon team to one of her ribs. 

Jim’s brows bounce over her direction, his look provocative enough to make her want to vomit right there on the floor.

Continuing his thought, he scoots his empty to her with his knuckles, “Come to fetch our pretty little Miss Minnesota here, eh, boy?” Another wet cough grates across her nerves like nails to blackboard, “Looks like you were right, babygirl—s’told us you’d be makin’ your way in, Logan. Didn’t quite believe ‘er, but wonders never cease I reckon.” His nose scrunches as she passes him another pint glass, “Was about to keep little girlie here all to m’self.” 

The line of her jaw twitches with how tight she’s clenching her teeth together, and it takes herculean will not to shoot off at the mouth—a trait she’s less than proud of. Thanks, Dad.

And it’s laughable how Jim is so quick to assume age, Logan’s raised brow in response shows it. At nearly 200 years old, he’s beyond surprise. Maybe, nearly. Closer than any part of her would like to admit, though nobody would know it—he doesn’t look a day over thirty-five. 

A little tick of contained smile at the corner of his mouth is enough to make her forget her name.  His dark eyes, calculating and deep, hold her gaze a few heartbeats. Logan reads her like an open book, an interested investigator—always has. She breaks first. Looks away, wiping at the sweat bubbling up on her brow. 

His sparkling, steady eyes flash with something she can’t identify before darting back to Jim. Logan’s hum of suspicion is warm. Low, too low. Medicinal honey, going straight to the center of her femininity like nothing could. Lord, if it didn’t set every bone in her body to gelatinous flame—she sucked in a breath that stabbed at the mesh of her lungs as he settled against the bar.  

He leans against the corner of the bar like he owns it, and he may as well have—out of the way and almost bleeding into the shadows of invisibility, he rests an elbow to the worn wood. A hand reaches to brush the wet of the storm from the sheepswool of his coat. Kisses of snow melt from his beard, ebony hair almost as quickly as they’d entangled—she doesn’t miss the blush that cold has left on his nose. 

“Is that right?” Leaning a bit heavier on his arm, his lips tip up in an amused little way that sets off fireworks in the depths of her womb, reminding her of organs long forgotten. “Good thing I’m a man of my word.” Toe-over-toe she slips to a stop across the bar from him, reaching for a half glass that’s almost too cold between her sweating palms. 

Logan pivots to face her, eyeballing her with a cool smile. Her usually-bright greeting is quiet, “Please sit. You’re ordering a whiskey.” It’s a demand, not a request.

Anything to keep her hands busy, to keep her from noticing how Kenneth hasn’t stopped ogling her tits since he sat down next to Jim, deep in his drink and fully, entirely out of his mind. 

“Just one?” Let no man say Logan Howlett isn’t keen. “Hi.” And just like that, he changes gears. Keeps her guessing, like always. Mysterious as the shadow, bright as the sun.

Elbow planted on the walnut bar, his brows bounce as his finger crooks. Come. 

Resting her hands at either side of his glass, she leans across the wood slowly. Considering him through low lashes, her heart swells at the way his tongue fills the pocket of his lower lip, considering. Hungry, almost.  Possessive.

He makes her forget Jim, and Kenneth, and anything resembling breathing in flatline seconds.

Logan’s eyes flick to her mouth, in a tantalizing, only–the-stuff-of-Hollywood way as her bottom lip curls in, a little sheepishly. Nose to nose, the bite of cigar smoke lingering about his beard is dizzying—a scent of fresh pine clings to his clothes. He smells of snow and man, just as he should. 

“Hi.” Little more than a breath and he closes daylight between them, lips brushing hers in a soft and slow hello. Smiling into his kiss, she sinks back to her feet behind the bar. Fingers curl into the wood beneath her palms. 

Changing gears, Mare reaches for a bag of clean bar rags and begins folding. “How was your day on the mountain?” 

His finger traces the rim of his whiskey glass and he shrugs a shoulder. “Peachy,” he takes a drink. She keeps looking over to Jim and Kenneth, who haven't stopped looking, and takes notices.

Logan's glass finds the counter again but his hand doesn’t lift from it, content to linger in the droplets of sweat. Simple, cleancut. Like always.

Then, “What’s wrong.” 

It isn’t a question—as her eyes cut up from her work to look at him, his are open and waiting. Seeking. Ever since she’d known him he was always watching, waiting; seeking something. 

He’d said once that he’d been looking for her all his life—her innocence. Purity. And it was no different, right now. Just now, he hunted the demons creeping inside her head, sitting invisible on her shoulder instead of the crisp light she usually carried. Nothing about him belies the name he gave himself, the name he carries nestled beneath his shirt on adamantium dogtags and numbers. 

The Wolverine—her Wolverine.

The sound of it, inward and out, snaps like a whip even months later. It suits him in such a way she’ll never fully describe, that poetry could never adjective. Thirty-two days of her calling Logan Howlett her own and it felt little more than a fairytale, her own Cinderella story lost to fantastical girlish dreams and giggles. A little over a month since he’d asked if she wanted to “go steady,” since she’d giggled at him like a child, “Nobody says that anymore, Lo,” and his “Wanna start?” had her—has her, to this very breath—unable to think straight. 

She lies.

“Nothing.”

Too quick to be truthful, she turns to replace a bottle of Bulleit, its glass lightly clattering against its brethren on the mirrored shelf. Her eyes flutter closed and she releases an uneasy breath, disappointed in her response—Logan wouldn’t take no for an answer. Never had, since she’d known him. 

A snippet of the night she’d met him races through her brain like a racehorse. “You should let me take a look.”  

“I’m fine,” She’d been too quick—too defensive. Good lies always bare a little truth in between their teeth, but—she’d always been a bad liar. A sheep amongst wolves. Or, rather, wolverines. 

“Bullshit. Needs stitches, we both know it—you’ve been workin’ the cage long enough to know the difference. Can’t let you go without a look.”  His look had been unmovable, like the earth. Understanding of her plight, her hesitance for an almost-stranger to look her over. Gentile as she’d sank low on a barstool to accept a beer from him.

Gentlemanlike, walking her through the steps—careful with his hands. Hands that hold her world, hands that could cut through stone. Aware of her nerves, but unrelenting all the same. 

His dark eyes narrow at her just so, his nose scrunching a little as he checks her reflection in the mirror. Much to her relief, Logan drops the subject. And she can see, in the reflection, he isn’t all too thrilled with dodging the question.

Knowing what topic of conversation would be on the ride up the mountain didn’t take rocket science, and she wilts inside knowing that honesty hadn’t been her first blush.

Two thunks on the bar have her checking her shoulder. Jim, signaling for another beer.

“‘Nother here, sugartits—make ‘er tall and strong, gotta get me home in one piece, y’know.” Jim’s smile is toothy, lopsided as he goes to the effort to lift his ass out of his seat. Passing by without so much as a nod, she swipes the glass from out in front of him. 

And before Kenneth’s hand is at his shoulder, Jim’s palm smacks across her ass cheek. Hard enough that it thwacks! against the pockets of her jeans.

It catches her off guard. Nobody had ever so much as ogled her ass to her knowledge, much less actually touched it—the pint glass falls from her fingers. Hits the boards of the wooden floor, the thick glass shattering to big pieces, low before her feet as if she’s some goddess worth breaking over.

A little breathless, she stumbles over her square-toed boots. Fingers curl into the wood until her knuckles are white. At first there’s anger, then embarrassment that hits her like an overloaded tractor trailer. Fluster ruffles her feathers like a wet hen, and she considers the broken glass at her feet. 

Audacity to laugh at the red bouncing to life on her cheeks has Jim roaring with laughter, unaware of what sin he’s just committed—her fingers are brushing the first big piece of jagged glass when she hears the swivel of a stool. The thunk of boots hitting the floor.

And before she can even begin to piece together what she suspects, she pops tall from behind the bar at the exact moment Jim’s laugh becomes a strangled wheeze. 

Collar snugged up too tight against his throat, Jim gags for air, tongue poking between fat lips as spit collects in the corners of his mouth. Breathing steadily, the crest and fall of Logan’s chest is evidence that he is on the raw and bleeding edge of composure—if his dark glare could be considered composed.

Brow little more than a hard line, his gaze narrows in Jim’s face as he leans in, lips curling in an almost animalistic snarl. 

“Logan,” Mare’s hiss is low, eyes skirting about the eight bodies that have almost backflipped up from their seats scattered about the bar, “Logan. Please—put ‘im down.” Murmurs have overtaken the air like quiet demons, they are no longer their own spectacle. 

Jim manages what sounds like the-hell-d’ya-think-yer-doin’, which produces a low rumble from somewhere in the base of Logan’s chest. Dark eyes cut to her, sweeping over her frame as she discards the chunk of glass to the small sink to her right. Heart pounding unlike anything she’d ever felt in her chest, bludgeoning the soft flesh of her lungs, she sucks in a stale breath that does nothing to ease the fire that seems to throb beneath her skin—sweat has replaced any semblance of chill in the room. Oxygen may as well be a hope. Tank top sticking to the flesh between her shoulder blades, her tongue nervously darts over her front teeth, eyes to Logan’s ironclad grip at Jim’s shirt collar. 

Logan doesn’t relent. Instead, she notices the cord of muscle in his arm tighten. Even beneath the shield of a coat, the mask of humanity —and she knows. His opposite hand lifts in Jim's face, and she's counting heartbeats before familiar adamantium splits skin wide open, bleeding with rage.

Adrenaline snaps into her blood like a whip, and she’s around the bar at his side in no more than a heartbeat or two. Hands at his arm. Fingers curling into the denim of his clothing. Met with hard muscle, he may as well have been cut from marble—an Adonis of power and strength unlike anything she’d ever seen.

The white’s of Jim’s eyes are all but tracking, brimming with terror as Logan snarls—actually snarls—down into his face. Possessive rage clouds any semblance of humanity left in his face—it’s all Wolverine. 

The Wolverine. Her Wolverine. Out from the shadows, out from any corner anyone had ever shoved him in—out to fight. To kill. For her. All for her, all for them, all for this.

She can’t put a full finger on the power of this honor, this…privilege. And that’s what it is, really—loving him is privilege. Is honor, only imaginable and dreamstate for girls like her. Everyday girls with little to offer, with little hopes for the next day other than to survive, to pray.

But Logan, somehow, had seen her—had seen her enough to care and care deeply, to his bones, adamantium bones he wars every second of the day to mummify, contain.  

Truth of the matter hits her like a stone between the eyes—it doesn’t matter how deeply Wolverine is buried within Logan’s sarcophagus of self control, his ability to walk the lines of his anger. Logan would kill for her, over nothing at all. It’s right here, right now, plain as the nose on her face—splayed out like prey, easy prey ready for the slaughter.

Logan would, could, destroy a man over a simple drunken act of flirtatiousness. If it meant her pleasure. 

What a position of power, indeed.

And Mare isn’t certain if it's love or power—if it’s even human.

Humanity wins. Logan's grip on Jim’s collar releases. Jim scurries away foot-over-foot, gasping for air, her realizing this is honestly much less complicated than matters of love, power. Both are players, but never common denominators.

A wolverine, after all, doesn’t fit into just one category—he’s both predator and prey. To something larger, to something smaller. 

This is just, very simply, Logan. 

Fisting and unfisting his fingers, he studies his hand as if it is otherworldly and not a part of his anatomy. After a few beats, Logan turns to face her. Jim is across the bar, a few hands clapping his back to check on him—as if he isn’t the offense of the entire situation.

Pressing into Logan, she rests her cheek against his chest, arms circling him in a hard embrace. He presses her close, a hand on the back of her head, chin coming to rest in her mess of curls. Breathing in his deep sense, her blood begins to cool—earthquaking in the base of her spine begins to dissipate. Colors of the room come alive again, the air suddenly all too breathable. 

Her head tips back to consider his face—unreadable, mostly, save for the glimmer of light in the corners of his eyes. 

The corner of her mouth tips up into a small tick, a heat she can’t describe hanging low in the base of her ribs as his hands lift to hold her face, delicately. As if he couldn't destroy her with a breath, as if he hadn't almost just culled mostly innocent blood.

Calluses rough against her cheeks, she presses into his touch. Firms up her arms around his middle. 

“And there he is,” there’s no malice in her voice, only awe. Care. “Had me worried there for a second, bub.” Smallest hint of a smile at the return use of his favorite jibe from her sends her heart pitching across her chest, as if it’ll take residence on the other side of her ribs.

The line of his jaw relaxes and she nuzzles her nose into the front of his flannel, “Now I get why Riz says ‘no boyfriends at work’—you’re a walking OSHA violation, Logan Howlett.” Unsure if Canada has anything remotely similar to OSHA, she forgets the idea entirely.

He knows, he always knows. 

Sighing into his chest, he fills up her senses on a full, deep breath. “And as much as I should slap you upside your thick head for almost slicing one of my best customers into tiny pieces, I have to say—I like the overprotectiveness,” her fingers gently brush through his beard, head tipped to the side like a curious pup, “a bunch. Like it a lot, Howlett.”  

His fingers in her hair tip her head back to look up at him, again. A low chortle has her blood flaming deep beneath her skin. “Yeah? Seemed a little nervous to me, bub,” he emphasizes the use of the name with a smile, spinning one of her curls around his finger. A gentle tug as her nose scrunches in amusement.

She giggles at the sensation of his fingers playing through her hair, “Flappin’ Jim had what was comin’ to him, that’s all.” 

“Maybe.” And without thinking, “Nobody’s ever stuck up for me like that before, Logan.” 

And there it is, out in the open.

Like the soft underbelly of the mud turtles she’d spotted all summer—-vulnerable. It hangs between them like a prayer. Lines on his face pull into a surprised wrinkle for all of a beat, then something enters his expression she’s never seen before—sorrow, maybe. Compassion, in the way his head cants to the side as he studies her looking at her boots. Just standing there, like a fortress. Unmoving, and resounding. Saying nothing and everything all at once.

Logan’s finger dips beneath her chin to tip her gaze up to his. “Don’t ask me how, but somehow I knew that,” his palm moves to caress her cheek, pad of his thumb gently skipping over the curve of her bottom lip. “You’re worth stickin’ up for, darlin’—I’m honored to be the first one to actually show it.” Two fingers dip into the front pocket of her jeans, shuffling her a few steps closer, until her chest brushes his.

“And let’s hope I’m the last."

Her heart swells to new heights yet unsurpassed by science, maybe even prose. “Who am I to deny the Wolverine?” Lifting on her toes, her nose brushes the seam of his mouth before her arms curl around his neck, his hands soft at the flare of her hips. “I’m yours if you’ll have me, Logan,” biting her lower lip, she fights the urge to smile—can’t, never could.

His kiss is hard. Fast, hungry—rough in the way God Himself intended for man. It’s everything the poets ever described a kiss to be, probably more. Infinitely more, mostly because it was her kiss. Hers, and hers alone. Right here, right now, even if the stars couldn’t see.  

He’s a little breathless when they part. And God, if it doesn’t take her apart. 

“Y’know, Logan—Jim was right about one thing, before he ran his fat mouth off.” 

He chuckles. “Hm?” 

“You really kinda are a wild man.”

[namorthesubmariner]

Thoughts on Namor's characterization in Chip Zdarsky's Invaders?

It's a mixed bag, while I think Zdarsky had a good start unfortunately it really floundered in the end, but when you take into account that Zdarsky started this idea as a Namor solo project that Marvel rejected, so he had to add in the Invaders it makes more sense for why it felt so off as an Invaders title.

Namor being the "mad king" of the seas is nothing new, and while I appreciate the attempt at explaining away Namor's missing years, the Peterson family, the Xavier mind manipulation. It's an interesting concept, plus Namor got to have some queer coding with Randall, and the effects of his PTSD was sorta explored.

Where the book falls apart for me is towards the end, specifically issue 11, in that issue Namor is turned human and is suddenly helpless, relies on Steve for survival, as if Namor hadn't been turned human before, which he has. Turning Jim against Namor earlier even though it was Jim who sought out Steve to help Namor. Jim and Namor's relationship is much stronger than Namor and Steve's so to have Steve sorta usurp that as if he and Namor were the best of friends doesn't work.

"I know you are good but everyone wants you dead, even Jim" Again in the beginning Steve didn't want to help, it was Jim who pushed Steve to it.

In general just Steve berating Namor, talking down to him, pushing aside his concerns to be the morally superior one is something that's affected both characters for a long time in the comics. But again, I'm used to that, what really drove me away from committing to liking Zdarsky's Namor is how he couldn't commit to his vision, which I feel was a Namor who under mind control damages the world/people's lives and has to live with that, who's dream of a safe future is actually a nightmare. He writes Namor as this very pessimistic, worn down, character who shoulders the blame that isn't his but then turns around and decides he won't shoulder that blame anymore.

Zdarsky can't decide if Namor should be blamed for his mind control/manipulation by Xavier or if he shouldn't. The writer has Steve once again become Namor's "moral compass" and tell him what to do, how to do it, why he's wrong. It gets tiring to see it but mostly this last issue really couldn't decide if Namor should be absolved or not. It doesn't take into account Namor's previous characterization and seems to play off a version that's doesn't have that surety of self that Namor usually has.

It's not the first time he's been possessed or had his mind taken over. Zdarsky's Namor is a mixed bag, he's all at once a sympathetic character whos is dealing with decades long trauma coming back to hit him at once but also he's a cruel character who suddenly decides that he's totally innocent/not to blame for anything?

Issue 11 ends with Namor and Steve teaming up to take responsibility for the mess that was made and fix it, but then issue 12 has Namor once again rejecting his part in it??? He lays the blame on his team mates instead.

The dynamics are off between the Invaders team as well because frankly I don't think Zdarsky can write the Torches well, so Jim and Toro suffered, and they are the heart of the team so that affects the rest of the characters.

In the end I personally feel there were some good aspects but mostly it just had a slightly off character reading for most of the people involved except Steve and Bucky who were most in character.

[forthedancingandthethriving]

Had some ideas for how things might be going for the other SMG universes in Washed up Memories:

-All That Shit definitely wouldn't have stopped Jayin and Mr. L, so they still took Nimbus, Tulip, Irene and their worlds (they couldn't reach the Mushroom Kingdom to get Juliano any more than anyone else could, which was obviously not ideal, but it was... acceptable. really), and with the heart of the Meme Alliance shut off like that what should've been a rescue mission that lasted an arc and maybe a movie turned into a several months long all-out war with harsh losses on both sides (Tulip never really recovered from Olimar's death), not helped by the fact that it dragged out long enough to overlap with the Abyss's Computer Hell Jailbreak plan. They did manage to get the games back but it was. Bad. Real Bad.

-Gamer Girl, Zack, Jim and Larry were in the Pokemon world on one of their adventures when everything went wrong, so similar to Amy the three of them were spared from the whole Flood World thing at the expense of never being able to return home. Larry in particular Did Not Take It Well and struck out on his own across the internet, with rumors and brief glimpses across the centuries as the only trace any Adminspace-affiliated characters can find of him. Yes, even to this day. Koopas are magic turtles, Royal Koopas even moreso, and with a little luck their lifespan is essentially just Yes.

-Speaking of, between the SM64 Universe's problems and losing Olimar the Admins and Glitch Productions couldn't bring themselves to continue expanding the SMG Project. They still look after the existing Meme universes of course, but they won't make any more new ones

-No idea what eventually went down with the Grid but in this timeline it's now a legitimate company under Alyssa's control (I hc that for these Major Timeskip AUs IRL Time and Computer Time desynchronize for a while so it hasn't been hundreds of years IRL even though it has been inside) and the First Five MRU Universes ended up being the only MRU Universes. By sheer luck Astra and Piper weren't in the SM64 universe when everything went down.

-With just how long it's been, most of the original Chosen Avatars and Anchors are gone, either from old age or Incidents, with Kirby, Laharl and Timmy (who ended up becoming a Fairy at some point) as the last of the old guard. Since he's the oldest as far as "Time Spent as an Avatar" goes (and possibly overall but he'll never tell) Kirby's ended up in a similar position to Juliano's back in the day.

-Between losing her friends, losing her father figure, and What Ghosts Are Like, Floyd's been drowning in grief ever since it happened. There's a massive forest on the edge of Dreamland that's been completely devoid of life and color for as long as most of Popstar's inhabitants can remember.

-It's not all Doom and Gloom. Eventually GG decided that she did, in fact, return his feelings, and they've been together ever since. And yes, he is still around despite how long it's been thanks to GG's whole "turn character-levels into code-levels and back" power. They're actually currently the Admins of the Kirby universe (Look. Chip and Bandwidth are incredibly old even by Code Entity standards in the main AU's current time. Realistically they're not gonna be around forever and it makes sense that they'd name their surrogate granddaughter and her partner as their successors).

-Speaking of which the other two members of the First Four are also retired and/or dead (it's not really relevant which it is, considering), with Antivirus naming Mira and Amy (who also took the offer of GG's ascension power to stay with Mira) the new rulers/wardens of Computer Hell and Dave just following protocol (since he actually had a protocol to follow) and promoting whoever in the Archives was next in the chain of command.

-Jim did not do the ascension thing and just lived out the rest of his natural life in Dreamland. Possibly got hitched and had kids at some point I dunno it's not really relevant to the current situation.

-No one has given up on the SM64 Universe. The Admins and Meme Alliance are still doing whatever they can to try and either break in or at least make contact with someone on the inside.

(As usual if any of this doesn't fit with whatever you already have planned for the AU feel free to ignore it)

Oh, I love all these!! They fit super, super well. Sooo,, canon! All of em!

[henrysglock]

He's Dead, Jim.

Okay so. Forewarning. This theory is probably one of my least canon-based ones. And yet...it would make sense sense, and it would provide an MO for certain things.

I was thinking about Natalie's post regarding the intricacies of blood splatters, especially as that post may pertain to a faked massacre in 1979 à la Fringe Subject 13...or an actual, physically committed massacre (as opposed to One's psionic killing).

Like...a couple things I've been struggling with are:

The "why" of it all re: a no-powers massacre. Why do that, if you've got a whole raft of kids, all of whom display useful talents? All that for one girl that you suspect might be stronger than the others?

If Brenner was yeeted, then what happened to One? Where's he in all this?

Now, we know we have a good deal of evidence that certain crucial parts of NINA are missing (for example: "I meant what I said when I called this place a prison", meanwhile One's never mentioned the lab being a prison before then) or spliced in from other versions of events, which brings me to something that's always fucked me up:

Why the hell does One look so distinctly normal after having the every loving fuck tortured out of him?

He goes from being so injured that he can't even stand up. He has to be dragged out on the floor...

With, it seems, a skull fracture bad enough to cause his face to swell and make him bleed fairly heavily from the ears...

(since the only other thing that can do that seems to be overusing powers, which doesn't seem likely given that he's still chipped at this point)

To this, supposedly within the next day-ish:

He looks startlingly normal. Tired and upset, yes (as usual, and understandably so), but unharmed.

In fact, shortly after that, both versions of this guy are not-concussed enough to play chess?

(see: the change in hairstyle)

Like. I know characters aren't real, but for reference: I smacked my head on the ice two years ago and got a moderately bad concussion from it. I was stuck in bed for 2+ weeks because I couldn't function (in like...multiple ways).

But somehow this guy is well enough to play chess and formulate an escape plan within a day or so? I don't buy it.

In fact, based on the visible symptoms and likely point of impact...

That injury puts him at risk of death:

And you'd probably go "Oh but James, One chats with El about Papa hurting him, though, so those two ought to be the same guy" to which I'd go "This guy? This guy shouldn't be able to do that". Regenerative healing or not, he should be knocked on his ass for a while (see: Two after the shock collar incident, which was arguably a less severe injury), especially with a device like Soteria in him inhibiting only Papa knows what.

Actually, given that we supposedly start NINA on Sept. 4th, 1979 and the massacre happens on Sept. 8th...I'd say, if we're being shown things even somewhat chronologically, he shouldn't come back at all. If he's not dead, then he should be down for the count.

And here comes the tentative theory bit:

I wonder if he doesn't come back. Can we say for certain what happened to this version of One? He's likely not the One playing chess or asking El if she wants a challenge. He clearly isn't even well enough to be standing anytime soon.

And so, in a sort-of backtrack-y topic-shift way, I want to address the scene that we know directly precedes the plinko/torture scene.

Now...I know I, personally, have always wondered why they kept One around for so long when he's practically useless to them. What if they were just waiting for the next One to pop up? Something about Sith always coming in pairs, master and apprentice...Brenner's got a fair bit of Palpatine coding, after all.

And Brenner knows One isn't loyal to him. Brenner knows One is making moves in silence or whatever. So, like I said (except in SW terms), how improbably would it be that he was just biding his time with One until he could find a new "apprentice" and discard him, someone to replace his first, failed "student"?

I have more to say about Brenner and Palpatine (and William Bell, for that matter), but that's a matter for another post (I can only fit so many pictures, and it would be a real tangent anyway).

All this to say:

With One proving himself disloyal and a threat to Brenner's authority, which Brenner is clearly shown to be aware of:

And with El having defeated Brenner's current most promising student:

Only to immediately follow up with this torture/injury scene...

I think there's a fair chance that this version of One may have died or been killed.

Which would, then, be sufficient motivation to prompt a massacre scenario to both paint Brenner in a trustworthy light/re-center El's loyalty and get El to step into her full powers/take One's place as Brenner's most powerful test subject, much akin to Sith apprenticeship turnover.

This would solve not only the question of why this type of scenario might happen, but also the question of where One, in this version, might have gone.

[transcodedcharacterstournament]

Winners from the first round on the left side

So to make things a little easier for me send your asks here @transcodedasks

Also I'm going to start tagging my tournament post with "trans-coded-characters" to make it a bit easier to find

Btw it's going to take me a little while to get the right side out because of some personal problems

Jesus of Nazareth (the bible)

Dean Winchester (supernatural)

The tenth doctor (doctor who)

Shigeo "mob" Kageyama (Mob psycho 100)

Penelope Garcia (criminal minds)

Anakin Skywalker (star wars)

Crowley (good omens)

James (pokemon)

Toph Beifong (A:tla)

Odo (star trek)

Julian Bashir (star trek)

Jadzia Dax (star trek)

Luke skywalker (star wars)

Hunter (The owl house)

Dipper pines (Gravity fall)

Shadow the Hedgehog (sonic the hedgehog)

Pidge (voltron)

Ejirou Kirishima (my hero academia)

Hatsune miku (Vocaloid/irl)

Test tube (inanimate insanity)

Black hole (bfdi)

Saw (bfdi)

Animal (the electric mayhem)

Janice (the electric mayhem)

Zoot (the electric mayhem)

Zuko (A:tla)

Pyrrha dve (the locked tomb)

Silver the hedgehog (sonic the hedgehog)

Howl Jenkins pendragon (howls moving castle)

Jesse Pinkman (breaking bad)

Noelle (deltarune)

Jim Lake Jr (Trollhunters: Tales of Arcadia)

Danny Fenton (Danny phantom)

Fox Mulder (the X-files)

Edward nygma - riddler (gotham)

Neo ( the matrix)

Worf (star trek)

Saavik (star trek)

Kurapika (hunter x hunter)

Miles Edgeworth (ace attorney)

Link (the legend of Zelda)

Chip (just roll with it)

Jay Ferin (just roll with it)

Ashe Winters and Kian stone (just roll with it) (they tied)

Gillion Tidestrider (just roll with it)

Leonardo (rise of the tmnt)

Madeline Hatter (ever after high)

Shuichi saihara (Danganronpa)

Hajime Hinata (Danganronpa)

Chihiro fujisaki (Danganronpa)

Jonathan Byers (stranger things)

Max Mayfield (stranger things)

Cecil Palmer (welcome to night vale)

Lena Sabrewing (duck tales)

Naoto Shirogane (Persona 4)

Futaba Sakura (Persona 5)

Ricky Potts (ride the cyclone)

Narciso Anasui (Jojos bizarre adventures)

Meta Knight (Kirby)

Ferdinand von Aegir (fire emblem)

Gomez Addams (the addams family)

Yellow caballero (pokemon adventures)

Silver (pokemon adventures)

Bow (she-ra and the princesses of power)

Lilith Clawthorne (the owl house)

Franky (one piece)

Shiki Misaki (the world ends with you)

[honeybard]

Oooh been a while since I've been tagged in one of these, thank you @literalliterature !!

Favourite colour: purple!

Reading: does the highway code count? lol I've been considering learning to drive again

Last song: the entirety of Into The Woods (Original Broadway Cast Recording)

Last movie: Knives Out (not watched Glass Onion yet as my parents want to watch it with me, but the first one was good) and honorable mention to the annual Jim Carrey Grinch watch, which was almost my answer for this

Last series: I have been alternating between the odd episode of Queer Eye and Murderville, depending on how I'm feeling like unwinding after work

Currently craving: tortilla chip <3

Currently working on: just improving my drawing skills for now! I want to one day be able to work on a comic so I can bring my OCs to life, I'm just still not quiteeee where I want to be yet

Tea or coffee: tea! mostly mint tea because it helps relieve tummy hurty

Tagging @doctor-rot and @beccarooni if either of you feel like doing one of these :]

[andronetalks]

In The Middle Of The CIA’s Headquarters Sits A Mysterious Sculpture That Contains A Secret Code

Chip Chick By Emily Chan April 28, 2024 In the middle of the Central Intelligence Agency’s headquarters sits a mysterious sculpture called “Kryptos” that contains a secret code. For decades, it has stumped experts. So far, three of the coded messages have been deciphered, but one is still unsolved. Kryptos was created by artist Jim Sanborn and installed in the courtyard outside of the CIA’s…

[spookygayferret]

Made a Squidgeworld account where I will (probably) be posting most of my fics from now on.

Already posted my first fic there and it's another genderqueer!Ed fic this time featuring trans!Stede, T4T Gentlebeard, and platonic Mary/Ed being chaotic besties. Oh, and some minor Jackie/Eve and minor Jim/Archie/Oluwande too.

Title: do not stand by my grave and cry

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death

Rating: M (Mature)

CW: Implied/referenced homophobia, implied/referenced transphobia, some angst to go along with the fluff

Fire escape. The crack and hiss of a tab being popped, a mumbled "shit" as cheap beer foamed out over their knuckle. Little drip-drops on their paint-stained jeans. A laugh. Big white marble of a moon in the sky, hiding it's face behind cloud cover. "Hey, come to my wedding."

Hanging her legs off the fire escape, dark strands escaping from her constructed tail of hair. The person next to her laughed, one leg swung over the edge. They passed the beer into her hand, there were chips of paint stuck under their fingernails. Their blue denim jacket had patches sewn up the arms, a tentacle on either bicep and a scrap of frayed red silk sewn into the back.

"Who the fuck's marrying you?" they said. Twenty years old. Their first apartment, the whisk and whir of cars passing. The distant casting of headlights and the subtle hum of nighttime travel broken through with light pollution. "I don't know!" said Mary. "Some...guy, I guess. Or a girl. A really nice...girl or guy or whatever." Ed quite liked the sound of that. Girl-guy-whatever.

"Fucking--can't see you with a girl guy or whatever," said Ed. "Eternally dateless, you and me. Just the worst available people." Love was...complicated and scary. Big four letter word. Who needed that? Big four letter words? Sitting on that fire escape, his ears tuned into the passing cars and the quiet chaos of life expressed through muffled apartment sounds. "Coming to my wedding then?" said Mary. Ed pretended to consider it. "Find some poor fuck to marry you, we'll talk about it," said Ed. It was quite the feat to get her middle finger around the beer in her hand, but Mary managed. She flipped Ed off with the can in her grip, a grin coming across her face. Shit. Maybe they were the worst available people. That didn't sound so bad.

Read the rest here:

[bcnes-archived]

@aethramusings ( sox ) sent — 🥠 FORTUNE - A cookie tells one or both muses to meet them somewhere where sox is trying to get bones to take a break by taping messages to chocolate chip cookies telling him that there is a " fun medical surprise in his room "

It's far from the strangest thing he's found sitting on his desk, but it doesn't mean he likes it any. McCoy purses his lips tightly, begrudgingly samples a cookie ( they're alright ), and curtly informs Chris that he'll be back, potentially with a patient in tow.

There is no such thing as a fun medical surprise. There are only bad medical surprises.

Outside the door to his cabin, McCoy buzzes in on the communicator and folds his arms, leaning in towards it with the most unimpressed of airs. "I'm going to be kind enough to give you thirty seconds to fix whatever mess you made in there before I come in. Understand?"

The worst part is he can't even begin to guess who's behind this. Jim knows better than to scare him with words like medical surprise and, anyway, he'd never use food to send a message. He's Jim. But so few other crew members know the override code to his doors.

[microwavedice]

Hello! Thanks for responding! Before my little comparison attempt here’s a quick disclaimer that I am not saying Curly is innocent, nor excusing him of his inaction. The entire Mouthwashing fandom has been frequently debating Curly and how he is not free of blame (heck it’s almost every text post here) but I was confused to see Swansea put in the same boat as Daisuke and Anya, when I saw him in game to be in a similarly morally grey area as Curly. Though just so everyone knows I love all four of the Mouthwashing characters! (Jimmy can burn in hell-) I mostly want to see more Swansea debate because I love the nuance in his character - how he stays at arms length and seems untrustworthy throughout the game but is actually ready to sacrifice himself for Daisuke, a mirror image of how Anya mentions he secretly loves cake at the surprise party when his distant and gruff attitude make it seem like he doesn’t! I want to explore all of the characters deeper complexities with the same thoroughness the community has shown to be capable of and I’d love to spark more debate about the less considered aspects so imma see if I can mirror what you’ve pointed out about Swansea with what I can gather of Curly’s side of things to compare!

When Curly learns of Anya’s situation they are still over one hundred days of space travel into the middle of nowhere, so from the moment Jimmy did it there were no space police around for Anya to call on and nowhere for them to land (probably terrifying). All of the rooms lock from the inside, so there’s nowhere Curly could have imprisoned Jimmy, though he could have probably used that nylon rope to restrain him somehow (only seems extreme if you don’t know what Jim did) though, in the same way, after learning about it Swansea could have done any of these things. He can clearly physically overpower Jimmy and take the code scanner which is as simple to use as a torch, rendering him and his self-proclaimed captain role obsolete and decidedly doing more harm than good. As for the next point, of course I’d argue that Anya is not safe at any point but to specifically address the sleeping, Jimmy never sees Anya asleep in her bed (as far as I can find) and her bed is always perfectly made, either showing her to be a meticulous person or (what I find more likely since every detail exists for a reason in this game) she sleeps elsewhere (likely in the medical bay since she asked about it specifically having locks in the Dead Pixel scene) away from Jimmy, since I doubt Anya would feel comfortable enough to sleep a foot away from him willingly (she could have moved her bed anywhere in the lobby, hell Swansea’s on the other side of the room! So why are all the rest bunched up like that??). Onto the next point, Jimmy unofficially appoints himself captain - the code scanner is not thumb print operated and the gun would be hard to conceal, also Swansea could snap him like a twig (top ten AUs) Jimmy wouldn’t stand a chance without the gun, so I don’t think Swansea was in any was threatened by Jimmy nor respected Jimmy enough to think his input was worth the harm. Diasuke’s death is bloody tragic, he lost his life for bright eyed naivety and even pushed through the broken vent to open the door, though neither him nor Anya survived (god this game is so sad but also so meaningful), in the moment Swansea seems to have been shocked to his core, complete shutdown. He says “it’s over. End of the fuckin’ line” and tells Jimmy to knock himself out with the cryopod, as if Daisuke’s death chipped away the last of his will to live on. Then, as Jimmy leaves to “fix everything” and “save everyone” with the ultimate friendship saving power of A Gun, a switch flips to the manic setting in the narrative and suddenly Swansea is furiously charging at Jimbo with the axe, a switch I attribute to him having taken that minute to process what Daisuke said about the cocktail, figuring out that Jimmy had yet again managed to manipulate someone into sacrificing themself for him to fulfil his hero complex, effectively having murdered our precious intern.

The start of this next paragraph implies that you thought Swansea factored Anya into his reason to get violent? Throughout the game, Swansea never takes much notice of Anya, calling her a “so-called nurse” and only bringing up the fact that she told him about it because Jimmy accused him of scheming, talking to her being involved in his paranoid list of potentially suspicious things Swansea’s done. Additionally, there’s a large difference in how Swansea and Curly held their inaction on Anya’s sexual assault: Swansea, in the same conversation that she told him, declined helping her, being a self aware and brutally honest foil to Jimmy’s emotional manipulation and inability to take responsibility for his choices and actions. The conversation ends with Anya saying “if that’s how it has to be” while crying, (probably due to offloading such a horrific topic, not necessarily because of Swansea’s response but it would certainly perpetuate her despair) indicating that Swansea has decided not to take action - at least not under their current circumstances. While he may have thought about it, Swansea was clearly not motivated to action by Jimmy’s sexual assault on Anya, as she told him 2 whole months before he decides to axe the bastard. Curly’s approach was almost the opposite situation, Swansea’s being that he already had reasons to dislike Jim, had plenty of time but wasn’t motivated to take action against him just by hearing about the SA, instead Curly had a trust of some kind with Jimmy (though Jimmy has shown to be very capable and prone to emotional manipulation as he did with Daisuke and Anya) but only had two days to come up with a plan, one being spent panicking about Anya potentially hurting herself with a gun and the second spent being blown to smithereens. There is no evidence, as well, within these two days that Anya was still sleeping in her quarters. There’s every chance that after telling Curly this and asking about the medical bay locks she decided to sleep in their until the crash (perhaps even after), since every lock is manual and locks from the inside she wouldn’t need to tell anyone in order to sleep in there. I don’t know what you mean Curly “helped Jimmy” after Anya told him? The only events after the Dead Pixel scene and before the crash are Curly searching for the gun, having Jimmy trying to push the sexual assault blame onto Curly in true Jimbo fashion, Jimmy then telling him “I’ll take care of it” and then Curly finding out that “it” was not in fact the child support. Anyhoo this is getting to be a really long post so I’ll wait to add anymore just in case anyone has any questions, cheers for reading! Sorry if I misspelt anything!

Hot take: Curly is more innocent than Swansea.

Mouthwashing fandom, who have shown to consistently disagree with this, what have I missed that makes you all unanimously excuse Swansea but debate Curly?

In short: Prove me wrong

[lovemesomesurveys]

Do you have the right time set on your microwave?: I’m not sure, I haven’t looked at the microwave in quite awhile. 

Do you have any old newspaper articles? Why?: Yeah. We have the local articles that were printed about my accident when I was a baby.

Do you have a flat screen tv or just a regular box?: All of our TVs are flat screens. 

Do you have a radar detector for your car?: No. I also don’t have a car since I don’t drive. 

Have you ever been arrested? For what?: No.

Do you know how to change the oil in your car?: I’ve never done it or even attempted to. 

Have you taken your shower yet?: No, not today.

Do you like Tootsie Rolls?: The vanilla ones are good. I couldn’t even tell you the last time I had those or a regular Tootsie Roll, though. It’s been a very long time. 

Do you have a printer? What kind?: Yeah. I think it’s a Canon.

Are you seeing anybody currently?: No.

Do you or have you ever smoked cigarettes?: Nope.

Do you like it when it snows?: It doesn’t snow here, but I wish it did.

Are your ears pierced?: Yes, my earlobes are.

Where do you do most of your shopping?: For clothes and accessories usually just Boxlunch and Hot Topic, sometimes Kohl’s. For food and other stuff we go to Walmart and Target. 

Who do you live with?: My parents, brother, and doggo. 

What is your most expensive bill?: One of my credit cards. 

Do you have a big yard?: No.

Do you live in the country or the city?: City.

Do you sleep alone or with someone every night?: I sleep alone.

Did you have a treehouse as a child?: NO.

At what age did you obtain your driver license?: I haven’t. 

Do you look in the newspaper for coupons?: I haven’t done that in a super long time. I just get online codes and sale notifications in my email. 

Did you get a big tax refund from last year?: I don’t have to do taxes. 

Do you like Slim Jim’s?: Yeah. I haven’t had one in forever, that sounds good.

Is there someone you would love to punch right now?: No.

Did you grow up fast?: Who says I’m grown up?

What are you favorite kind of chips?: Lay’s Wavy chips and Doritos. Also, Nicki Minaj has a line of her own chips and they’re really, really good. My brother just ordered a couple new boxes of chips so I’ll be snacking on those. 

Have you taken any medicine recently? For what?: I just took my pain medication. 

What have you eaten today?: Just Cream of Wheat so far. I’d normally be snacking on Reese’s, but I’m actually out right now which is really sad D: I should snack on some of those Nicki Minaj chips until I eat dinner. 

Did you or are you going to wash your hair today?: No, not today. 

Does the water in your shower take a long time to get warm?: Yes. Super annoying. 

Where did you go today?: I haven’t gone anywhere.

Are you sleepy right now?: Of course. When aren’t I?

What color is your mousepad?: I just have the trackpad on my laptop, which is silver. 

Should you be doing something else at the moment?: I should eat something since dinner is still a few hours away. I’ve been having sandwiches for lunch lately, but I wasn’t in the mood today. 

Do you like your neighbors?: I don’t know them, but sure.

Do you have bedroom shoes?: No.

Do you get your eyebrows waxed?: No. I’ve only done that once. I just tweeze them. 

Has anyone given you flowers recently?: No.

Do you work Monday thru Friday?: >> I don't work. <<<

Is there anything you are looking forward to tomorrow?: No. I don’t have anything going on at all. 

How many miles does your car have on it?: --

Is your alarm clock set to radio or beep?: I use my phone for my alarm. 

Do you like to go fishing?: No.

Has anyone you know been arrested recently?: I don’t think so.

Do you have more than 1 email address?: Yeah, I have a couple. 

Do you think you will have the same job 2 years from now?: --

Do you have central heating and air?: Yes.

Do you speed while driving?: --

Is there someplace you would rather be right now?: Given my condition right now it’s best I’m home in bed. I do wish I could be resting in a nice hotel somewhere with an ocean view, ha. 

Did you build the computer you are using?: Uh, no. I have no idea how to go about that. I don’t have the desire to attempt to, either. I also don’t have the patience.

Do you have good computer speakers?: Yeah.

Are you waiting on anything at the moment?: I’m going to eat dinner soon.

Where is your favorite person?: My mom is at work.

Do you keep track of your debit purchases?: >> I generally don't have to. I check my account using mobile banking when I do need to. <<< Yeah, that’s what I do. 

Do you ever shop at Harris Teeter? I have no idea what that is.

Do you like to burn incense?: I don’t burn incense. 

Are there any plants in your house?: No.

How long does it take you to get to work?: --

[i-smell-sass]

Overworked [Donnie ROTTMNT x Male/Masc Reader]

A/N: FINALLY my first donnie fanfic i love this goofy goober. Donnie is autistic coded and mikey ADD, leo ADHD!. Reader is not specified to be human or mutant but appears in human Form. The turtles have tails

Pairing/Relationships: Donnie Hamato x Male/Masc Reader 

Summary: Donnie is tinkering on his tech and neglecting his needs, Y/N helps him get his sleeping schedule on track.

Requested: Yes/No

Warning(s): Donnie neglecting his needs to do science, a little of arguing, awkward morning between Donnie and Y/n

Genre: Fluff/hurt 

AGAB: none mentioned

Pronouns used for Y/N: He/Him

Y/N = Your name

H/C = hair color

H/L = hair length

FEM/FEM ALIGNED AND PEOPLE WHO USE SHE/HER OR SHE/THEY PRONOUNS DNI THIS IS A FANFIC FOR MLM/NBLM

Leo's dialogue is blue, Raphs red, Mikey's orange, Donnie's purple and April's green.

Y/N was sitting in the living room, watching a movie with April, Raph, Mikey and Leo, talking about a Jupiter Jim movie and giggling as they were exchanging stories and theories about his adventures. Donnie had gotten bored of the non-Jupiter Jim movies and went into his lab to tinker away at his inventions. Y/N got up and stretched, looking over everyone "hey, I'm gonna go get a snack. Anyone want anything?" Mikey piped up and held up his empty glass. "Yes please! Orange juice for me" Leo leaned over the bean bag chair and looked at Y/N, smirking "you already know what i want, don't 'cha?" Y/N rolled his eyes "yeah another bag of chips. As always." April shook her head and Raph just said "I'm good, thanks" He took Mikey's glass and walked into the kitchen, getting him a refill and then grabbing the chip bag. He glanced in the direction of the door, seeing Donnie lazily trot into the kitchen with his goggles still on. He moved to the coffee maker and put on a pot of coffee to brew, leaning on the counter to stabilize himself since he was so tired. Y/N looked at him and sighed, laughing under his breath. "Hello sleepyhead. Finally came out of your genius lair?" Donnie shrugged and nodded "mhm. I'm so close to finishing my invention. Just needs a few more tweaks and then I'm done." He said, grabbing the coffee pot full of steaming, brown liquid. "So how long have you been working on that already?" Donnie shrugged and looked at the wrist thingy he had on, squinting at it since his vision was getting a bit blurry from the lack of sleep "i dunno. Like, 20 hours maybe?" Y/N scoffed. "And you didn't sleep at all? Donnie, that's not good." Donnie rolled his eyes and sighed "well, my dear, less intelligent friend, luckily coffee is by my side" Y/N sighed and grabbed the snacks and Mikey's glass. "Okay, well, just don't stay up so long, alright?" The purple dressed turtle shrugged and trotted back out of the kitchen into his lab, and Y/N brought everyone their drinks and snacks. "Shit. I forgot my snacks. Whatever." He shrugged and just flopped down next to Leo on the bean bag chair, stealing some of his chips out of the bag "hey! Rude. go get your own chips." The H/C haired male rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at Leo. "Stop complaining, you jerk." Leo sighed and just kept eating his chips grumpily.

They watched a couple more movies, talked a bit and joked around until Y/N got up again "alright. I'm going to the bathroom. You guys can start the next movie without me." He walked off and went to the bathroom, after that he walked over to Donnie's lab and heard some machines whirring. He peeked into the room, the doors opening by themselves and he gasped, jumping at the loud sound of the mechanical doors opening. But Donnie was still fast asleep, laying sprawled out on his desk with music blasting from his headphones/goggles and he was drooling. Y/N sighed and looked around for shelldon. "Hey shelldon. Turn off the lights and Donnie's music please." Shelldon nodded and did so, then he flew back to his loading station. Y/N picked Donnie up and sat him up so he would lean back against the chair. He took off his goggles for him and tugged off his elbow and hand protectors as well as the knee ones. Since Donnie had his battle shell off already, he did his best not to touch his sensitive shell and pulled him up so Donnie's arms were wrapped around his neck and he was carrying him by his legs. Donnie snuggled himself into Y/N's neck for warmth and continued sleeping. The H/L haired male carried Donnie to his bed and tried to lay him down on it, but Donnie wouldn't let go of him. In fear of waking Donnie up, Y/N just decided to lay down with him and wait until Donnie would fully fall asleep again so he could leave. I mean, they both slept next to each other and slightly cuddled before but that was at a sleepover where they both fell asleep watching a movie and neither of them talked about the situation again. Y/N had a big crush on Donnie but didn't want to make it weird between them, so he just never said anything. Donnie wrapped his arms around Y/N's waist and laid his head on his shoulder since the other was taller, sleeping peacefully on him and enjoying the warmth since he was a cold blooded creature. 

In the morning, Donnie woke up to an unfamiliar warmth surrounding him. He groaned and rubbed his eyes, then he looked at what or who was under him, and low and behold it was Y/N sleeping peacefully under Donnie. Donnie gasped and blushed bright red, moving to get off of His crush but falling to the floor in the process. "Fuck- OW!" Y/N jumped up and looked around in a surprised manner. "Huh? What? Don? Why are you on the floor?" Donnie rubbed the back of his head and shrugged. "Eh.. uh.. i.. fell..?" "Well are you okay?" "I think so.. just kinda hit my head." "Oh. Let me see. Are you sure you're fine?" He asked and got out of the bed, kneeling down in front of Donnie and looking at his head. "Hm. There are no bruises. I think it wasn't that bad." Donnie nodded, still blushing as he did. "Why were you.. um.. in my- my bed?" "Oh! You fell asleep and I wanted to bring you to bed so your back wouldn't hurt because you fell asleep on the table, but you didn't want to let go of me so I just laid down with you. I wanted to wait until you fell asleep and then I wanted to leave but I guess I fell asleep too." Donnie nodded and sighed, tapping his fingers on his knees lightly as he thought. "did you sleep well.. at least?" "I mean.. yeah. I like being close to you. But you don't like physical affection that much so i try to keep it minimal" "yeah i uh.. understand. But.. I guess it was nice for me too? I mean you're warm and it was comforting but next time it would be nice if I would be informed before I wake up in your arms." "Yeah that's alright. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable" Donnie shook his head "no no it's okay. I just didn't expect it. Being so close to you all of a sudden.." "Is that bad..? I didn't mean to be weird"  "no! It's just.. eh. I get nervous around.. you when you're so close to me. So.." Y/N ran his hands through his hair. "Oh.. is that bad..? I think that's.. not good." Donnie shook his head and waved his hands in a panicked manner in front of himself. "NO! No. It's because.. ugh do i really have to say it? You know I'm bad with feelings" He let his head hang down and he played with his fingers as he mumbled "maybe.. kind of.. have a crush on you.." Y/N stared at him in disbelief. "..you what?" Donnie sighed and covered his eyes as he rambled "i know it's stupid and i don't even know if you like guys and especially me because I'm a mutant turtle for heaven's sake! And I just made it awkward and now you probably won't even want to be my friend anymore-" Y/N grabbed Donnie's cheeks and smiled as he looked at him "don, Donnie! It's okay. I like you too. You're so smart and awesome and funny and when you're not trying to put up a front you're the sweetest guy I've ever met." Donnie gasped and looked up at him, staring him in the eyes as he held his hands that were resting on his cheeks "..are you sure?" "Yes. 100% sure." Donnie chuckled and pressed their foreheads together so that their foreheads and his beak and Y/N's nose would touch. He then intertwined their fingers.

"Thank you. For being my friend and not finding me weird because I'm.. a humanoid turtle that builds high tech assault weapons in his spare time" Y/N laughed and kissed Donnie's forehead "why would I hate you for all the traits i like you for?" Donnie rolled his eyes and squeezed Y/N's Hand. "So.. does this mean we're.. boyfriends?" Y/N chuckled and shrugged. "I mean.. sure if you want that." Donnie nodded and smiled. "I absolutely want that." The H/C haired male smiled. "But only if you promise to not stay up so late all the time." Donnie sighed and rolled his eyes "betrayal!" Y/N giggled and pat Donnie's head. "Stop being such a drama queen." Suddenly the lab doors opened and Mikey stood by the door. "Donnie! Breakfast is-" Mikey looked between his friend and his brother a couple times before smiling and yelling: "LEO YOU OWE ME 20 BUCKS" to which a dissatisfied groan and a "OH COME ON" came from the direction of the kitchen. Donnie blushed and sighed, curling up in a ball and covering his eyes as he laid there "I'm never gonna live that down" "oh come on it isn't that bad. Plus, we get Mikey's pancakes. They're awesome." Donnie sighed and laid there sprawled out on the floor "did they really bet on us getting together? Was I being that obvious?" Y/N shrugged and leaned back on his arms as he sat there. "I mean sometimes you'd just stare at me for a good while while I was like, playing something with Mikey. But i always thought you just zoned out or something" Donnie shook his head and sat up. "Sigh. I really have to be more suave about it next time" Y/N shook his head and lightly held Donnie's hand. "Nah. I like when you're doing stuff like looking at me and that's obvious. It's cute. That way i know that you're interested in me" The purple turtle nodded and leaned his head on Y/N's shoulder. "Fine. But can we keep PDA around my brothers to a minimum..? At least for now? I don't want to be teased even more by those dum dums." Y/N nodded "sure. Now let's get breakfast. I'm starving for some of Mikey's pancakes" he smiled and got up, pulling Donnie up with him and they walked to the kitchen where they were greeted by joyful words of Donnie's brothers and a couple teases about how they were dating now.

[hexonthepeach]

dark & stormy 1: landfall

summary: you’re a housekeeper in a seedy hotel working through the worst hurricane of the season when you’re invited to spend the evening with your two sexy but enigmatic co-workers. when you accidentally uncover their secret identities you're dragged into a darker world—one you may already know too well

pairing: jaehyun (nct) x johnny (nct) x fem!reader (code name: jenny)

genre: the late-70s/early-80s miami vice/nice guys/secret agent johnjae/reader au no one asked for or: a work of madness inspired by the infamous w korea shoot

word count: 12.8k of 63k+

warnings: explicit sexual content (m/f, m/m, mmf threesome) [see chapters for detailed tags], dark themes, implied murder, drug-use (alcohol, quaaludes), drugging w/o consent, stalking, kidnapping (non-sexual), bondage, minor knifeplay/gunplay, slight age gap [y/n early 20s, jj late 20s/early 30s], y/n implied dark origins/criminal history (OC vibes but history left open for interpretation), sleep paralysis/nightmares, walk-on guest appearances from other nct members inc. sungtaro in later chapters

fic masterlist

[current] | part 2: disturbance formation | part 3: eye of the storm | part 4: dissipation | part 5: blue skies | part 6&7: aftermath & epilogue

chapter warnings: implied sexual content, alcohol consumption, stalker Jaehyun, PTSD related OCD, detailed descriptions of dead bodies, animal death, animal euthanization, non-consensual drugging, inappropriate use of bible verses and old tv show references

recommended listening: romanticist by yves tumor

The hurricane had been downgraded to a tropical storm but the damage was done, long before it hit the coast on a holiday weekend. You could curse all the weathermen predicting its trajectory. They'd all been wrong, and the consequences were being felt most by you and the rest of the staff of the Magic Carpet. 

The smarter locals had evacuated while the tourists who’d made no changes to their plans were trapped here without return flights, holed up in their vacation rentals and hotel rooms, requiring all the convenience of services that you, unfortunately, were there to serve. 

If only you could have had a job at one of the luxury resorts, where there were multiple staff for each of the floors and a full kitchen for fine dining. But no, you work at the Magic Carpet Ride Hotel—a name cursed by having neither magic nor a decent carpet. The place isn’t even fully Arabian Nights; after a fire in the ‘50s management had remodeled the combination bar and restaurant to be vaguely Tiki-themed. 

There’s only a few saving graces to being a housekeeper here (god you hate when people called you a maid) and that’s the inspired decision to put a pool inside. It's a warm and comfortable grotto where you can pretend for a moment that the world isn’t being wrecked by 70 mph winds and your 14-hour shift can melt away into the heated water. 

Unfortunately even off-the-clock you’re on call. Your manager shoves one of the few rickety room service carts in front of you the moment you enter the lobby to head downstairs.

“Doll, I need you to make a run up to room 217,” he says, cigarette hanging from his mouth. The front desk phone rings behind him and he exhales a puff of smoke through his nostrils, the dull lights shining on his bald head.

“Isn’t Ruby on night shift?'' You sigh, staring at the sad plate of leftover bar fruit and  bottles of RC Cola and Schweppe’s ginger beer. There’s also a bucket of ice and a ridiculous pile of chips and plastic-wrapped snack cakes: Mickey’s Banana Flips and Jim Jams. The order is probably for one of the several families with kids trapped in this hellhole with you. 

“Ruby’s got her hands full with towels and turndowns,” he says. “Just do me a solid this time. They said they’d tip good.”

The moment you hear tips your ears perk a little. You weren’t working this job out of love after all, your survival was dependent on leftover pizza and the occasional change left in vacated rooms. You shrug and take the cart, heading towards the elevator to your last call.

The air in the hotel is noticeably more humid and laced with ozone and the same sweat on the chilled glass of the order is dripping down your spine, under the crocheted knit of your swimsuit cover-up. You head towards the gloomy end of the hotel wing, hearing the occasional cough from one of the few occupied rooms. From inside 217 you can hear the faint sounds of Peaches & Herb’s “Reunited'' playing on the radio.

A quick rap on the door gives you no response so you consider leaving the tray but decide to announce yourself instead. 

“Room service,” you say. 

Come and get your stupid fruit, you think.

The door opens with a rush of cool air and Paco Rabanne aftershave and a sight that turns your mouth dry, the blood rushing to your face. 

The bronze-haired man leaning against the doorway is clothed but you feel like you’re glimpsing him nude. His yellow shirt with dyed palm trees is unbuttoned, white shorts slung low enough you can see the trajectory of those perfectly carved abdominal muscles. There’s even a little hair peeking above the brown-leather belt.

You must have been staring because he laughs, and that’s when you realize he’s not a tourist—indeed, you’ve glimpsed this face a thousand times on shift, working behind the bar or passing you in the hallway. 

“Hi, Johnny,” you say, looking up (up, up) to meet his warm gaze. 

You’d always avoided eye contact before, feeling embarrassingly small and frumpy in your orange uniform. Now your own skin is peeking through the loose knit of your coverup and you feel naked under his gaze. The older man has a cat-in-the-cream expression but there’s a kindness in his brown eyes that makes you feel more at ease. 

“What are you doing here?” you try not to stutter, looking past him into the dark of the room. 

“It’s my room,” he slings back.

The lights are low and there’s the distinct sound of someone inside. Oddly you feel a twinge of dismay, reminded of the second reason you’d avoided him: the other housekeepers had warned you that he tore through lonely hearts like paper. 

You’d seen him talking to guests and front desk girls alike, making them laugh with jokes delivered in that wry, deep tone, and maybe you'd been a little jealous of the attention. It’s not like you wanted to be a notch on anyone’s belt but this man was different. You think you’d give your left pinky finger just to know what his deal was.

“Off shift for the night. Looks like you are too.”  He sizes you with a short nod. Suddenly the hallway is much too big.

“Wanna come in?” Johnny asks. 

That surprises you. 

“I . . . I was gonna go for a swim.” The sensible part of your brain is blaring an emergency siren at the idea of going into a strange man’s hotel room. Especially with someone else in it. But you consider the offer.

“Just for a minute. I left my wallet inside,” he gestures behind him, bringing your attention back to the miles of tanned skin in front of you.

“You don’t have to, really.” Your voice is a murmur. 

Johnny grabs the cart across from you, tugging gently to snap you out of it.

“There’s someone else who’d be happy to see your pretty face.” He winks at you, pulling the cart from your limp grasp and leaving the door open. 

Your heart is pounding in your chest but you swallow your anxiety and follow him in, closing the door behind you on instinct alone. 

You may be shy but you’re not a coward. Even if you’re only just twenty-something you’ve lived on your own long enough to handle yourself. Johnny isn't a challenge . . . you think.

The room is blessedly clean. This is especially nice considering you’re the one who will probably have to clear it once they’ve vacated. There’s a few travel bags on the floor and a number of bottles and empty glasses strewn about, but no crumbs on the carpet or lingering smell in the room.

Except, perhaps, the odor of spearmint and grease you know so well. 

217’s other occupant is hitting the side of the TV with his hand, the signal fritzing as the antenna jumps around with the force. You’d recognize that back a mile away, set against the world and you, where you’re frozen in the entry to the room.

“Percussive maintenance,” Johnny jokes quietly, nudging your side as he passes. 

“Signal is out.”  Jaehyun turns around, catching sight of you.

Any relief you had about finding another man instead of a woman in the room is quashed as you meet those dark-as-night eyes. 

It isn’t that you are afraid of him—no it’s much more complicated than that. 

Like Johnny, Jaehyun’s also dressed in the hotel regulation tropical shirt and white shorts, meaning he was probably working after his shift as the Magic’s go-to handyman. Sometimes he helped out bar-backing, other times he played the aging grand piano in the lobby. 

Whenever you'd heard music drifting from the first floor you’d steal down to your perfect hiding place, tucked behind potted palms, pretending to mop the cracked arabesque tile. You liked the way he played, lost in the moment, his dark hair flopping across his forehead, mouth set in a grim line. 

That’s how you feel you know him best, pulling arrangements from thin air on woefully out-of-tune keys. Discordant notes were just color for his songs, 

“Hey, Jenny,” he says, face unreadable. 

It takes you a few seconds to realize Jaehyun knows who you are, before remembering the nametag you wear every day. It isn’t your real name, of course–but it was one you’d grown used to responding to.

Of course he’d seen it. If it hadn't been in the hallways it might have been when he came into your rooms to do repairs, or when you’d sat beside eachother in silence at the bus stop. The former was already special to you but the latter, the latter was what has you trapped in front of him and feeling so small.

“Baby girl brought us the goods,” Johnny says, popping one of the bottles from the cart. “What would you like to drink: a Cuba Libre or a Dark ‘n’ Stormy? Sorry we just have the rum and a few beers.”

You eye the Havana Club on the nightstand—not a liquor you’re familiar with. You don’t have much experience with drinking beyond the occasional glass of Riunite (on ice!) with the other girls in your co-ed housing. 

One drink should be fine, you think. One drink to pretend like you’re cool with these two.

“I don’t know. What’s good?” You look up at him, and he seems to like the uncertainty in your voice.

“I got you,” he says, smirking. “Let me borrow your knife, Jae.” 

You watch the other man toss a sheath with a very large looking handle over to his co-worker, and you freeze. 

You’d seen him wear it a few times, hooked into his utility belt with his other tools, doing nothing to dispel the allegations he was ex-military. 

“They say he did two tours in ‘Nam,” Ruby hisses into your ear as Maeve pulls up the blinds for a better view of the outdoor pool where Jaehyun checks the pump, sweat sticking to his white shirt, his jumpsuit tied at his waist

“He’d have to be over thirty, Rue. He can’t be older than twenty-five, twenty-six?”

 “You know they were still terrorizing those poor people over there five years ago. Maybe he was young.” Ruby scoffs. “My brother-in-law came home but he’s got that look, like he’s not all there.” 

“It’s a shame what those boys went through,” Maeve sighs, wiping the glass door to the patio with a rag soaked in vinegar. “Such a waste of a good-looking young man.”

Something in your chest had twisted at the older women’s words. Your daddy had been in Korea before you were born, and while he’d been distant and prone to bouts of violence it wasn’t like he was missing something. He certainly hadn't been a waste, whatever people said about him. 

You knew all about the mean things people had to say, you’d experienced it yourself, so you didn’t give much thought to why their words had made you so angry at the time. Thinking about it now it’s absurd, but the effect Jaehyun has on you has always been out of the ordinary.

“Late night swim, huh?” Johnny says. “You could just go outside for second.”

A dark laugh follows, but nothing else. You look over your shoulder to find Jaehyun turning the TV off.

“It’s better at night.” You explain. You watch as Johnny cuts limes with the six-inch, black blade. There’s an oddly familiar prickling on the back of your neck, and you fidget waiting for the conversation to continue. 

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Johnny says.

“I’m used to it,” you respond, quietly. Johnny looks over your shoulder, meeting the eyes of the man behind you in a way you don’t think you could ever do.

As much as you’ve watched Jaehyun, you think, there'd been more times you’d caught him watching you. You'd felt him staring at you from across the laundry where you folded towels, or in the smoky break-room where you made your approximation of cafe con leche with microwaved milk and staff coffee so strong it could strip paint. 

The Y-100 late night radio DJ is giving an update on the storm and location of emergency shelters. Without the music you can hear the dull roar of the wind outside the closed blinds. The hotel is far enough from the beach there’s no surf to crash over the walls but the occasional crack of lightning through the shuttered window makes your heart race. 

“You wanna find another station?” Johnny asks. 

You nod, going to the clock radio, planning to switch to the classical music station you sometimes listened to while working, the one you leave on for night check-ins and turndowns. You're surprised by the hand on the dial that's there before you.

Jaehyun looks up at you from where he’s crouching next to the bed. 

“What do you like to listen to?” He asks.

Your throat clenches up, sure that’s the most he’s said to you in the three months you’ve known him.

“What . . . Whatever you like,” the words slip out unplanned. 

A cloud passes over Jaehyun’s face—gone in an instant, replaced by a tired, closed-mouth smile.

“Whatever you like,” he repeats, taking your hand and placing it on the knob.

Your mind is blank; you don’t even know what station you turn to, just finding the first with music without words. Johnny starts laughing immediately, shaking you out of your stupor. 

“Didn’t know you liked Beautiful music,” he says.

“What?” You hold the hand that Jaehyun had touched as if you’d been burnt—but not by heat, you think. Like touching a wall in the restaurant walk-in.

“Easy listening,” Johnny explains. He passes you a Collins glass filled halfway with pale ginger beer, the rest a dark rum float. “Let’s find something with less ads.”

Indeed, the next song is a too-loud announcer selling an event that’s either used cars or a dance night. Johnny reaches beside you to flick the dial to a much-more tolerable soul music station.

“This alright?” he asks, suddenly so close his breath is fanning the hair on your forehead. 

“Sure.” You agree immediately, backing away. “Thank you.”

You sit on the edge of the bed. You're unsure of what to do next. It feels like you’ll drop your glass to flee at the first sign of trouble. Johnny sits beside you, sprawled on the white sheets. He’s stripped the comforter and it makes you relax a little—management wouldn’t let you wash them unless they had what they described as a “visible stain”.

“Do you like it?”

You’re confused until you realize his eyes are flicking to the glass in your hands, yet untouched.

“Oh,” you say. You take a deep swallow, almost choking when the rum burns down your throat. After the initial numbness and sweetness from the alcohol dies the ginger and lime come through. You find yourself enjoying the bite of it. “It’s really good. What is it?”

Johnny shrugs. “Rum and ginger beer. Come over after your shift tomorrow, I’ll make you something even better.”

“Sure,” you say, knowing already you won’t go.

‘I’m surprised you’ve never come in before.”

“I have to work, usually,” you explain, your tongue looser after your second sip. 

"Oh, I know," he says. "You don't hang out much."

"No," you admit. 

You've never been to the hotel bar off-hours. When school is in session you work doubles on the weekends, sometimes missing the last bus and having to walk with your fist wrapped in-between your keys for comfort in the late hours. Thankfully no one’s ever bothered you.

“Well, I know I’d love to see more of you. Ruby comes in all the time.”

Of course Ruby does, you think. She’d described her multiple attempts to get Johnny into bed to you as you'd helped her finish cleaning her rooms, including graphic details about fellating him in one of the linen closets. The words “soup can” had haunted you every time you saw him after that, the Campbell’s jingle playing in your head.

The grimace on your face must be noticeable because Johnny is smiling in that cat-like way again, eyes narrowed. He takes a drink from his rum and coke, throwing his neck back. Sweat glistens on his tanned skin.

You’ve managed to distract yourself from the gloom sitting in the wicker chair across from you, but it’s taking a lot more willpower to not let your eyes wander down Johnny’s bare chest.

“Are you both staying in here?” you ask, turning to where Jaehyun is stripping the label off a beer bottle. 

“Jae’s up in 310," Johnny says. "But there’s a leak. Hasn't had the time to fix it in off-hours, you know."

He sits up straighter, dipping the bed beside you. "Which room did Old Chromedome give you?”

You know exactly who he's talking about: the day manager. Lavinsky had always had it out for you, mostly because he liked it when female staff mouthed off at him, and you never have. Your overnight room was just a consequence.

“114. The pool view,” you sigh. “It’s wet, too.” 

Water is seeping in through the sliding-glass door of your room and there aren’t enough towels in the hotel to keep it contained. Worse, the not-so-magic carpet is beginning to smell of mildew. Even a bath of industrial strength deodorizer isn’t enough to drown it.

“I’ll fix it when you’re working tomorrow,” Jaehyun says quietly. It would be inaudible if you weren't hyperfocused on what he had to say from the moment you'd entered the room.

“Oh you don’t have to,” you rush to answer, shaking your head. The ice clinks in your glass as you swirl it. “I don’t want to bother you.”

He looks up, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“It’s my job," he says.

The words are hardly a comfort–the opposite, actually.

Jaehyun takes another drink from his beer before standing up to pace around the room. That’s another thing you’ve noticed—for someone capable of such stillness he has a tendency to fidget when left to his own devices. 

You clear your throat, tapping your glass.

“Let’s play a game,” Johnny says brightly, breaking the tension. “Poker?”

Neither of you answer affirmatively.

“Strip poker?” He offers. 

“No,” you and Jaehyun say the word at the same time, and you smile a little at Johnny's offended expression. 

“Rummy? Crazy Eights?” 

“No cards,” Jaehyun says. He collapses on the opposite side of the bed, his skull colliding with the wood paneling in a way that makes you want to check if he’s alright before you watch him readjust.

“A drinking game, then,” Johnny says. 

“Don’t know any.” You decline.

“Oh but I bet you know this one. Truth or Dare. If you don’t want to do something or say something you just take a drink.” 

Before you can protest Johnny gets up to fetch the rum bottle, pouring a few fingers each into styrofoam cups usually reserved for the hotel coffee service.  He hands them out with the gravitas of serving the finest vintage.

“This is stupid.” Jaehyun says from where he’s sitting, eyes on the popcorn ceiling.

“How about . . . Never Have I Ever?” you ask softly. You're remembering a preteen slumber party where you’d ended up winning while the others put all ten fingers down. They’d called you a square, but then you’d never shared your secrets with them, knowing they'd probably call you worse. 

“See I knew Jenny knew how to have fun,” Johnny says, plucking the empty glass from your hand only to fill it more and hand it back to you.

You don’t remember finishing the first drink but you look down at the warm rum and feel a glimmer of satisfaction in knowing you’ll be able to sate your curiosity about the two men. There’s not much they’ll be able to throw your way–how much could they know? This is your first real conversation with either of them.

“I’ll get us started,” Johnny says, sitting on the bed again in the best place to triangulate with you and Jaehyun. 

You ease your way onto the mattress, taking off your wedge sandals so the straps don’t dig in, letting them fall to the green rug below. When you look up Jaehyun’s eyes are resting on your ankles and you instinctively pull your legs under you.

“Never have I ever . . .” Johnny begins, looking around the room for inspiration, gaze falling on the rotary phone. “Listened in on a conversation on a party line.”

“Liar,” Jaehyun says, drinking. 

You tilt your head in a nod and toast him, drinking as well.

Johnny guffaws at you in a way you recognize, his mouth half-open as his head dips down in return. “You’re not as innocent as I thought.”

“I’m from a town of about 500 people,” you say once the burn of the rum is gone. “You hear a lot of things.”

Perhaps they think you mean listening in on a negotiation of a refund on a pig who turned out to be a boar instead of a sow but no, you’re thinking about the time you and your roommates voyeured on phone sex between a 3rd floor girl and her boyfriend in the early hours of the morning. You’d wrapped the receiver in a hair towel so they couldn’t hear the giggling, entranced by the description of things you hadn’t even read in books. 

“I see, I see. Jae, you go.” 

“Never have I ever . . . hitch-hiked.”

Both Johnny and you raise your cups at the same time, and you have to blink away the tears as the swallow affects you just as much as the first. Jaehyun stares at you curiously.

“Cross-country buses are expensive.” You shrug. It isn’t like you're Sissy Hankshaw. Everyone did their turn on the highway, you were lucky yours was short.

You look at the man beside you for reassurance.

“Oh, I just did it for fun,” Johnny laughs. “Your turn.”

“Never have I ever . . .” 

You don’t want to spook them into not playing so you figure you’ll start with a softball. “Never have I been overseas.”

You’re rewarded when they both drink.

“You’re lucky we have another bottle with us,” Johnny says, reaching over with a long arm to fill your glass. The bottle of rum is still mostly full, you think, but the buzz makes you feel a little bold, the question tumbling off your lips.

“Where’ve you been? Overseas?”

“We don’t have enough liquor for that conversation,” Johnny jokes. Jaehyun swirls his cup, running his other hand through dark hair touched gold by the sun.

“Born overseas.” Jaehyun says, looking up at you. He recognizes the question in your eyes. “Dual citizenship.”

You want to ask him where but you save it, knowing it annoyed you to no end when you'd heard the same question countless times before. 

“Never have I ever milked a cow,” Johnny interrupts. You’re the only one who drinks, and the men slap hands across the head of the bed, as if they'd won a sports match.

“You don’t have much of an accent,” Johnny says. “Where’s that tiny town at? The Midwest?”

“The South,” you quip, making them both laugh. You’re surprised by the sound of Jaehyun’s laughter, like it originated deep inside of him.

“Well, you got us there,” Johnny says, tipping his blonde head.

“Never have I ever . . .” Jaehyun pauses, a bit of pink creeping into his cheeks and ears. “Worn women’s underwear.”

“That’s cheating,” Johnny exclaims before drinking. You sputter rum out of your mouth, wiping it away as you laugh at his sour expression.

“I looked good in them, too,” he continues and soon you are curled over on the bed, laughing more than you think you have in years. It isn’t just the drinks, this is the first time you’ve had actual fun in as long as you can remember.

“Never have I ever kissed a boy,” you say, intending it as a joke to move the game along. The silence that settles over the room is so dense it seems to absorb even the soft music from the radio, the swish of rain against the side of the hotel growing unbearable.

“I meant girl . . .” you lie, poorly, words dying on your tongue as they both drink. Jaehyun sips but Johnny clears his whole coffee cup, placing it on the nightstand as a finale. 

“Oh.” You hiccup. 

Suddenly things are becoming a little more clear in the light of intoxication: the shared room with the one king-sized bed, the articles of clothing draped across the unused desk. 

"'S cool," you offer, feeling stupid upon saying it.

You consider yourself an open-minded person—your peers in college and on the way to it are more diverse than you could have possibly imagined. It had changed your outlook on a lot of things that growing up in nowhere never dared touch. But you can’t help but feel a small twinge of disappointment, like something just within reach has slipped out of your grasp. 

“Don’t,” Jaehyun says suddenly, looking at Johnny with a dangerous look on his face. Your head snaps up to find the other man leaning towards you on the bed, hands raising to cup your cheeks. 

“Baby girl.” You can smell the cane sugar on Johnny’s breath, his face inches away from you. Your eyes focus and unfocus on his perfect Cupid’s Bow lips. “Are you telling me you’ve never been kissed?”

You feel like a deer poised to flee on a nighttime highway. 

“I . . . I’ve . . . Been kissed." You move to pull away but his large hands are now on your shoulders—not gripping, just holding you still as your body tremors beneath the touch. 

“Really?” He asks, gently.

“Ye . . .Yes.” Your voice is so quiet you can barely hear yourself, your eyes fixed on the olive green crochet of your dress. “I’ve just. Never kissed.”

“Never kissed someone?" The room in the air seems to go even more still. "Do you want to try kissing someone you like?”

Your skin is aflame, hands crushing the cup you’re still holding onto. You can’t look up, you can only focus on your own knee dipping into the white topsheet.

“Leave her alone,” Jaehyun’s voice is barely audible over the rapid breaths coming out of your mouth.

Johnny releases you to lean back and sit down on the bed beside you, legs folded.

“She’s fine. Aren't you, Jenny?" The question isn’t demanding as much as offering reassurance. 

And that's when you realize that you are fine, that even with the tension that sings like a taut wire around you, you have control. Your eyes flick up to where Jaehyun is sitting, afraid to look at his face lest your own body betray you. You watch him pull his bottom lip between his teeth, jaw shifting as he worries at it. 

“It’s your turn,” you say, straining a smile as you look back at Johnny. His whiskey-colored eyes are dancing, the concern brushed away. 

“Never have I ever—“

“Game’s over,” Jaehyun says. You don't see as much as feel him get up and blow past you both to the bathroom, watching his back as the door slams shut behind him. The noise makes you jump.

“He’s like that,” Johnny says, reaching for the rum bottle and pouring himself another dram. You shake your head when he offers you more, drinking what’s left and enjoying the warmth that spreads through you.

“Are you two . . .” You begin to ask, stopping when you see Johnny look bemused, and then actually amused. “S’okay! I don’t mind, it’s none of my—“

“Do you think he’s jealous of you?” Johnny laughs. “Oh no. No, it’s not like that.”

Your thoughts were already going a mile-a-minute, the sound of the shower starting in the next room putting everything on pause. It takes a moment to process what Johnny just said, and your body unwinds a bit as you realize the implication. 

“You’re cute, do you know that?” Johnny ruffles your hair above your ear, fingers just as warm as when he held you a minute ago. Suddenly you're alone with him, and much more close.

He’s as friendly as if he were an older brother, or the kind of male friend you’d always wanted, but there’s something in his look that sets your heart racing. If he asked you again if you wanted to be kissed—instead of kiss someone you liked—you think you’d say yes just to see how it felt.

“Thank you for the drinks,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek. “I’m sor—sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, doll.” He moves back, propped up against the low headboard, perfectly-muscled legs so long they’re practically in your lap. “You leaving?”

“I think I should go,” you say, hearing the slur of tiredness and alcohol twisting your tongue. “Could you . . . Could you tell him I’m sorry?”

Johnny opens one of the eyes he had closed, face shaded in the wall light.

“Don’t tempt him to give you something you might actually be sorry for.”

You don’t know what he means but his delivery is dry. Just another joke at your expense, you think. You nod and retrieve your shoes and the vinyl tote bag you brought with you, flashing Johnny a smile. 

Your eyes never stray from the light shining through the gap under the bathroom door, not until the hotel door clicks shut behind you. 

You're thinking about the movie your roommate dragged you to recently, the one where William Hurt turned into a caveman after spending too much time in an isolation tank, as you float in the liminal blue of the pool you'd been dreaming of all day.

You can’t even remember the name of the film—Altered something—exhaustion setting in the moment your body touched the water. You work your way to the surface in the relative darkness and float face-up, tracking the glimmers of the underwater lighting on the faux stone ceiling. 

The water feature at the end of the pool provides a soothing white noise and the emptiness surrounding you makes you feel like you’re in your own vacuum chamber. 

You’d thought about going back to your swampy room but the lure of that late night swim was too powerful. Instead you had snuck past the unmanned front desk to the dark glass doors at the end of the hallway, your housekeeper’s keys clutched to keep from alerting whomever was on duty. 

You’re bobbing on the surface, chlorine burning your nose and ears immersed, when you feel it again—needles scraping over your exposed skin, chilling everywhere not touched by the water. 

You resist the urge to panic, or even to respond visibly. Something tells you to go gently, the way you used to lure abandoned feral cats out of the woods with a plate of food and patience. 

You swim to the far edge of the pool and then back again, body weightless as you go under. You’d caught the shadow that didn’t match after the first few breaths but any fear you have is locked away where you’d stored other, worser things. Only a few people have the key to this space, even fewer know you’re here.

When you feel the time is right you swim to the edge and place your elbows on the concrete, reaching out in the dark. You take a moment to remove your swimming cap, unsurprised when there's no movement from your peripheral vision.

“Hand me my towel?” you ask. 

It’s like asking the night for comfort. An eternity seems to pass before that smudge of darkness breaks away from the farthest corner to pick up the towel and drop it just out of reach. He sits down on one of the deck chairs, the weight as palpable as if he’d sat down on the ground next to you. 

Jaehyun is as unreadable as the day you met him, something you'd grown to appreciate in the short time since. 

You want to ask if he’s here to swim but you know he isn’t, and he might even take it personally if you alluded to him joining you. So you dry your face while clinging to the edge of the pool and rest your head on the folded towel when you're done.

You feel like a siren born without a song as you wait for him to speak. The quiet returns, that comfortable weight you’ve found in his presence returning with it. 

“I’m sorry.” he says. The words are low, just carrying over the rush of water. 

You toss your head a little in answer, fingers trailing circles in the water that dripped from your arm over the gritty floor. 

“Don’t be.”

“I went to your room,” he says, after a beat. “It stinks. You can have mine tonight.”

“Thank you. You. You don’t . . .”

“I moved your stuff already.”

Oh. 

Another automatic "thank you" dies on your lips. Heat suffuses your face, the air feeling even more thick than it already did with the humidity. 

Of course he has access to your room, he has the same skeleton key you do. If you’re surprised you don’t show it, grateful you always keep things neat. You’ve seen the mess of other people’s lives during mid-stay linen changes and it’s made you even more tidy. 

You must have paused a little too long because he speaks again. 

“Are you afraid of me?” Jaehyun asks.

You let the question hang, considering. Are you afraid of him? The more appropriate thing to ask yourself, you think, is whether or not you mind it. 

There was a time not long ago that whenever you entered a room he'd been working in earlier you found a tip on the nightstand. Not just the checkouts but rooms that had been empty for days, always in the same book left on the nightstand.

At some point you’d understood that the crisp, yellow-green bills hanging out of the Bible were laid flat to highlight a passage, stuck in the book of Proverbs. 

Proverbs 17:28. Proverbs 18:13. Proverbs 19:20. Proverbs 21:23. Words you knew all too well. 

You’d caught him out by leaving a message in return. You’d snuck into an unused room stripped for repair work on a morning you knew he was on shift, the $20 you’d collected over that month placed around Proverbs 16:19. It was possible someone else had taken the money but the tips had stopped appearing in your rooms after that. 

Even if the cash wasn’t easy to part with, you had your pride. And you’d never known exactly what he wanted in return. 

Any other man might have broken the act then, but whatever space existed between you remained as airtight as ever. He’d still just been around, drifting through your periphery as impenetrable as a safe you didn’t have the combination for.

So no, you think. You aren’t afraid of him. 

No, you don't mind.

You pull yourself up out of the water with the last strength you think you have left, your arms strained by a day’s work punching pillows and pushing carts. Sitting on the edge of the pool you wrap the towel tight around you, hiding the sunflower yellow bikini you’re wearing. 

There’s a steel in your spine as you move, the kind of posture you know you’ve taken on when you’ve felt his eyes. Instead of ignoring it, you stand up to move right in front of him. 

Reaching out, you lift his right hand from where it rests on the striped deck chair. He lets you hold it, arm limp and heavy. 

There’s calluses on his fingers like yours, bone-white knuckles and veins showing through his skin. His hand is much too big to hold firmly in both of yours but you squeeze it and feel the sweat on his palms.

“Do you want me to be?” Afraid of you?  The unasked question is answered.

You don’t know where these words come from, out of your mouth like water running over smooth stone, but you relish the way his eyes go glassy and his full bottom lip thins. He looks down, hand pulling from yours to rub on top of his knees.

“Maybe.” His voice cracks. 

Your heart is in your throat, the chill of condensation drying on your bare skin making you shiver. You sit down across from him, plastic slats buckling beneath you. 

“I don’t know why . . . I just . . . feel safe.” When you’re around, you think. 

Maybe it's the way he reminds you of your father, silentium est aurum wrought in flesh, the kind of man who could tell you a story without saying a word. Now that you've seen Jaehyun with Johnny you can see that it's not that he doesn't talk. No, you think, he's always just been that way for you.

He looks up, a flash of white teeth and dimples appearing under his otherwise hollow cheekbones before both disappear again. 

“You don’t even know me,” he says. 

“What if . . . I wanted to?” 

He laughs softly, arms crossing as if to say he’s sizing you up. 

“I have questions.” You’re back to having to deliberately form the words in your mouth before you speak again, and your breath shudders in your chest. Surely his patience will run out, he’ll leave before you can get out what you need to say.

“Shoot.” Jaehyun says.

“You. You don’t have to answer.” If you don’t want to. 

You fix your eyes on his clothed shoulder. He’s in work coveralls again, the navy blue appearing black in the lowlight. You laugh silently when you see the name embroidered in red on white on his chest: Jeffrey. He doesn’t look like one, much less a Jeff.

“I . . . I want to know . . .”  You ball your fists in the rough towel wrapped around your knees. “Do you . . . Are you . . . ?"

You shake your head, eyes stinging. Each breath you're unable to speak feels like an agony.

“Would it be easier if we just went back to how we were last week? Pretend like we’re sitting on a bench?” He offers, surprising you. The anxiety attack that had been building in your chest dissolves. You nod, swallowing. 

You hear a creak as he lies down in the dark, hands reaching behind his head resting on the angled third of the chair. You follow suit, negotiating the sagging plastic slats and keeping your towel on, arms tight across your chest.

“Thank you,” you say, once the quiet returns.

“Hmm.” He assents.

You give it a little time, listening to his breathing deepen. 

“Why were you upset?” you ask. 

He doesn’t answer, and it takes awhile for you to realize he doesn’t intend to. 

“Was it something I did?”

“No.”

“Why are you here?”

Again, silence. Your mouth opens to ask another question but he speaks again, suddenly. “I was worried about you.” 

Warmth blooms in your chest. No one has ever been worried about you, or at least they hadn’t said so aloud since you were a child. 

“I know how to swim,” you chase away the feeling of vulnerability by scolding him, tone playful.

“We got you drunk.”

”Not that drunk,” you scoff.

“You were crying.”

That stops you in your tracks. 

“It . . . I was . . .”

“You were embarrassed.” Jaehyun says, flatly.

“Yes.” A sigh escapes you as you burrow into the chair.

“I know you better than you think I do.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I know. More.”

You can hear him roll onto his side, facing you. Your heart skips beats but you turn over, too, fists curled under your chin as you search for the side of his face, illuminated by the radiant blue light of the pool.

“Do you now?” He sounds humored, and it reminds you of the way Johnny had spoken to you before—as if privy to a secret you weren’t capable of understanding.

You feel your weak interrogation slipping away from you, so you circle back. “You have a car . . . Right?”

“Yes.” 

“Why . . . Why do you ride the bus?” 

You already know the answer but you need to hear it. 

He’d never boarded the same bus, and you’d never seen him get on one that arrived before yours. You’d even memorized his handwritten shift where it hung on the board above yours, knowing he should have been off hours ago. And still he’d been there, no matter the sudden change in Florida summer weather.

“To make sure you get home safely.”

He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You suck your breath in through your teeth, knees curling up to your chest. It feels like if you were to say the wrong thing right now you’d be breaking a magic spell. That this whole strange dream would collapse into a nightmare. But you have to ask.

“Do you . . .  Have you ever followed me home?” 

Jaehyun shifts further into the chair.

“Only when you walk.” There’s no shame in his tone, just what you think might be a little sadness. The pool's water feature sputters as you find your response.

“Does that frighten you?” he asks.

You shake your head, slowly.

It had been worse wondering if you were going crazy the first few times your instincts had screamed at you that you were being followed. 

A little paranoia didn’t hurt in the neighborhood you lived in, Lord knows the city had experienced a decline in the last decade that had made people harder. But for all your experiences avoiding intoxicated teens or even the one time you’d been mugged for the precious few quarters you carried, you’d never felt like this. 

You’d been on the other side of a bow and a gun before when your daddy taught you how to hunt, but you’d never felt like you could understand the creature in the crosshairs. 

Not until this.

Not until him.

The adrenaline high had persisted for hours after you’d made it home, like honeybees buzzing in your head. You’d stood in front of the window in your shared room, lights off so as not to disturb your roommate, staring down at the filthy alleyway below for signs of movement in the sodium orange streetlights. 

“No,” you say. You can’t tell him the rest, one of the things you’d locked away. You’d liked it. 

“Maybe . . . next time . . . drive me?”

You get up to leave before the echo of your question can fade. You don’t want to hear him say no. But he grabs your arm, still seated on the chair, touch warmer than before.

“I’m not going to be here much longer,” he says. “The job’s ending.”

“Oh.” Your heart sinks. Summer’s already over and the main school year starting again meant you wouldn't be working as much anyhow, maybe it was the same for him. But you'd grown used to the little match spark of excitement you'd get whenever he was around. It's only natural you'd miss it.

All good things come to an end, after all. You swallow the knot in your throat.

There’s one thing at least—if he’s gone you won’t feel bad asking him for another favor. Something not yourself makes you ask, hand floating in his grasp.

“Can I kiss you?” 

How you wished you could have asked that confidently, but at least there’s a power that you’re standing over him.

He nods, swallowing, gaze distant but soft. You lean in and his eyes close automatically, lashes brushing your nose. You tilt his chin up gently with both hands to kiss the smoothness of his cheek, smelling the shaving cream he must have used earlier—you know the kind, a green-and-white striped can. And then he tilts his face towards you, like a question. Your lips brush against his and it’s like clinging to a live power line. 

There’s the softness and warmth of his lips, but you can feel him fighting to stay still, mouth closed. You don’t know if he thought he’d get what he wanted coming down to the pool to watch you but you know he wasn’t expecting this, his toothpaste-mentholated breath stuttering against your chin when you pull away. 

“Did you like it?” Jaehyun asks, brows lowered in much-too-serious of an expression for not even kissing you in return. His pupils are dilated so wide in the dark you’re reminded of a nocturnal animal. 

You nod, gripping the towel around you and shivering despite the heat. 

“I need you to do something for me,” he says, voice low. 

“What?”

“Do you trust me?” 

Again, you're lost with regard to any double-meaning. His voice is so gentle and pleading you feel like there’s no artifice there. 

“Yes,” you say. 

“Go back to the room. Wait a few minutes after I leave to go up. If I see the night manager first I’ll take care of him.”

The way he says take care of him sends a chill up your spine, but then you remember you’re not starring in Mission: Impossible or another dumb television show, you’re just sneaking through the hotel after midnight with a coworker. 

“Okay. 310?”

“No, go back to 217,” he says, standing up. He’s not as tall as Johnny but he towers over you in a different way, posture naturally intimidating.

“See you there,” you say as he leaves. 

He doesn’t respond, disappearing out the glass doors to leave you dripping water down your legs and questioning everything that just happened. 

Curiosity gets to you and you go back to your room, finding it even worse than you’d left it. The world beyond the scratchy curtains paints a picture straight out of Genesis Chapter 6.

Though this side of the hotel is opposite of the ocean and the wind, water sluices down from the top of the building in waterfalls. The drained pool is already full again, violently overflowing in the outdoor lighting. The smell of mildew is everywhere, like a used sock stamping out a decaying joint.

The patio door’s weather stripping was no match for the elements outside and you shudder at the thought of all the first floor rooms that are experiencing the same. 

You take a few minutes to rinse the pool chemicals off your skin in the shower, liberally applying the cheap hotel soap while leaving the shampoo and conditioner untouched for the next guests. You’d brought your own but that, too, had been packed away. The room is as empty as if you’d never been there at all. 

You slip the Do Not Disturb sign on the door with the "Maid Welcome'' facing outward as you leave. No one will come to clean the room until you're off shift but you feel like it’s a secret signal, a code just in case you don’t come back.

The thought that you are playing a dangerous game doesn’t escape you. Your buzz had worn down from the swim and while you should be tired the thrill of being hunted down in the night just so you could plant a kiss on the predator's lips has your head electric. 

You’re nervous, but you’re not scared. The fact that Jaehyun likes you even after seeing you at your worst, hauling trash down hallways with sweat pouring down your face, gives you a fledgling feeling of hope. Like maybe in the gravitational shift that occurred tonight there’s a brighter path ahead.

He isn’t in 217, although your single suitcase is on the bed, along with Johnny. The older man's arm is flung over his face but the flatness of his belly is exposed in the yellow light, tattoos on his arms peeking out from under his short shirt sleeves. It's a strange sight to behold, him looking this vulnerable.

The more you watch him sleep the more you think how silly it was of Ruby to throw herself at him like a dog in heat. He’s a gentle giant, yes, and he’s got a childishness to him that makes him seem easy.  But all you see is another fortress, as tightly guarded as the one whose walls you ran up against in the basement grotto. 

Unlike Jaehyun, you think, Johnny doesn’t chase. He’s probably never needed to. 

You can’t pull a sheet up over him as he’s lying on it but the air is on the lowest setting and the power is still going to keep it kicking. You grab a blanket from the nearby closet, giving it a careful sniff before tucking him in. Johnny remains pacific, only moving to turn into the pillow once you've shut the light off next to the bed. 

After changing out of your wet swimsuit and into your junior college sweatshirt and athletic shorts you sit in one of the cushioned rattan chairs, tired but unable to sleep. 

The TV is back on with no volume, just the familiar black-and-white circular geometrics of a test pattern broadcast. The faint buzzing of the television is eventually surpassed by the hurricane outside, shrieking as the wind moves through small crevices. You’re not afraid of the dark, or the weather, but the oppressive smallness of the hotel room has you feeling like you’ll never leave. 

Within a half-an-hour, unable to stop your mind, you quietly set to work clearing empty bottles and stray pieces of paper. You make a game of picking up the room without waking the sleeping bear inside it. You even use one of the washcloths in the room to wipe down the surfaces, preparing it for the eventual exit of its inhabitants.

Why are you cleaning a hotel room in the middle of the night? The answer seems to lie in memories better left unseen, like the wriggling things under a rock turned over. Each bottle dumped out is a reminder of broken glass on mud-caked linoleum, the hum of the television just like flies buzzing in black blood. All of these horrors wiped away by your efforts.

One of the small luxuries afforded to you in this shit-labor job is combing through the personal belongings of people with more money than you. You know better than to move anything a millimeter but you've learned to observe an object's rightful place and where to return it to once you've cleaned, and your memory is a steel trap. 

It’s gotten to the point where you can feel a room: the occupants' hair, their skin, where they slept and what they ate, drank, and expelled out—none of it sacred. You’d stopped working in the smoking wing a few months ago not because you minded the smell but because you were tired of cleaning the remnants of cocaine and hash out of surfaces you didn’t even know could be used for the intake of either. The Gideon bibles were getting more use over there. 

You were happy to be stuck in the kiddie section vacuuming sand out of the low pile carpet, but sometimes you missed the allure of figuring out the people by their belongings. You used to look up their fashion in the magazines your roommates collected. Although you have only dreamt of wearing Chloe or Chanel you know how to recognize someone who can afford their clothing vs. someone gifted a knock-off. 

It’s why the more you observe the more you get a feel that something is off.

You’ve never seen Johnny or Jaehyun in street clothes but there aren’t any in this room besides replacement slacks and shirts for work, underwear and socks hanging off the back of the chairs. There’s a few well-tailored suits in the closet, big enough a fit you think they must be Johnny’s but some of them are in a color and the right fit for Jaehyun, the sizing of the shoulders on the hangers and the arm-length confirmation enough.

The bags when you lift them up are heavy, and not in the way clothes feel. But the thing that nags at you the most is the watch: an Omega Speedmaster on the desk, hidden beneath a pile of empty junk wrappers and scribbled notes. 

If you'd been back in your old life that would have been a tell not because it meant the person wearing it was rich but that they'd left it as a gamble to see if you stole and pawned it overnight. 

You don’t pick it up. As cheap as it might be to a higher clientele, the kind of money that could afford it would stay in a far better place than this. The idea that it was purchased by someone working for a hotel is a laughing-stock. 

It’s this nagging in the back of your mind that finds you carefully unzipping one of the bags, the most expensive one made of leather and weather-proofed canvas, movements timed to Johnny's deepest snores. You peer inside in the soft light of the bathroom overhead. What you find makes your mouth go dry and your pulse pick up. You close the bag as quietly as possible, unable to unsee what you’ve seen. 

You're in deeper than you thought. Puzzle pieces click into place as you watch the palm trees bend through the slats in the shutters, as lightning illuminates the room and its secrets.

And still, Jaehyun doesn't come back.

It’s like sleep-walking how you find yourself out of the room to head up the stairs to the third floor, remembering you’re only wearing socks when you feel the dampness in the carpet under the leaking stairwell window. If you stand there in the flickering fluorescent lights to gather your courage, no one has to know.

Room 310 is in Ruby’s section. You don’t spend much time up here anymore, unless you’re helping her finish her checkouts when she’s slammed. The air is heavy with cigarette smoke, the occasional cough of a guest beyond the dark wood doors speaking to whatever crimes you'd left them to.

Did you forget to knock? Or did you unlatch the lock on muscle memory, quietly slipping in and closing the door behind you?

There’s no lights on at all in the room, just darkness palpated by the exterior red lighting of the hotel sign flickering through the blinds. The only thing you can see as you walk in is a slim wedge of illumination from where the door of the adjoining room is ajar. You smell marijuana smoke and perfume, something floral.

He's not here. In fact the silence under the roar outside is overwhelming. Your gut tells you to turn and go but you’re unable to shy away from that open door, your curiosity getting the better of you.

The first thing you see when you peer into the suite is the utter disarray of the common area and dining room: multiple plates of the hotel’s subpar burgers and breakfasts only partially touched, cigarette butts floating in a half-empty carafe of what looks like lemonade but is probably separated orange juice.

A woman’s wardrobe has imploded far from the bedroom, shoes and lingerie on the floor. You note the leather-bound luggage on the couch and also the relative silence as you step around it, sure the occupants of the room either heard you and are in hiding or are down at the bar below, running up as much of a tab there as you are sure they have here.

And so you go deeper.

Not unexpectedly the glass dining room table is being used for coke, a rolled $20 bill next to where the drawn lines have disappeared. There’s jewelry and high-limit credit cards on every surface. A bouquet of burgundy roses wilts on the bar top, the water in the vase gone green. 

And then there are the bottles: all red wine, empty except for one that’s been knocked over, turning the green carpet black. There hadn’t been much left of the contents but the violence of the spill tells you it either fell or was thrown. The stain on one of the walls and a shattered wine glass confirm an altercation. 

The wrongness that you feel intensifies as you head towards the lit bedroom—not sure what you’ll find. 

The possibility of catching Jaehyun in a passionate tryst feels like it would be a thrill if purely on the basis of knowing he had it in him, but you're prepared for anything, and nothing. Quietly you steal to the doorway, hearing little over the rain. 

The first thing you notice in the bedroom is a man on the bed, his hairy legs akimbo, robe half-off. You're hit with a sudden rush of shame that you hadn’t even considered the suite was still occupied, that this might be off-limits. That's when you catch a glimpse of the bathroom beyond the bed, door wide open.

The woman’s leg hanging over the edge of the tub is unnaturally still.

You don’t need to move any closer to know. You know what a corpse looks like–the blood pooling in the feet until they're dark, the skin unnaturally mottled.

And still, you're pulled into the room, half-hypnotized with shock. The man on the bed is just as frozen in time, you realize, lips blue and parted beneath his mustache, a needle stuck in the meat of his arm like a flagpole. His chest doesn’t move. He isn’t ever waking up again. 

You should turn around and leave, right now. 

You should run.

Call an ambulance. Call the police. 

Instead you feel compelled to witness the horror before you, to see it face-to-face. You move to stand beside the large jacuzzi tub inset into the floor, eyes never leaving the manicured toenails and their perfect shade of flamingo pink.

Out from under the still water the woman’s eyes are half-lidded, mouth half-open, hair floating around her face. She’s fully nude. She looks like she might have been beautiful if not for the distortion of the water. The hand thrown over the edge (matching nails) drips, drips, drips onto the faux granite tile—reminding you of something. 

That’s when the corner of your vision goes black, wet leather slamming down over your mouth. 

Your first instinct is to scream, but that's killed by the gloved hand tight over your mouth. Instead you struggle, nails digging into the canvas-like cloth of the arm pinning your chest to the stranger behind you. 

“Shhh.” 

Your feet kick in the air as you're pulled up, heels fumbling against steel-toed work boots. 

"Quiet, quiet now," he says. You know that voice.

There’s a familiarity so inherent in the smell of mint and WD-40 that you stop struggling. You look beside you, muscles twitching under the wet grip. In your peripheral vision in the mirror you catch a glimpse of a dark blue jumpsuit, a pale profile tucked next to your ear. 

You freeze, panicked breaths escaping from your uncovered nose, mind unable to grasp on any plan of escape or comfort. 

“You weren’t supposed to see this,” Jaehyun says hoarsely. You don't need to see his expression to sense the excitement in his tone as he pins you in place to witness the body before you. “Don’t fight. Just listen.”

You relax, limp as a ragdoll.

“You remember the pelican?”

It takes what feels like an eternity for your brain to catch up with the reference, vision flashing red. 

The pelican, yes. 

Three months ago.

No one had known what to do when the large brown bird had flopped onto the pool deck, choking on a fish still attached to a length of fishing line, hook lodged in its throat. You'd watched the wretched thing as it managed to tangle itself further, upsetting chairs and smearing blood and feathers across the concrete. 

Maeve had ushered the screaming and crying kids playing unsupervised in the pool away on your order, and when you'd felt you were finally alone you'd used the net to knock it in the water and hold it down until it stopped fighting. Maeve had returned with Jaehyun, finding you as you pretended to fish the bird out, feigning disgust. 

As always, as before, as now, you’d felt nothing except maybe that it had been the right thing to do.

“They were already dead,“ Jaehyun says softly. His arm loosens slightly, letting you get air in your lungs, but he still holds you tight, body tense beneath the layers of clothes between you. “Think of this as the same. A mercy.”

When you don’t respond he runs his free hand soothingly up your side. You shudder, eyes closing, the dull black of the corpse’s gaze still burnt into your eyelids.

“They were bad people. Someone else would have gotten them eventually. Tortured them, made them suffer. You don’t like watching things suffer, do you?”

Tears leak from the corner of your eyes but you shake your head under his grip.

“It was painless for them.” He explains, more to himself than you, you think. His lips brush the back of your ear. “Do you understand me?”

You nod.

“I’m going to let you go if you can promise me that you won’t scream.”

You nod again.

His hand releases your face, dropping down to your throat, leather sliding across over-sensitive skin. You suck in a deep breath, expecting the worse. Within seconds you're back on the floor, unable to pull away from the loose hold he has on you.

“Are you . . . going to kill me?” You find it easier to ask the question when you aren’t facing him, as dampness trails over your throat. You jump as his other hand runs under your shirt, cool on your belly.

“Why would I do that?” 

“Keep me quiet,” you whisper. 

“I don’t need to,” he says.

His fingers drag across your ribs, coming to rest over your breastbone. You don’t have a bra on but it doesn’t feel sexual as much as comforting, leather warming with your skin. He holds it there, keeping you still, until your heartbeat slows. 

Drip. Drip.

Drip.

“Are you afraid of me now?”

“I . . . I don’t . . .” You clench your eyes shut tighter. “No.”

He pauses before pulling you closer, a second before you realize your knees are giving out.

“When I saw you with that bird I knew you were special,” he says into your neck. “You’re a smart girl. You know how to survive.”

You think there’s a little bit of a threat there but it’s hard to pay attention to as his lips press against your jaw, down to graze your pulse, brushing through beads of cold sweat drying on your skin. A whimper stays trapped in your throat, electricity arcing in your core. You feel soaked, well above where the heels of your socks rest against his boot tops. 

“Were they really bad?” you ask, as if you don't already know.

There’s no reason you should believe his answer, no reason at all. You have a moral sense even if you know it wouldn’t survive scrutiny, tarnished black as it is. You're just looking for empty reassurance, the guilt of not being able to do anything gnawing at you. 

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in his answer. “You’ll see.”

“I won’t say anything,” you promise, eyes still closed. 

You wouldn’t even know who to tell, after all. Who would believe you?

“No, you won’t,” he assures. “They’ll find them. After the storm.”

Nausea creeps up the back of your throat at the thought of the bodies lying there for days, already decaying. The tremor in your body starts and grows more intense, uncontrollable shaking. It prompts him to pick you up, carrying you out and past the threshold in a damned reversal of a wedding night, placing you on one of the untouched beds in the adjacent room.

You're left to stare at the water-stained ceiling of 310 as he closes the doors between you and death, veiling you both in darkness. 

“I can’t sleep here,” you say, the words airy with adrenaline. It’s so much easier to speak not seeing his face, but you feel him watching in the faint light. 

He has the audacity to laugh. “You don't have to sleep here.”

The drip, drip, drip persists in your mind, lifeless faces floating in front of you. You won’t be able to stop thinking about them for the rest of your life. You’ll just have to store them in that hidden place you’d built when you were six and found your mother. She hadn’t had much of a face to remember her by then.

“Do you trust me?” 

It’s the second time he’s asked you tonight and the sea change that occurred in between has your head spinning, tears sliding down as you weep unconsciously. The tightness in your throat keeps you silent, so you nod instead. 

Jaehyun pulls you into a sitting position, making you look up at him. Even in the red, slatted light he looks no different than before. The kind of man you’d see in an advertisement or in a professional business photo, if it wasn’t for the eyes. Any gleam there has disappeared so that they’re shark-like, absorbing rather than reflecting.

"Go back to Johnny’s room,” he instructs. “Don't say anything about this to him.” 

You nod into his hand as it holds your face, relishing the way his fingers tighten on your chin as you feign control. 

“You’ll wait for me,” he says. 

An eternity passes as you search his expression and find no comfort there, but also no immediate threat.

"Wait for me." This time it's a plea.

“Yes,” you say, finally. Jaehyun pulls you up. Your body shakes but you manage to keep your footing. You're only off-balance when he drags you into another hold that has your face pressed into the zippered front of his coveralls, a leatherbound hand slipping over your hair to rest against your shoulder blades. 

“Good girl,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You hate the way your body responds to the gesture, stoking the fire in your belly. You’d felt his response too, when he was holding you in the bathroom, and it both sickened and intrigued you. He wanted you, you think, possibly more in that moment than before.

If there was a God he’d be the only one to witness the smile that’s crimping your mouth. You smooth your face and pull away before the Devil can see it too. 

“What’s wrong, babydoll?” Johnny asks, voice thick with sleep.

You don’t know how you found your way back, to the room or from your fugue state. The clock on the radio has the hour well past three in the morning, your shift starts again in a scant four hours, and the tears won’t stop streaming down your face. 

You sit on the edge of the bed and finally inhale, but it’s like there's not enough oxygen in the room. You wish you could open a window. The panic attack hits.

Waves of repressed emotion come one by one—you imagine the Atlantic Ocean looks more peaceful torn into white surf by the storm. You can’t speak–you wouldn’t want to even if you could–but the breath in your lungs isn’t coming in deep enough. 

“There, there,” he says, sitting up to touch you. The contact of his hand on your shoulder startles you, making you wheeze even more. 

Johnny grabs a glass from the nightstand and rushes to the bathroom to rinse it out. You can hear the rattle of items on the counter as he knocks them around clumsily. You cover your eyes shut to focus on the whistle of the wind outside. 

One. Two. Three. Breathe in, breathe out. 

It’s not fear; it’s never been fear. Just an autonomic response outside of your control, exacerbated when anyone’s observed you. And so you’d made do with hiding, with learning how to disappear. Back in this shared hotel room there is no such shelter. 

“Drink,” Johnny says. 

You open your eyes to the smoky yellow-brown glass, seeing he’s dropped ice in it from what’s left in the bucket. Tap water here tastes like the subterranean swamp it’s piped up through and this is no different, bitter on your tongue once you’ve finished the glass. 

Johnny paces the room, turning the TV off, turning the radio on. You don’t know the song but it’s a welcome distraction, soft piano and strings floating over a full band.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he says, kneeling in front of you. “But you can if you want to.”

You hiccup, face hot as you wipe the tears away. His strong but slender fingers take over yours, soothing you and you focus on that touch to ground you. A few minutes pass as your breathing slows, still shaky.

Would it be easier if you told him? If you tried to find the words? Would that put him in danger, too? All the adrenaline coursing through you has left you hollow, wiped clean. 

“Nothing. Bad. Not too bad,” you say, rolling the glass in hands that begin tingling as the shock wears off. Johnny takes it from you, wrapping you in the thin fleece of the blanket you’d tucked around him earlier in the night.

“Jae,” you say. That’s all that comes out. You've never called him that outside of what you’ve whispered in your mind, and your stomach rolls at the thought of what it means to know him better now.

"Listen to me," Johnny says, holding your arms. "You're gonna be alright."

You think you believe him, looking up into his warm brown eyes. They crinkle at the corner when he smiles genuinely, but there’s just the ghost of that now. It’s almost soothing to see him look worried but the cringing little voice in the back of your head tells you that he can’t really care–why would he care about little old you. 

"Tell me what happened," he says.

You shake your head, sniffling. 

“It’s alright,” he says. “You’re safe here.”

What's happening to you, you wonder? The more you look into his searching gaze, the more you want to wrap your arms around his neck. 

Maybe he'll wrap his arms around you, too? Wouldn't that feel nice? 

His hands drift down to your wrists, grasping the bones where your pulse beats through. You hope he doesn't feel the fear in you. The tremble there finally stops, but the urge to be held continues. You want him to swallow you up and never let you go.

"Hold me," you say. Johnny looks at you quizzically, mouth parted.

You try lifting your arms, but they feel heavy. You look down at the brace of his hands on yours where they rest in your lap, where your thin red shorts with their white lining meets your thighs, and you laugh.

You remind yourself that laughing isn’t appropriate right now, but you can feel the grin twist your mouth.

"It's gold. Cold." You reach to take off your socks, aware that they're wet and clinging to your feet. A giggle escapes you when you realize that you can't even do that, then at remembering how they got that way. It feels like a distant dream, something you saw in a movie that you couldn't remember right.

“Shh,” Johnny says, and that makes you laugh harder, holding your sides as he unrolls the tube socks from below your knees to reveal your unpainted toenails. You collapse on the bed, the room spinning.

“Just go to sleep, baby girl.”

“Good girl,” you correct, words slurring. “‘Mm a good girl.”

“Yes you are,” Johnny says, not without some exasperation, moving your body with an ease that makes you even more dizzy. He’s so big and strong, you think, watching his forearms flex as he brings you to the head of the bed and lays you down. 

He's held you, you think. Not him but him. You're falling fast away from that memory, just not fast enough.

The pillows beneath your head, the ones you know are yellow with nicotine-stained slobber beneath the thin cotton, have never felt so good. You feign sleep with eyes half open, the nightmare cocktail of anxiety keeping you from going fully unconscious. 

When the door of the room opens,  you imagine that Death himself has stepped in to help you go down.

The bed sinks beside you. You smell bleach and that pretty green Barbisol shaving cream from the skin you’d kissed earlier. Your right eyelid is opened by a calloused thumb lifting it to your eyebrow. 

"Y/N," he says. Oh, you think. That's your name. Not the one on a tag but the one written on your birth certificate.

You fight against the unwelcome rays of the wall light, weak as a milk-starved kitten. The hand on your face brushes across your cheek, cracking the salt stains from your previous tears.

“What did you do to her?”

Jaehyun’s voice sends a distant rush of terror through you, the feeling laced with a different kind of thrill you can’t place. 

“She was hysterical,” Johnny says, calmly. “I gave her a Quaalude.”

That’s it, you think. You’d heard about luding out, about disco biscuits. You weren't that much of a square. Like everything else you’d never tried it until today. 

Cuban rum, kissing a stalker, finding a stash of guns, drugs and money. Stumbling into a murder scene. Now roofies. You were certainly racking up an impressive list of Never Have I Ever failures. Very unsquarelike.

“You drugged her?!”

“I didn’t have—“

You feel the weight leaving the bed, hear the dull thud of skin against skin and the thump of a body against a wall. The scuffle is brief by the sounds of it. You know who won when Johnny speaks.

"Knock it off. You’re the one who got us into this mess, asshole.” You’ve never heard Johnny sound like that, the order carrying a credible threat.

“You’re the one who told her that room number like a fucking moron," Jaehyun says, voice level.

“If we’re talking unplanned variables your little obsession here is now threatening this entire op—"

“It’s done.”

"Done done? You got the bugs? Stashed the goods?"

"I know how to do my job."

"I don't know man. From over here it looks like you keep forgetting. What are we doing with her?"

"She won't talk."

"You don't know that. She wakes up, has a change of conscience. It's too risky."

"She trusts me." 

"You think that's reassuring?"

There's more shuffling of bodies and fabric, more quiet response from the shadow that keeps falling over you, adjusting the pillows and blankets, hot hand under your cheek as he makes sure you're on your side.

"Is that why you like her? Found yourself another headcase?" Johnny says, cracking a bottletop.

"Fuck off."

A bark of a laugh filters through the euphoria dissolving your consciousness. You can’t keep following the conversation, the quiet bickering drifting in and out, but you hear more words. Keep. Alibi. Timetable. Extraction. DEA. Useful. Honeypot. 

Maybe it's the Quaaludes but everything feels natural, like you'd fallen through that Twilight Zone door into a primetime television show. One where your storyline was written by more compelling and generous authors than the one who'd written your real life. No, your real life was a lot more gritty and a lot less glossy. A little Southern gothic, a little nightly news.

If you could choose you'd be in LA where they shoot all the pictures, with title cards to say they're set somewhere else. Of course there's a car chase intro complete with brassy music, a yellow font title card, and voice-over narration.

"Fresh co-ed Y/N is plunged into the seedy underbelly of Miami's South Beach, recruited by a federal vice squad to fight against drug kingpins and corrupt developers alike. Join us next week for an explosive pilot episode featuring special guest stars . . ."

You picture yourself like Angie Dickinson's character in Police Woman, respected by your peers, always ready to go into the lion's den undercover and trick the unsuspecting criminals into revealing their secrets. Every episode ending with you in a shootout, surviving by the skin of your teeth. The viewers are hooked weekly by the subtle flirtation with your partner, or maybe even your superior, a will-they-won't-they over the course of endless seasons. 

You're the biggest hit since color TV. That's not Farrah on the wall, that's you in your yellow swimsuit, smiling brightly. You never stop smiling, making sure to shine it into the cameras as Johnny Carson interviews you about your newest movie deal, which you ace without one stumble in your speech. The audience applauds. You're featured in all the magazines: the new face of Virginia Slims. You've come a long way, baby. 

No shark-jumping for you, you’re eternal.

You've come a long way.

next

[hannahhook7744]

Hunelim;

This is a throuple ship headcanon list and aesthetic with Hunter, Elisa, and Jim Jr.

🐩🐈‍⬛🕊🐩🐈‍⬛🕊🐩🐈‍⬛🕊🐩🐈‍⬛🕊🐩🐈‍⬛🕊🐩🐈‍⬛🕊

Jim Junior's actual full name is James Brown, Jr.

Everyone calls him 'Jim', 'Jimmy', or 'J.J' though.

Jim loves dogs and cats, and so does Hunter.

Elisa, on the other hand, loves birds (mainly doves).

His parents still call him 'Little Sweeper'. His friends think it's hilarious.

He still owns Scamp, though the dog is much older now.

Elisa has a pet dove named 'Dearie'.

Jim also has a simease cat named 'Mischief'.

Hunter still has his pet cat 'Cuddles'.

He also has a pet chicken named 'Peaky'

Elisa's full name is Elisabeth Marceline Fae.

Hunter's full name is Hunter Claudius de Vil.

Elisa is the oldest at 29.

Hunter is the 2nd oldest at 28.

And Jim is the youngest at 26.

Elisa and Jim went to school together and were friends before they all started dating.

And they met Hunter at family day when he was alone and eating from the chocolate fountain, each of his pets slung over his shoulders.

For the most part, their families were supportive.

Cruella was the exception but no one really cares about her.

Most of their dates take place at the zoo, various pet cafes, book shops, and occasionally carnivals and amusement parks.

Jim works at a candy shop because he adores sweets.

Hunter and Elisa do too, and always get a discount when they come in.

But Jim definitely has the biggest sweet tooth.

Hunter and Elisa both call Jim Jr various affectionate names including but not limited to; Little Sweeper, Jimmy, Jamie, Jim-Jim, slim-Jim, J.J, Jam, and Brownie.

Jim and Elisa call Hunter various affectionate nicknames to including but not limited to; Hun, Hunt, Huntie, Hunny, and Hunny bunny.

Jim and Hunter have nicknames for Elisa too and here they are; Elle, Lisa, Lizzy, Birdie, and Liz.

Elisa wears and smells like flowery perfume, Jim wears fresh scents and candy, and Hunter smells like musk, ink, and earthy scents.

They all also smell like their pets to an extent.

None of them notice.

They all have different types of music; Elisa likes bubblegum pop, Jim likes Classical, and Hunter likes Jazz and rock.

Their song is 'They don't know about us' by one direction.

They kept their relationship a secret for the first year because they weren't sure how people would take it.

They all love chocolate, spaghetti, and fish and chips.

And tea and coffee and energy drinks. And sweets.

They all know sign language and Morse code, which they communicate with constantly.

It can be annoying.

They are all very supportive of eachother but Hunter is usually the one to talk sense into the others.

He is also more graceful than both of them, which annoys them both greatly.

Hunter works at a tech repair shop and is also a part time mechanic and youtuber.

He also keeps his younger cousins out of trouble as the oldest.

Eliza does the same with her cousins.

Eliza works as a magazine editor and is alot more confident and popular than Jane.

Jim often helps them with their younger cousins because he doesn't have anything better to do.

They return the favor when he discovers that his Aunt Sarah has a child named Eddie Balthazar, who is a bitter teen detective with very little impulse control.

They also stop the panic attack that ensues because Jim really doesn't think he's cut out to be a role model yet.

Elisa and Jim comfort Hunter after his own panic attacks and nightmares that were brought on by Cruella's continued mistreatment of him and his cousins.

Strangely enough a restraining order against Cruella de Vil is ordered on behalf of the de Vil cousins despite the fact non of them asked for one.

Niether Jim nor Elisa will admit to having played a part in it.

Hunter knows and is grateful.

They often listen to each other rant about their various differing interests without complaint.

When one of them is sick , the other two will do anything to make their day.

They also read and show off to eachother often.

They are friends with Varian, Cassandra, Keira, Catalina, and Diego's friends.

They love road trips and theme parks.

And movie theaters, drive ins, food trucks, and circuses.

Jim and Elisa patch Hunter up whenever his inventions/experiments/interent challenges go wrong.

Sometimes they scold him, sometimes they don't.

They all say they are the best things that have ever happened to eachother.

They all plan to get married one day because that is allowed in Auardon and on the isle.

They share clothes and food with one another and no one else.

Jim has to constantly stop Elisa and Hunter from blowing things up.

He is the only one who doesn't blow things up on accident or on purpose.

None of them like swimming other than Hunter. Even he doesn't like it that much.

They eventually move with eachother.

Carlos lives with them until he is 18. By choice mind you.

All of the de vils are claustrophobic.

Elisa is ironically afraid of heights.

Jim is afraid of needles.

Jim and Elisa both hate Cruella with every fiber of their being.

Elisa and Jim's families do too.

Jim's relationship with Hunter makes his attempt at a relationship with Eddie, Aunt Sarah, and Edgar Balthazar go alot smoother.

Elisa was in alot of clubs when she was in school (Auardon Prep) and so was Jim.

Elisa taught Jim how to drive.

They both taught Hunter how alot of things in Auardon work.

They have alot of throuple things. Mainly so no one will be dumb enough to ask the obvious.

They adore eachother's pets and younger cousins.

The de Vil adults approve when they see Jim and Elisa are good enough. Except for Cruella but again, no one cares about her.

Jim's parents and Eliza's family were wary of Hunter at first but got over it quickly.

They have matching tattoos that they let Diego do so he'd shut up about it. Not alot of people know it.

Their anniversary is March 18th.

Jim and Hunter often take care of Elisa when she gets writer's block or magical burn out.

Hunter has burn scars on his hands from his inventing.

And shakes occasionally from years of not having proper medical care after being (repeatedly) electrocuted.

Jim and Elisa stop liking Beast and Belle when they discover this.

And Fg gets a bloody earful from Elisa.

Jim is allergic to peanut butter but still eats it. It leaves him rashy.

It drives Hunter and Elisa crazy.

Hunter carves their initials into things often.

They have video game competitions often.

Jim likes crafting miniatures and makes them for his loved ones often. Especially Hunter and Elisa.

He also collects toy trains.

He and Eddie have alot in common surprisingly.

They both like detective novels and vintage music and photographs etc.

They can have children with all of their genes cause magic.

Jim is a theatre kid.

Jane is the maid of honour for their wedding. And Carlos and Eddie are the best men!

Ivy is one of Eliza's bridesmaids and Diego is one of the groomsmen on Hunter's side.

Her name was Eliza as a kid but now she preferred Elisa cause it sounded softer.

(@eahravinqueen and @descendants-extended helped me with this and are allowed to add in the comments. Anyone who thinks of any hobbies for Jim let me know).

[wickfur]

Favorite childhood Characters - Art Challenge!

I have started an Art challenge for myself where I draw all my favorite characters from childhood. The series/Movies and characters aren't really in any specific time frame per se, so it's a bunch of shows I saw as a kid and young teen.

It's a pretty long list that might become longer as I remember more shows, movies and characters. So editing of the list is a big probability. 😊 ✅ + Strikethrough = Have Drawn * (Crush) = A Character I had a crush on as a kid.

Here is my current list of Characters:

A Goofy Movie - Roxanne (Crush)

American dragon: Jake Long - Jake Long

Atlantis - Princess Kida (Crush) & Audrey & Helga

Bakugan Battle brawlers - Masquerade & Shun Kazami & Julie Makimoto

Bayblade - Ray Kon

Bleach - Tōshirō Hitsugaya (Crush) & Grimmjow (Crush) & Shirosaki (Ichigo's Hollow)

Brandy & mr Whiskers - Brandy & Lola Boa & Ed

Brother Bear - kenai & Koda & Denahi & Tuck & tanana

Chip and dale Rescue rangers - Chip & Gadget

Codename: Kids Next Door - Numbuh Five✅ & numbuh Four

Code Lyoko - Odd & Yumi

Danny Phantom - Danny Phantom / Fenton✅

Detective Conan - Kudo Shinichi & Kuroba Kaito

Dink the little dinosaur - Scat & Shyler & Flapper

Digimon Adventure - Tai & Agumon

Digimon Data Squad - Marcus & Agumon / Keenan Crier & falcomon

Digimon Tamers - Rika Nonaka & Renamon & Gulimon

Digimon Adventure 2 - Kari & Gatomon / Digimon Emperor & Kimeramon

Dino Riders - Youngstar & Turret (Crush) & Rasp✅

Ed Edd & Eddie - Double D

Emperors New Groove / School - Kuzco & Malina

Extreme Dinosaurs - haxx✅

Fairly Odd Parents -  Timmy Turner & Cosmo & Wanda

Fillmore - Fillmore / Joseph

Gargoyles - Brooklyn

Kid vs Kat - kat

Kim Possible - Shego (Crush) & Kim Possible

Kung fu Panda 2008 - Tigress

Land Before Time - Chomper

Lilo & Stitch - Stitch

Lion King - Kovu & Nuka

Lloyd in Space - Lloyd

Meet the Robinssons - Wilbur

Metal fight Beyblade - Kyoya tatsumi

Monsters inc - Randall

Naruto / Naruto Shippuden - Gaara (crush) & Hidan & Deidara

Nascasr Racers - Carlos

One Piece - Trafalgar Law & Sabo

Pokemon - Mewtwo & Lugia

Quack Pack - Huey

Recess - Spinelli / Ashley

Road to Eldorado - Miguel

Sonic X - Sonic the hedgehog & Rouge & Topaz & Cosmo

Space Jam - Lola bunny (Crush)✅

Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron - Spirit

SWAT Cats - “Razor” Jake Clawson

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - Donatelllo

The adventures of gummi bears - Augustus & Princess Calla & Gruffi & Cubbi

The Adventures of Zorro - Zorro & Tornado

The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy - Jack O'Lantern

The hunchback of Notre dame - Esmeralda (Crush)

The Legend of Tarzan - Queen La (Crush)✅

The Rescuers Down Under - Jake & Joanna

Timon & Pumba/ Lion King - Timon

Treasure Planet - Jim & Amelia (Crush)

Troll Tales - Pigge

Winne the Pooh - Ior✅

Xiaolin Showdown - Jack Spicer

Yu-Gi-Oh - Yami Yugi

Yu-Gi-Oh GX - Jaden Yuki & Yubel

Yu-Gi-Oh 5D’s - Yusei Fudo & Crow Hogan

Characters I've drawn so far:

Space Jams - Lola Bunny (crush)

Code name: Kids Next Door - Numbuh Five

Danny Phantom - Danny Phantom

The Legend of Tarzan - Queen la (Crush)

Extreme Dinosaurs - Haxx

Winne the Pooh - Ior

Dino Riders - Rasp