#and got her on 50/50! five pulls after her i got (my third) jean. like wow... the luck... anyway im skimming through natlan quests and ofc

[aliceindykeland]

can't believe i reinstalled genshin after 4 or so months only... only intended to come back when they release snezhnaya urgh.

[laviethepooh]

Y'ALL WON'T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED

with my 17 wishes, i felt like i was prepared to get albedo but i knew for a fact that i was screwed if i lost the 50/50.

i played it safe with my favorite ritual which is when you get your latest five star and then go to jean's seat, do their skill and burst and then sit in her chair and pull. i proceeded to do that with keqing :D

so i did 3 single pulls because i heard that it's better to do those once you've reached soft pity and it went gold on the third

IT WAS MONA-

so i got mad and then proceeded to killed her by accident, whoopsie- but i got her burst up because i had like 14 pulls left right? why not do it again

and from the same place i heard about the single pulls, i was told that a ten pull would be best. i mean, at least i had guaranteed so it was worth a chance.

AT ZERO FUCKING PITY I GOT ALBEDO

i'm literally so happy rn i can't even comprehend what happened-

also this happened like an hour ago i just needed a long time to take it all in SKJSKJSD

i screen recorded everything so if y'all want the vid even tho the audio is super corrupted bc my computer can't handle it, i'll put it here after i fix it up :D

[spicykoreantatertots]

With love, from J

Pairing: Jungkook x Female Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating: G

Genres: College AU, Roommates to Lovers, Fluffy Fluffy Fluff

Summary:  A beautiful bouquet of peonies are left on your doorstep, the only problem is, you don’t know who they’re from.

Warnings: none! this is just sweet fluff. 

A/N: It’s finally here! This piece is a gift for Ashley aka: @taehyungforreal​! I was honestly stunned when I found out that you were my Secret Admiree! I’ve been such a huge fan of your work for a while now and it’s such an honor to write for you. This is currently a very G rated, but I am toying with the idea of doing a smutty one shot down the line. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Thank you to everyone who helped me with this fic and encouraged me along the way: @ho-baebae​ @lovely-literati​.

~~~~~~~

Trudging up the stairs to your third floor apartment, you can't help but wonder if the $50 a month discount is worth all the extra effort. Especially when your backpack is full of Thicc text books. But at least tonight you don't have to leave again. It's Roomie Night.

Roomie Night is a tradition started way back when you and Jungkook first started living together. The two of you had been in the same group of friends since Freshman year, but weren't very close. But when it was time to leave the dorm, and both of you needed a place, you ended up together. In an effort to get to know him better, you proposed Roomie Night. Once a week the two of you set aside time to eat dinner and hang out with each other.

The idea worked, because now Jungkook is one of your closest, if not best friend. Tonight, Jungkook is bringing home takeout from the Chinese place you love and you've rented some action thriller that he's been dying to see. Should be a really fun night if you can make it up these stairs.

When you do reach the landing, you spot something outside your front door. Peonies? A whole bouquet of them in a beautiful purple vase. They must be from your mom, it is almost Valentine's day after all.

You unlock the door and pick up the vase to bring inside. Peonies have been your favorite flower since you were a child. You had spent many afternoons with your Grandmother as she tended to her flower garden. She often told you what each flower represented and Peonies represent good fortune and a happy marriage. Two things your Grandmother had, and two things you desperately wanted.

After losing the heavy backpack, you pull the card out of the Peonies. It simply says, "With love, from J.”

"From J?" you muse out loud to yourself. Could it be... Could they be from Jungkook? You had never seriously entertained the idea of dating your roommate. Not because he isn't gorgeous. He is. Not because he isn't sweet and caring. He is. Not because he doesn't have a great sense of humor. He does. Wait a second, so why haven't you considered him an option??

But wait, these just say, "from J." Maybe it isn't Jungkook. You don't call him J, nobody does. So maybe it's from someone else? You snap a picture and send it to another friend of yours, Seokjin. 

You: any idea who these could be from??

Seokjin: are they from Jungkook?? how many times do i have to tell you to get on the Jungkook train Y/N???

Seokjin: theoretically they could be from Jimin, but i'm pretty sure he's got a thing for Taehyung...

Seokjin: wait what's that guy you were flirting with at work??

You: Jackson!! Omg... maybe it was him... he did ask if i had a valentine this year, but i thought he was just making small talk

Seokjin: only one way to find out

You: wait until someone comes forward so i don't have to awkwardly put myself out there :|

Seokjin: right...

~~~~~~~

Jungkook drags himself up the stairs, legs weak from his intense workout. His long dark hair is damp with sweat. Chinese food in hand, he walks through the door to see you texting away at the kitchen counter.

"Hey how's it going?" The soft smile blush on your face confuses him slightly, he wonders who you're texting.

"Oh it's going." Jungkook walks toward you, setting your dinner down on the counter. "Are you going to shower before we eat, I can smell you over the take out." You laugh and he knows you're kidding. He loves the sound of your laugh...

"I'll shower, you can go ahead and eat, I won't be long." Jungkook goes to the bathroom to start the shower before he walks off toward his bedroom down the hall. He's still thinking about who you're texting, who is making you smile like that. It should be him.

As he picks out some clean clothes he can't help but think about how badly he wants to be with you, but he can't bring himself to cross the boundary from friends and roommates to something more.

In the bathroom, the steam is rising from the shower and Jungkook is so ready to get into the hot shower. He opens the cabinet for a towel, but doesn't find any.

"Y/N! Where are all the towels?" Jungkook calls from the bathroom.

"In a basket in my room, I was gonna put them up later!" You call back to him, mouth full of noodles.

Jungkook slips out of the bathroom and moves quickly to your bedroom to grab a towel. He finds the full basket near your desk where he also notices a large bouquet of pink flowers. His heart stops for a second when he reads the card placed next to them.

From J? Who got you those flowers? Valentine's Day is around the corner and Jungkook realizes he might be too late. He may have already missed his chance to be with you.

~~~~~~~

Empty take out cartons litter the coffee table, the credits from the movie are rolling, but you can't move. You're afraid to move even an inch because Jungkook's head is in your lap. He fell asleep before the first explosion even happened. At first he was just resting his head on your shoulder, but in his sleepy state he eventually made it down to your lap.

You gently brush his hair out of his face and you can admire his beauty. God is he beautiful. The way his nose curves, the sharp edge of his jaw line, each of his cute little moles - all handcrafted by God himself.

Your fingers are still absentmindedly stroking through his locks. The motion of it slowly wakes him.

"Hello sleepy head." You smiled down at him. He quickly sits up and rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

"So how did it end?" He looks back at you. God how did things change so quickly? Because all you want to do right now is kiss him on his perfect mouth. "The movie? Did they vanquish the evil doers?"

"Oh! Yeah yeah, they all exploded and the hero got back in time for his wedding."

"So all was well." He hums to himself. He'll probably watch the movie again later. He can never stay awake when he eats that much food. "So listen... next week Roomie Night is on Valentine's Day..."

Your stomach twists. Is this it, is he about to ask you out? He looks around the room before looking back at you. All you can do is hope that the blush on your face isn't too obvious in the dim lighting.

"Are you planning to..." He starts, shakes his head, tries again. "Are you gonna have a Valentine this year?" Why would he ask that now if he already bought you flowers, they must not be from him.

~~~~~~~

He reads your face carefully for a reaction. He's put it all on the line, he's got to know who the flowers are from. He waits for you to answer, but the longer you wait the more he realizes you must be trying to find a way to break the news to him.

You must be seeing someone.

"I'm not... expecting anything. If that's what you mean." What do you mean by that? Where did the flowers come from? God he should just ask you. But he can't bring himself to do it.

"Okay, so Roomie Night is on just like always?" He grins, starting to clean up the mess from dinner.

"Just like always." You return his smile, but it doesn't quite meet your eyes. Jungkook is still so unsure about what's going on inside that beautiful mind of yours.

~~~~~~~

Both you and Jungkook have full time course loads and part time jobs, so you don't see each other everyday. You don't really get to see him again until four days after Roomie Night. The two of you are going to be meeting up with your friends for dinner and game night at Namjoon's apartment.

You're waiting, sitting on the couch while Jungkook is getting ready. You're scrolling through your twitter feed when you hear the door open.

Jungkook walks out, shirtless. H-has he always had abs like that? He's towel drying his hair as he walks down the hall to his bedroom. The lean muscles on his back lead down to his slim waist. You hope he didn't notice you staring.

~~~~~~~

Once he's fully dressed and his hair is mostly dry, Jungkook joins you in the living room. He's wearing black jeans and his favorite Nirvana shirt covered by his denim jacket.

"It's pretty nice out for February, wanna just walk?" Jungkook shows you the temperature from his weather app, clear skies and it's almost 60 degrees.

"Sounds good. Got the keys." You respond, getting up from the couch. He watches you grab your coat and open the door, turning the lock from the inside. 

"Let's go!"

The walk to Namjoon's apartment flies by. It's about five blocks away, but the time he spends with you always seems to move too quickly. He could honestly listen to you complain about customers from work all day long. And you listen intently as he talks about the latest album he's listening to. The way you giggle when he tells a dumb joke makes his heart soar.

Your cheeks are rosy from the cool wintery breeze that blows the hair out of your face. Jungkook is pretty sure God is playing a cruel joke on him, or maybe it's just a sign. A sign that you are meant to be his.

~~~~~~~

When you arrive at Namjoon's place, Seokjin is in the kitchen finishing up dinner with the help of Jimin. Taehyung is setting the table and Namjoon is in the living area looking through his extensive collection of board games.

Before too long, the six of you are around the dinner table, Jungkook by your side as always. His energy does feel a little bit different tonight though. Maybe it's just wishful thinking, but it does feel like he's looking over at you a lot. And he's laughing at everything you say. And maybe he's sitting a little closer to you than he has to.

After dinner, you help Seokjin wash the dishes while the other boys set up Clue. A classic.

"Okay listen he's totally into you. The flowers have to be from him." Seokjin whispers so that no one can hear him over the sound of the faucet.

"Jin! You can't just say things like that!" You whisper back at him.

"I'm not just saying it! God Y/N! How did you not see the way he was looking at you during dinner?" You look over your shoulder and see Jungkook play fighting with Taehyung. He's smiling, he's happy, and suddenly he's looking back at you.

~~~~~~~

Were you just looking at him? Jungkook lets Taehyung out of his grasp and stares back at you until you turn back to the sink. Taehyung punches Jungkook's arm, regaining his attention.

"What was that all about?" Taehyung glances over at you.

"Nothing." Jungkook tries to shut down his friend's snooping. "I don't know what you're talking about.

"Okay so we're just gonna pretend like you weren't in your own little Y/N-loving world during dinner then?"

"He's right." Jimin chimes in from his seat at the table and that's when Jungkook notices Namjoon is listening too. "You two would be great together, you should just go for it." Jimin continues. Jungkook looks to Namjoon for his thoughts.

"Based on both of your body language, I think there might be something there." Namjoon states matter-of-factly. Jungkook gives one last longing look in your direction before he put Taehyung back in a chokehold.

~~~~~~~

"Alright the game is Clue and to make it a little more interesting we are going to be playing in teams. Me and Jimin, Taehyung and Jin, and Jungkook and Y/N." You look over at Namjoon, but he is busying himself with shuffling the cards.

Throughout the rest of the night, Jin kicks you under the table anytime Jungkook does something that could be even slightly flirtatious. Every laugh, every smile, every secretive whisper in your ear that sends a chill down your spine.

When the two of you decide it's time to Make the Accusation, Jungkook stands dramatically. He looks around the room before proclaiming that it was, in fact, Professor Plum with the Dagger in the Library.

After checking the envelope and announcing your team's victory, you jump up and wrap your arms around Jungkook. He doesn't hesitate to return the hug and judging by the smug look on Seokjin's face, the hug lasted a little too long.

"Good game everyone!" You shout, suddenly embarrassed. "I guess it's getting kind of late, we should get going since we walked." You're now speaking to just Jungkook and he nods in response.

~~~~~~~

The walk back to your shared apartment is a little bit more awkward than Jungkook would have hoped. The temperature has dropped significantly and he can hear your teeth chattering. But your hands are hanging by your side rather than in your pockets. Maybe you want him to grab your hand.

"Do you have work tomorrow night?" He asks you, thinking maybe he'll finally have the courage to ask you out.

"Nope I'm free!" You turn and look up at him slightly, your pace slowing down. Jungkook takes a deep breath.

"Do you maybe wanna..." He starts, but he second guesses himself. Why would a girl like you wanna go out with him when you've clearly already got an admirer. He lets out a frustrated sigh. "Maybe we could study together then?"

"Yeah sure sounds great."

~~~~~~~

You thought that was it, you thought he was going to ask you out, especially after the fun night the two of you had with your friends. The chill of the night is starting to really set in as the two of you approach your apartment. Trying your best to not sound out of breath, you wait for Jungkook to unlock the door.

"What are you waiting for?" Jungkook motions toward the door.

"Well you're the one with the keys." You retort, ready to be inside.

"No! When we left you said you had the keys." You look up at him, confused.

"No... I was asking if you got the keys! So neither of us have keys?" You groan, slapping the palm of your hand against your face. "It's COLD!"

~~~~~~~

Jungkook calls the emergency maintenance line for the apartment complex to have them bring a spare key.

"It'll be about fifteen minutes." He puts his phone back in his pocket. He can see you shivering in the dim lighting of the walkway. After some silence he adds, "I'm sorry."

"It's not totally your fault... I guess." You exhale with a chuckle, music to his ears. You close the distance between the two of you and Jungkook almost gasps when you nuzzle your nose in his jacket.

"It's so cold." Your voice is muffled and he almost can't make out what you said. He wraps his arms around you to try and help warm you up. And this feels so right. You belong in his arms, he's sure of it.

The two of you stand like this for a few minutes, really he wasn't counting, but he does feel you pull away after a while. Before he can be too disappointed, he hears people climbing up the stairs. Your neighbors, Yoongi and Hoseok are coming home from what looks like a shopping trip.

~~~~~~~

"Hey guys." You stuttered behind your chattering teeth. You're feeling the cold all over again after you peeled yourself off of Jungkook.

"What's up?" Yoongi asks, probably wondering what the two of you are doing standing outside in the cold. "Locked out?"

Both you and Jungkook nod in response. Hoseok offers to let the two of you in while you wait for the maintenance man, but you turn him down, he should be here any minute now. Before going into the apartment, Hoseok turns back.

"Have either of you seen a bouquet of Peonies anywhere?" Your stomach turns upside down. "I ordered some for Yoongi, they're his favorite. They were supposedly delivered, but they weren't here when we got home."

"Oh yeah, they were delivered to our door by mistake." You've never been so mortified, especially considering Jungkook is here watching this unfold. "They're my favorite flowers too, so I thought they must be from..." You pause, not wanting to keep that train of thought going.

"See Yoongi! I told you I ordered you flowers!" Hoseok calls into the apartment. Yoongi pokes his head back out.

"I'll bring them over when we get in. Oh but, the card said that they were "from J?" Hoseok blushes in response to your question.

"That's one of my nicknames for him..." Yoongi winks at you before they both retreat to the warmth of their apartment.

~~~~~~~

"So who did you think the flowers were from?" Jungkook teased. He was beyond relieved to know that the flowers weren't actually for you. Relieved that maybe he still had a chance with you. You roll your eyes at him, but Jungkook notices some sadness in them.

Before he gets the chance to say anything else, the maintenance worker comes to let the two of you in. Jungkook watches as you head straight to your room. He lingers in the kitchen, waiting for you to come out with the peonies. 

“So are peonies really your favorite?” Jungkook asks.

“Not another word Jeon.” You announce as you leave the apartment with the bouquet. The flowers are just beginning to wilt, hopefully Yoongi will still like them. In the silence of the apartment, Jungkook decides it’s time you get some peonies that are actually meant for you. 

~~~~~~~

When you come home from class the next day, your ascent to your apartment brings back all the embarrassment from the night before. At least this time you have your keys. 

You are surprised to see that Jungkook beat you home, he’s rummaging around in the pantry for something to eat. Usually he stays late to work out at the rec center after class. Jungkook stops when he hears you enter. 

“Hi.” He says shortly, wearing a big contagious grin. 

“Hi?” You repeat back to him, hanging up your coat and bag near the door. 

“Wait here.” Jungkook saunters off down the hall.

“Okay?” You reply, slightly confused. What is he up to?

From his bedroom, Jungkook emerges with a large bouquet of pale pink peonies. You cover your face with your hands and laugh to yourself. There is no way he went out and bought peonies for you. 

“These are for you.” You uncover your eyes and look up at Jungkook’s radiant smile one more time before looking at the flowers. The petals look so soft and you reach out to touch them. Then you notice a card sticking out. The card says, ��With love, from J(ungkook).”

“They’re beautiful.” You try to speak through your laughter. Feeling emboldened by his gesture, you tilt your head up to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“Listen... I was thinking. Maybe we should cancel Roomie Night.” Jungkook is blushing, his hand resting back behind his head. “We could call it Date Night instead?”

“Date night?” You smile. “I like the sound of that.”

~~~~~~~

Happy Bouquet Day sweetie! Sorry I posted a bit late in the day, but I hope you enjoyed it! @taehyungforreal​

[dontshootmespence]

Its Simplicity

Summary: After a chance meeting at a bookstore, Y/N and Spencer find themselves surprised again.

Words: 1,657

Warnings: Gross fluff.

A/N: My next entry for @cmbingo​ 2020! This fulfills my neighbors au square.

“My legs feel like lead,” Piper mumbled, following behind you with a giant moving box in her grasp.

It had to be your fifth trip up the stairs to your new second floor apartment, but it was worth it. Until you started your new job money was tight so you weren’t about to hire movers for something you and Piper could do - slowly but surely that is.

“Why didn’t you get movers?” She bitched. Her bitchy and whiney were very similar and you couldn’t help but laugh.

Backing into the door, you pushed it open and dropped the next box onto the floor before flopping onto the one piece of furniture you’d managed to get up the steps so far - the ottoman for your reading chair. “Because it’s a lot of money. I’m not rolling in it you know.”

“But I’m in pain,” she whined. “Can we at least take a break?”

You mumbled in response, though it was practically drowned out by the raucous gargling of your stomach. “Yes, we need food. Crappy Kraft?”

Somehow you managed to move your seemingly weighed down body off the ottoman and toward the kitchen, bare now, but would hopefully resemble a 50s style diner once you were finished. Dream kitchen. You grabbed a pot out of one of the boxes in the kitchen and boiled some water before pouring in a disgusting three boxes worth of Kraft Mac and Cheese. Triple bypass in no time.

“Okay, so tell me about the boy? How come you haven’t gone on another date? I feel like a matchmaker. I need details.” Piper got hyper when she talked about your dating life.

Spencer said he’d call when he could, but right after he did, he got called away on a case for work. He’d texted sporadically, but you hadn’t heard from him in half a day or so. Apparently, the case was harder to solve than he originally thought. “There’s not much to say other than what I told you about the bookstore,” you laughed. No one in the world could replace Piper, she was your one and only bestie for all of time, but occasionally you did like keeping things to yourself. “We’ve texted a few times since but he’s busy with work so he said he’d call when he gets back.”

Heavy footsteps told you someone else was coming up the stairs and Piper had left her box of your stuff outside the door. “Sorry about the box outside. Moving in! I’ll get it out of your way!”

You ran to the door while the water came to a boil only to see a familiar face. “Spencer!”

“Y/N? What are you doing here?”

An almost painful smile spread across your face. “Moving in. This is my new place.” 

Piper came running to the door, all traces of exhaustion from before gone from her face. “This is Spencer? Wait, you live here too? Oh my god, how cute is this.”

“Piper, Spencer. Spencer, this is my best friend Piper.”

“So you’re the one that peer pressured her into speed dating?”

“The one and only. I’m a matchmaker.” She glanced back and saw the water boiling. “Oh, I got this. You do your thing.”

As she ran off to prepare your shitty mac and cheese, Spencer laughed. “She reminds me of my friend Penelope. Also fancies herself a matchmaker.” A light-hearted silence fell between you for a moment before he pointed to the apartment across the hall. “That’s my place.”

“This is hysterical,” you said, almost unbelievingly. “Well, it’ll be easier for us to plan dates this way.”

“Speaking of, I just got home from a case. Would you want to grab dinner tonight?”

Piper screamed a resounding yes from the kitchen, which made you go beat red. “I would’ve said yes, too,” you laughed. “You going to rest for a little while? I can only imagine the case you had if it’s been five days.”

“I desperately need some sleep. Then I’ll read a book or two.”

“Show off.”

“Sorry,” he replied, thinking he overstepped.

You shook your head. “Spencer, I was kidding. I think it’s amazing, I’m just jealous.”

“Oh,” he chuckled nervously. “I have a hard time with social cues.”

“It’s okay. They’re annoying, I know. Maybe read The Graveyard Book so you can give it to me at dinner.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Sweet dreams, Spencer. I’m about to go eat my weight in Kraft Mac and Cheese and unpack boxes.”

He yawned and excused himself. “That sounds amazing. We should do that sometime. Eat our weight in mac and cheese.”

“It’s a date.”

                                                              ----

Later that night, after convincing Piper that she could not in fact be your third wheel, you met up with Spencer...by opening your doors. “That was easy,” you giggled. “You get a good nap?”

“I slept for four hours. It was amazing.”

He still looked a little sleepy, but much happier and more comfortable, his muscles slack and his outfit more breezy. From what you imagined, he wore suits and similar formal wear to work, but now he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a black blazer on top. God, he was cute. You wanted to kiss him. “So where do you want to eat? You know the food around here.”

“There’s a Thai place down the block that has some amazing pad thai. Especially if you like spice.”

“I love spice!” You replied, immediately excited.

Talking with Spencer was effortless. You could indulge your inner and outer nerd; just able to be completely and utterly yourself, which was rare. Normally, you had to put on some type of pretenses with everyone. 

At the restaurant, Spencer told you about the case, though not in too much detail, for both him and you. “I just don’t want to put those images in your head, you know?”

You nodded, handing the menus back to the waiter after placing your order. “I get that. Just know that going forward, as long as this goes forward, you don’t always have to shoulder the crap you deal with alone.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, placing his hand over yours.

The somber moment lingered for a few more seconds, but then he switched the subject, asking about your childhood and your relationships with your family. Given his genius, child prodigy status, you imagined his childhood was less idyllic than yours and he was living through you. Then you ordered pad thai that was just a little too hot for you and you both devolved into uncontrollable laughter as you fanned your mouth and begged the waiter for some milk to quench the Sahara desert on your tongue. “Some dessert might also help soothe the burn,” the waiter suggested.

“You had me at dessert, Sir,” you said unabashedly. “I’ll have the mango sticky rice.”

“Same for me,” Spencer replied. The waiter walked away, giggling under his breath about the woman who couldn’t tolerate spice. “You feeling better?” He asked. “I thought you said you love spice.”

“I do! I’m just not great with it.”

Thankfully, the mango sticky rice soothed the remainder of the burn in your throat and then Spencer picked up the bill. You asked to go half and half, but he insisted the first real date be on him and from here on out you could go Dutch. “Do you know where the phrase ‘going Dutch’ comes from?” He continued excitedly when you shook your head. “The origin of the phrase ‘to go Dutch’ is traced back to the 17th century when England and the Netherlands fought constantly over trade routes and political boundaries. The British use of the term ‘Dutch’ had a negative connotation for because the Netherlanders were said to be stingy.”

“That’s actually really interesting. You know I actually thought about going into linguistics at one point, but I loved reading as a whole too much to focus on words rather than stories as a whole.”

Spencer’s credit card was returned and you got up to leave, your fingers slipping back into his own. “I actually work with a linguist right now named Alex Blake. I think you two would get along.”

“She’s a Ph.D. too? Oh my god, please introduce me sometime. I’d love to nerd out with her.” The walk back to the apartment complex was easy and transportive, your conversation bringing you back to childhood - in its simplicity. 

You’d been up and down the stairs a million times today, so the walk up hurt you more than it did him. “My body is going to ache in the morning,” you laughed, leaning up against him outside your door. You didn’t even realize you were doing it until you pulled away. 

When you met his gaze again, you saw something different than before. “You’re gonna kiss me, aren’t you?”

Spencer smiled and leaned forward, angling your mouth toward his. Your lips touched tentatively before you moved in closer, placing your hand on the side of his neck. He pulled away, his mouth tightening into that kind of smile where you’re trying not to grin like an idiot and failing. 

“You have nice lips. Do that again.”

Some time passed, how much you weren’t sure, but you only stopped when you heard other footsteps coming your way. “So, you think you might want another date?” He asked, his voice soft and dreamy. 

“Definitely. Do you have work tomorrow?”

“As of right now, no.”

“Wanna come over tomorrow morning and do breakfast? I have to unpack a lot still, but I make killer blueberry pancakes.”

“Looking forward to it. Eight o’clock?”

“Sounds good,” you replied, swallowing hard as he pulled away to return to his own apartment. “I’ll text you if anything changes with work.”

You nodded and grabbed your keys, hearing the jingle of Spencer’s own as you both opened your doors, glancing back toward each other with simultaneous smiles.

[slothgiirl]

gonna put you off (alex turner oneshot)

alex turner/age difference!reader oneshot in which you are visiting your boyfriend in london from the midlands

You take the last train of the night down to london. Traces of stage makeup still clinging to your skin as you collapse into the seat, a few days clothes tucked into a duffle bag with the tackiest floral print you'd though was chic when you'd seen it at a thrift shop, but had been on many flights with you since, sticking out among a sea of black and navy. As the clock strikes eleven, feeling very much like cinderella as you wipe the remains of the makeup away, the train whizzes past dark countryside, too dark to make out anything. 

In two hours you'd be in London. In two hours you'd be with Alex again. You're still wearing a leotard under your many layers of leggings and sweatpants topped with a turtleneck, flannel, and jacket--in that order. Not remotely like the fashionable girl you'd felt having been dressed by Simone Rocha. It helped that you'd been dressed. 

After years in ballet, most of your wardrobe consisted of warm and practical cotton clothes to shepard you to and from rehearsal. You couldn't give a damn about what you were wearing when you were waking up before sunrise. You'd much rather be warm and not pull a muscle thank you very much. At some point, somewhere in the midlands, you fall asleep. Exhausted to the bone from a weeks worth of shows and only three days to recover. Though you'd probably fit in a few hours of practice during your stay with Alex. 

The announcement for King's Cross wakes you up, a crick in your neck from napping while sitting. You scramble to stuff your headphones into your pocket and grab your bag as you hurry to get off. It's past one in the morning. There's no crowds for you to push through in order to depart, but the sleep-full grogginess gives way to electric anticipation. You have to force yourself not to run off the train. Because Alex. 

You'd seen him just last week. 

He was coming up to Birmingham this week. 

But it didn't matter. You couldn't deny the giddy happiness that you get at the thought of your boyfriend. It was so different from the calm resolve that made you dance for ten hours. Or the serene delight when you twirled about on stage, the heat of the lights blinding you to the audience leaving only room for perfection, one step at a time. 

Just as the train is mostly empty. So it the platform. 

So is the station. 

It's easy to spot Alex, in dark jeans and an equally dark leather jacket, a bouquet of roses in his arms. 

You suck in a breathe, consciously having to stop yourself from speed walking as a smile breaks out on your lips. This is a perfect day in your eyes. "Alex," you tell him, still a couple of steps away. 

His gaze mets yours, the grin on his well formed mouth complimenting yours, as Alex wraps his arms around you and wow is the station freezing. You hug him right back, not caring that you're in public when you reach up to cup his cheek, pressing your lips to his, savoring the taste of him in your mouth. 

" 'ello love," he whispers against your lips. "I take it you had a good show?"

"It was great," you admitt, hands around his neck as you lean back and drink the sight of Alex in. Unlike you, he definitely got enough sleep last night. You've probably been awake for sixteen hours at this point. "but I won't lie. I'm looking forward to these three days off."

Alex laughs. "I brought you flowers," he notes with too much casualty as pink sneaks its way into his cheeks. But he doesn't make to pull away, and the flowers are much forgotten in his grip as you gaze into each others eyes. 

"Thank you," you reply, the happiness bubbling up into your voice. 

"Do ya wanna get outta here," he asks, smile shifting into as smirk as his dark eyes full of the nights promise meet yours. 

"Yes please," you demure, unable to help yourself and add, "I need more tubs of tiger balm than you use of gel right about now."

Alex takes your bag, letting you carry the bouquet as you both get a cab to his flat. His hand never leaving yours. 

** *

Your ballet friend's older cousin, who'd bought alcohol for you both when you were still in high school and incredibly sleep deprived trying to juggle school and dance, works for some company that does PR for a couple of fashion brands. You're not really sure about all the connections, but when she hears you're moving to England--England not London-- she sends you a dm. 

Want to go to fashion week. 

You think Julia might have told her about your plans for after ballet, because as much as yo loved dancing and it was your career right now, like with most sports, it wasn't a long career. But again, you're not sure and seeing as she offered and you don't know anyone else in the entire country, you reply yes. Twenty isn't that young of an age to leave home at. There's lots of ballet stories about young kids leaving at 11 or 13. It isn't any less daunting to leave everyone you know behind. But Birmingham meant a job contract, a steady job. A rarity in dance. 

So you somehow find yourself sitting third row at Simone Rocha, filling in the seats behind celebrities and Anna Wintour. It's like something out of a dream. You wear a dress from the last collection that's worth more than your paycheck and try not to spill anything on it as you get invited by the man sitting next to you, Pierre with three dangly earrings in one ear, skin as rich as creme brulee's crust.

He takes one look at you and says, "new?"

You laugh, caught like a fish out of water, "yeah. I'm still not sure how they even let me in."

"Because you're a size 0," he jokes, which isn't true but you have that toned look that makes you appear slim, exchanging instagram's before the show, then taking you out for a night on the town like you're the latest it bag. It's nice. And easy. You drink beer, and make faces, trying not to think about how awful you'll feel in the morning. You meet writers and buyers, head spinning as you network between drinks and house music, feeling wobbly in heels the way you never would in pointe shoes. Pierre takes you out on the dance floor, where models tower over you. 

Photographs don't do them justice. But instead of feeling insecure the way all those carefully edited selfies do, you just appreciate the edge they each have. The perfect girl next door, all heart shaped face. The perfect cold scandinavian poise, every feature perfectly complimenting each other and poreless HD skin that no amount of makeup could hope to achieve. Like you, having put years into making dancing on pointe seem effortless and painless, they've just perfected their natural beauty. 

And being five one means you have no hopes of being a model. 

Pierre grins shamelessly after making eyes with some photographer in a sequined blazer in some Bahaman themed club, over his latest cocktail, "do hit me up," before disappearing into the crowd. 

You snort into your drink, trying not to feel out of depth. 

In three days you'll be back to your usual routine, settled in at a new studio. Seattle had been home for so long, had been where you first wore pointe shoes and learned to bang the sound out of the wood, smacking each pair of shoes as you all groaned about the piles of homework waiting for you at home.  

You should go. 

Another man slides into the space Pierre had left behind. He's handsome in a classically english way, hair quiffed like some 50s greaser or maybe you'd just thought the 50s were exactly how Grease depicted them. Either way, hot. Unlike most people out and about in during fashion week, his outfit isn't outrageous, trying to attract street style photographers, or a fit for the gram. 

But there's still something sharp about his well fitted blazer and carmine dress shirt,  confidently wearing sunglasses indoors. 

He catches you looking, and without missing a beat, you lie, "sorry my friend ran off with some guy and I was waiting to see if I'd been ditched or not."

You play it off, trying to sound cool and not like you are completely lost and contemplating going home before one in the morning like a loser. You'd already missed out on house parties to the nutcracker and swan lake. You weren't about to let this night go to waste just because you didn't know anyone. 

He smiles, taking a drink from his whiskey, the line of his shoulders relaxing. 

Maybe he thought you were some fangirl. 

There were plenty of famous people here who probably wanted to avoid being hounded while they were just trying to party. 

"Do ya want another drink," he asks, nodding at your empty glass. 

"Sure," you reply lamely. It's not so surprising when he leads you of the club, your hand in his. "So its your fist day in london," Alex parrots, glancing back at you, just to make sure. 

"Yeah," you nod, grinning like an idiot and it wasn't just the alcohol in your bloodstream. Alex's smile could make any girl weak in the knees, you were sure of it. Plus that swagger. You finally understood the meaning of swagger. "Got of plane a couple of hours ago. haven't even seen Buckingham palace."

"No," he shakes his head. 

"I'm serious. I had to head straight to Rocha and get my outfit and makeup done. First time getting my makeup done actually. Found out I've been doing my foundation wrong for years," you ramble on, internally wincing. No one wanted to hear about foundation especially not men you'd only met an hour ago. And Alex was definitely a man, not like the boys you'd gone to high school with and laughed when your health teacher went over a diagram of a vagina. "so no, I haven't seen any london-y things."

"Well we can't have that," Alex utters, flagging a cab down habitually, somehow lighting a cigarette at the same time. 

"To Buckingham Palace through Piccadilly Circus," he tells the cab driver as you both slid in. "Traffic'll be hell though."

"The company's not bad," you comment, watching as his eyes crinkle up from laughter. It softens the line of his face, revealing the baby face beneath the pomade and gel. 

"So what brings you to london," he asks. 

"Work," you admit, your gaze leaving Alex for the first time since you'd laid eyes on him as you watch the city go by. It's a slow crawl as you hit the center of London, views you recall from movies, "Birmingham National Ballet offered me a contract.  I'd be stupid not to have said yes. So I'm just in London for a few days."

"In a very nice dress," Alex says, voice thick in a way that has blood pooling in the pit of your stomach. 

"In a very expensive dress," you add, "that I made sure to take lots of selfies in earlier before I have to return it tomorrow. 

"So ya dance for the posh people."

"Yes," you groan, "and no one thinks it's a real job. Or sport!"

Alex chuckles, smirking, "I've watched Black Swan. I know it's fookin' hard." "2009 was a very good year for ballet." Granted you were too young for anything other than the child parts in The Nutcracker, but still. "What about you?"

He's about to reply, the lights of Piccadilly Circus, still full of life at one in the morning, filling your eyes, when the cabbie interrupts. 

"He's in the arctic monkeys," the cabbie says, taking his eyes off the road. You peel your gaze off the window and turn back to Alex, and his admittedly expensive attire, "Oh so you're actually famous famous?"

He looks down bashfully, nothing like the confident greaser air he put on, "ya could say 'that." 

"Would I have heard-"

"One of our songs," Alex continues, "probably. Me mate says we're properly overplayed now."

"Well you're no One Direction," you counter, teasingly. 

You spend the rest of the night making out in front of Buckingham Palace's fountain, before you invite Alex back to yours. 

** *

Alex laughs as you peel off another layer, laying on his bed, only to uncover another moth eaten sweater. It was annoying when all you wanted was Alex's hips against yours. "Patience love," he manages, but you can hear the want in his voice. 

"Don't be an ass," you counter, "or I'll suddenly remember how tired I am." In response, his lips meet yours, shoving back any intention of sleep away as your skin burns with want, his tongue exploring your mouth, hands abandoning any pretense in favor of shoving your sweatpants down.

"Of course there's leggings," he half groans, half moans against your lips, breathlessly. 

You giggle, pulling your shirt off, "wait until we get to the leotard."

"Can't they have those buttons babies onesies have," Alex mutters, tugging off his shirt. 

"Would be awfully convenient," you admit. There was no sexy way to take a leotard off, but apparently no one had told Alex that, because his hands are helping you tug the leotard down your thighs, fingers leaving burning trails on your skin as he goes, sucking kisses down your neck. 

You moan, closing your eyes in bliss. 

" 'm genuinely surprised your not wearing of these things," he mutters against the crook of your neck. 

"Oh take your jeans off already for fucks sake," you retort, trying to act like your voice isn't all choked up. 

Alex chuckles, but does as you ask, his dark gaze meeting yours as he unbuttons his jeans painfully slow, sitting up between your thighs. It's hot and all, but you are horny. You're twenty, and so turned on, having lost your shoes in the hall. A coat in the living room. 

You reach for him, your hands deliberately brushing against his cock, before helping him tug them down his hips. 

"I'm flattered," Alex teases, voice hoarse. 

"Oh," you counter, when you finally get him out of his boxers, "I see, you think this is about you," you tell him, cupping his jaw as he presses down against you, his hips meeting yours, his fingers brushing against your core. And then you aren't thinking very clearly at all, pleasure taking over as Alex's nimble fingers elicit the most debauched moans out of your lips. 

Callused fingers slid into you as he nips at the skin of your collarbone, knowing exactly where the rub to make you see stars. Yours hands wrapped around his neck, keeping him close, wanting him and only him. And- "There. there there," you manage, aware of how wet you were, toes curling. 

His other hand digs into your hipbone, as you writhe beneath him. 

You whimper at the loss of his touch. At the loss of his fingers curling so deliciously inside you. 

You can feel how hard his cock is, on the inside of your thigh, wet with precum and your breath hitches when he enters you, Alex pressing his lips hard against yours, kissing you with all the passion and lust you'd both laughed around earlier, like it would take the sting of separation away, hand still wet with you as he twists his fingers in your hair.  

He's anything but patient as he trusts into you now, his body meeting yours. Your legs wrapping around his waist, that little extra in the angle as he thrusts into you, has you whimpering into his mouth. Your eyes flutter shut as you hold him near, his pace relentless. 

So. 

Worth. 

Taking. 

The. 

Midnight.  

Train. 

"come for me, love," Alex manages, voice cracking, lips bruising your own. The reunited with your long lost lover bruising kiss that you'd thought only existed in movies. 

You come with a shudder, exhausted, satisfied, in that afterglow, stars dancing across the back of your eyelids as you lean back limply into the bed. Alex coming seconds after, collapsing onto the other sider of the bed, spent. You don't care about anything after that. 

Having been awake for eighteen hours. 

A good fucking day. 

** *

You wake up to thirty six missed messages. Mostly from Pierre and Vivian, your fellow corps ballerina you'd told you where all the cheap AND good bars were in Birmingham were. 

They're all along the same lines. 

Links to articles like, "Black Swan for Arctic Monkeys Lead Man." Which okay, was a great movie. "Alex Turner New Flame Confirmed." Again, true. "Teenage Love for Arctic Monkeys Singer!" Which was fucking gross clickbait. You were twenty. Had been for months even if sometimes you felt much younger than that, like when you realized you had to buy pots and pans, they didn't just magically appear. 

And, "New Arctic Monkeys Album? Alex Turner All Loved Up." 

You rolled your eyes. 

For once you were up after sunrise. And after Alex which wasn't surprising. He rarely woke up before noon if it could be helped. 

You reply to Pierre, "officially a sugar baby now lmao [eye roll emoji]." 

And just heart some of the links Vivian sent you. You'd be seeing her soon enough. 

Nine years. Alex was nine years older than you, but it wasn't really something you thought about of ever really talked about. He was just Alex, your boyfriend, once he'd gotten back from tour and had spent more than three days all cooped up in your hotel room bed having the best three days of your life. It wasn't that big of a deal. Just something you hadn't specifically mentioned to your parents during your weekly facebook messenger video call. They would worry. Your mom would go on a rant. Your dad would definitely bring up how you should've gone to college before pursuing ballet and how this was supposed to have helped you get into a university not be a career.

And you'd have to keep them from taking a flight to the UK. 

Besides, your parents knew how to google people. They weren't dumb. Just worried about you living so far in general. 

Even you hadn't ever really thought about, it hadn't crossed your mind, to date someone so much older than you. Alex had a house. He had an established career. 

You couldn't even legally drink in the states. 

But after the initial shock of the band and his age, you'd fallen into easy conversation, ordering room service, Alex's lips at the apex of your thighs while waiting for a full english breakfast because you just had to see what that was about, and it had slid from the forefront of your thoughts. 

Now the tabloids had of course, decided to be an ass about it. 

You got up and slipped into the shower. The water steaming as you quickly got ride of last nights seat before heading downstairs, interested in what Alex had scrounged up for breakfast this time. 

Last time you were here, it'd been frozen waffles, an avocado, and margaritas. Alex is frying eggs as you take a seat on a barstool, watching him cook. You hated frying eggs. You could never get them to not stick to the pan.

"Matthew," Alex tells you as he plates the eggs along with toast and slices of tomatoes, "sent me a load of articles. 'fink they know who you are."

"Had to happen eventually," you respond, watching as a line forms between his brows. Maybe you should talk about the elephant of the room. Just because something didn't bother you didn't mean it wasn't bothering him. Though the whole famous thing in general annoyed him. "Pierre sent me some too. Though he works for some fashion website so he always sends me a bunch of things to read."

He'd also heavily hinted that should you ever decide to try being an influencer he'd love to get you in touch with small fashion brands. 

The man loved his Laquan Smith. 

Alex frowns as he takes a seat next to you. A set up you personally hated and never failed to bring up at least once while staying at his flat. How could you hold a conversation like this! face to face was the way to go. 

Trying to lighten the mood you joke, "I've been twenty since July."

He doesn't smile. Or reach for his food. Alex had the bad habit of just sitting, following his train of thought, as he lapsed into silence. And his thoughts didn't always lead anywhere good. 

If you thought that hard, you'd probably be depressed. It was a good thing you generally were too busy remembering counts and steps to think, and got home to tired to do much other than sleep.

"Alex, baby," you tell him, "who gives a shit what they think." 

"Ya ever 'fink," he says instead of shrugging it off, "about how when I was twenty ya were 11?"

"No," you answer plainly. It had crossed your mind once but-"Well I thought about it once," you tell him honestly, putting down you fork, "but what's the use thinking about it? I didn't know you then. It's not like your some family friend that knew me when I was five. That's fucked up."

Alex snorts, his eyes meeting yours. For once his hair isn't full of gel. Strands falling into his doe eyes. "Ya know what I'm trying to say...your-I'm. Nine is. . .I grew up with the strokes ya grew up with One Direction."

You reach for his hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, warmth spreading in your hearth when he squeezes your hand. "Nine is not a small gap. Or a huge one. It's not like your some fifty year old man dating a woman young enough to be his daughter."

This time he really does laugh. " 's true love but. . .don't ya want someone. . .I'm-I don't want you to miss out on doing what twenty year olds do."

You roll your eyes. "Alex you're also twenty not some grandfather. I'm not missing out on anything. It's not like we don't go out. And more importantly I want to be with you. Now let me eat my eggs before they get cold and rubbery."

"It's just. . .ya. . .," he turns his whole body so he's looking at you, even as you dig into your breakfast because you just knew if you kept talking about this Alex would just keep going in circles and your much rather eat and then fuck your boyfriend on the couch before wandering around london. Or curling up to watch telly. "ya sure-"

"Alex," you meet his gaze head on, "nine years isn't nothing, but it only really matters if you were rushing to have kids and get married or in some different stage of life which you're not. Fuck the tabloids. When have they ever been your friends."

Alex runs a hand through his hair thoughtfully and you finally start eating. Which okay, your boyfriend could fry an egg.  It was much better than the oatmeal you'd had for the past few days because you hadn't stopped by a store even though you lived a block from one. 

"I really love ya," Alex mutters softly. 

Out of natural instinct, you reply, while smashing some egg onto a slice of toast, "I love you too."

Then realize what he'd just said. What you'd just said, and look over at him all bug eyed. It was the first time you'd ever told a boy than. And it sent the same little thrill through you as kissing him in front of Buckingham Palace had. 

"Alex, I love you," you repeat just because you can, smiling softly over at him.  

"I haven't put ya off yet love?" Alex asks, smiling sappily over at you. 

"Never." You smile in response. 

[prorevenge]

My wannabe fashionista coworker always threw shade at me for being frumpy. She looked frumpier, unemployed!

TL;DR at the bottom

*******

I worked at a popular, high end clothing store while I was in graduate school (I'm an engineer). I won't name the brand, but it's the sort that charged $50 for a pair of male boxer briefs, $200 for a lady's fancy bra, or $400 or more for a pair of jeans, $1,000 or more for those skinny suits that hip guys wear to their job, where the hems of their pants reveal that they're wearing loafers without socks.

The clothes there weren't really my style but the starting pay was two dollars higher than minimum wage, and higher than most of the other, surrounding stores. This was at a rich people shopping center, where lots of people who shop there are wannabe celebrities and constant selfie-takers.

I was surprised to get hired there, but was relieved that I wouldn't have to really do customer service, as I worked only in the stock room. I'd put out clothes on the shelves and racks before and after closing, and also arrange everything in the back to make it organized. I was also trained so that in emergency situations I could cover register if we were short handed, so that the regular associates could go on break.

I was hardly seen by customers, but I still had to wear the clothes the store sold, to promote the image of the company. I didn't, thankfully, have to wear the dainty little suits, but I did sport the jeans and other casual things we sold.

It was a job. I didn't love it and I didn't hate it. I just worked, took my pay, went to school, and went home.

At least that's the way it was for two months.

After those two months, "Jessica" began to work during the same hours as me. She was about my age (I was 22), maybe twenty five, tops. She didn't work in the stock room (it was just me back there, with one or two other college guys), but worked the front. She wasn't the manager, or even a supervisor, but she SWORE she was in charge of me.

She made it known to everyone, even customers, that she graduated with an associates degree in fashion marketing from FIDM. I suppose it's a big deal but I was thinking girl if you're a college graduate why are you bragging about it as if it has something to do with you folding jeans and ringing people up at the register? She talked like she was fashion expert and in the "fashion industry," and would talk about the New York or Paris fashion weeks in a familiar way that implied that she just got of the plane after attending these events personally. You know the type, the kind that talks about famous fashion designers by their first name, as if they knew them.

Well she always criticized the way I wore the jeans because I didn't tuck in my T-shirt like the mannequin, or that I work Chuck Taylors on my feet instead of the little leather Sperry Topsiders knockoffs we sold for $300.

We were given a clothing allowance as employees. As a stockperson, I was allowed three complete outfits for free, everything from tops, to underear, to socks, and pants (but not shoes). If I wanted more and it was specifically for wearing at the store, I could mark it as a "uniform purchase" and have the price deducted from my check a little at a time. This was advantageous because they wouldn't charge you tax for them, and charge you only a third of the retail price.

Uniform Purchase was distinctly separate from "Store Discount," for which we also received a percentage off, but it wasn't the incredible 66% discount we got for uniform purchases.

Jessica would snicker at me when I took over register for someone, shake her head or roll her eyes at me as if I looked really ugly. I'm always thinking, whatever girl, you wannabe model you aren't even hot and you're not the boss, who are you? But I held my tongue.

She'd also complain if I was supposedly not fast enough in grabbing a size medium from the back because a customer is requesting the dress and all we have on the floor are smalls and larges. She'd trash me to the customer and when I showed up would sarcastically say "finally!" and turn to the customer with a "see what I have to put up with?" expression.

She was especially mean if any customers got chatty with me and treated me with respect. And if those customers were female and were getting flirty with me, Jessica would be a total cockblock.

The real manager, Paula, had their own issues to deal with beyond petty bickering between a stockboy and an entry level sales associate with delusions of "Project Runway" grandeur. The assistant manager, another fashion industry wannabe named "Heather," was just like Jessica, but thankfully I hardly interacted with her. According to my coworkers, Heather was just as bad as Jessica.

Even though I didn't plan on making this store my career, and even though Jessica didn't bother me THAT much, I thought it won't hurt to get this bitch fired.

To her face, I'd just smile and act like I was following her orders happily, or didn't mind when she would point at me rudely, or snap her fingers at me like she was calling a dog.

Jessica would always hear a directive from one of the managers, and then go around telling the other employees what to do, as if they didn't have ears. She'd try to act as if it was HER directive. LOL.

Her coworkers who were the same "rank" as her would sometimes vent to me about how Jessica acted like she was in charge, when in some cases she had even less time in the company than other employees on the floor.

I noticed that when I arranged clothes in back, especially big ticket, desirable clothes that were seen in magazines in our company's advertisement campaigns, she'd "order" me to set aside things in her size.

I'd do it, because it's my job to set aside things if employees want to buy them outright at a discount or put it as a uniform purchase.

Whenever an employee was on register (really, a big Ipad with a cash drawer beneath), you could tap in a code and the register would show a rundown of every non-customer transaction that employees performed that day, and with a few more keystrokes, their transactions over MANY days. The managers knew this code, of course, and I'll assume Jessica knew the code too because Heather shared the code with her.

I WASN'T supposed to know the code, but I did, because there's a mirror in the wall behind the register, and I was re-stocking paper handbags behind Heather when I saw her tap in her four digit code. She assumed I was stupid and didn't understand the incredibly complex wizardry that is a two year old, low-end spec Ipad.

I knew Jessica was getting rung up for "uniform purchases" when she should have been getting rung up for regular employee discount.

She assumed that when I set aside all those expensive items for her, that I was too dumb to know what she was doing, just because I might have something of a mouth breather countenance.

Even if I look on the surface like a fugitive from the trailer park, something told me Jessica wasn't going to be using $800 heels, a $500 dress, and $1200 motorcycle jacket while working at the store.

And anyway, I asked around. No one saw Jessica wearing any of the truly fancy clothes she bought at our store at what the other employees assumed was simply a regular employee discount.

I thought maybe she was being honest, too. It WAS possible, after all, because I didn't always work with her. Maybe she wore evening dresses to work on her other shifts? Whatever, I decided to make sure.

One time when everyone was busy doing other stuff and the store had to resort to putting me on the register, I typed in Heather's code and pulled up Jessica's purchases. As I suspected, she had bought thousands of dollars worth of our store's best items, but put them all as "uniform purchases" and not at her regular discount.

So I swiped "print" and the register switches from the regular tape to the 8.5"x11" printer beneath the counter, and a complete rundown of all of Jessica's purchases come out.

I highlight all the most expensive items that she was charged for "uniform purchase" (such as, her $1200 jacket would only be $300, and even that was tax free and she got to pay it little by little).

I knew that my manager, Paula, wasn't exactly a nuclear physicist and she was more interested in moving up the chain of command to be working at a job higher than store manager in the company, so as long as her store's sales numbers looked good she didn't care what her assistant Heather did.

Except, if it was a violation of company policy that might reflect badly on her.

I knew Heather was in on Jessica's scam because you're not allowed to ring yourself up at the store, you have to have someone else do it, and none of the other associates would want to conspire with her for fear of getting fired or worse.

To make sure, I printed HEATHER's purchase history too. I didn't see Heather as often as I saw Jessica, but I could also see really glaring red flags on her purchase report. Like, she bought a $900 nightclub dress as a uniform purchase, which I'm quite sure she never wore to work. I did the same highlighting on suspicious items as I did with Jessica's.

Then, because none of this was REALLY my business, I was just a part time asshole who worked in the stockroom, I waited for the most fun opportunity to lower the boom.

Jessica got on her little bluetooth earpiece that she wears on he sales floor that she thinks makes her look like a VIP, and says, "OP, I'm going to need XXX in a size small, customer waiting, get the lead out." So I bring the item, and Jessica says I'm "not passing muster." I thought wow Jessica you sounded really 1940s there, you wannabe pinup girl LOL.

After the customer leaves, Jessica says, "I'm going to need you to go on a trash run and sweep out the receiving bay. And I need you to cover Annie's lunch."

I laugh and tell her, "who died and made you supervisor, you fucking headass burnout?"

She looks like she was the fucking Crypt Keeper for a second and that she wanted to punch me, before she remembered that I'm 6'2" and outweigh her by a hundred pounds.

She hisses, "You are SO fired, you fucking geek. Heather's going to hear about this."

I tell her, "Fuck you, I'm going to lunch."

And I clock out and leave.

When I come back, I see Jessica immediately get on her little earpiece.

Before I even reach the stock room, Heather is there, and the manager Paula intercept me.

"Annie, can you cover register? We have an urgent matter to deal with."

I know I'm supposed to be fired.

Which is why, during my lunch, I went to the copy place and made PDF scans of the printouts I made for Jessica and Heather. I had all the corporate bigshots' emails. They were in the new hire handbook all of us get when we start working. I saved a draft to each but didn't hit SEND yet. I had the printouts as attachements. In the BODY of my email, I described exactly what had been going on. I did send ONE email. And that was to Paula the manager, herself.

But I didn't press SEND until we were on our way to the employee break room.

Paula tells me, "OP, Heather sent me a text that says you were verbally abusive to Jessica. Heather herself says that Jessica has complained to her on numerous occasions that you are a substandard employee, and only her own, personal kindness has presented her from firing you. I came in myself to see if you have anything to say in order to save your job."

It's been a couple of years so of course that can't be exactly what she said, but it was something typical and rehearsed and faux-professional that any low-level boss would say when trying to sound important.

I said I didn't have anything to say in my defense, and that in fact I quit.

Jessica and Heather looked surprised, but then Jessica started smiling.

Paula looked disappointed, and said, "I'm very sorry to hear you say that. You may collect your last..."

"Oh, but before I go, I think you should look at these printouts. I know you don't spend a lot of time studying this stuff, but I thought you might find it interesting. It's the last three months of Jessica's and Heather's employee purchases. Notice how they always ring each other up, and notice all that stuff they're claiming to use as uniforms. If you're having trouble understanding it, I explained it in an email I sent to your cellphone. You should have it already, if you check.

I have the same email ready to go to Dan and Pam and Kimberly and Victor and Kevin but I haven't sent it in yet. I was hoping you could look it over and email me back when you're ready, I mean if you want me to edit anything."

Then I got up and left.

Later that afternoon, my phone was ringing.

It was Paula.

She was practically crying, telling me, please don't send those emails, "I've fired Heather and Jessica. They're GONE. And please don't quit. Please don't tell anyone about--"

I tell her to relax.

I already quit. And I'm keeping my mouth shut.

A few days later, I showed up for my final check. I learned from one of the sales associates that corporate Loss Prevention was called in (our corporate office is only a few miles from the retail location) to interview both Heather and Jessica about their fraud.

In lieu of arrest and heavy fines for what amounted to outright theft and fraud, they were simply fired and unable to use the company as a reference, and due to being fired for cause, could not file for unemployment.

Paula was actually in the store that day, and practically ran to me to thank me for "keeping this scandal at a store level. It's been handled."

I told her no problem. What I didn't tell her was that I never did delete those drafts.

She offered me a reward of free merchandise.

No thanks.

I'm going to look awfully silly in those dainty little suits at my super cool new job of working at Sizzler.

It all ended okay.

A year later I finished my degree, and now I'm doing what I really want to do. Except now at my job, guess what we have to wear. Yeah. Dainty little suits.

I wear socks, though.

I would have never torpedoed Heather and Jessica if they just left me alone to do my job in peace, and didn't try to feel big and important at my expense.

I would have left them to live in their self-medicating lies, live and let live.

Other than some difficult customers, people like Heather and Jessica are what make working retail such a nightmare for so many.

And that's why I feel no guilt about destroying them.

I'm sure Jessica had lots to talk about at that year's Milan Fashion Week.

Hold this L, bitch.

****************

TL;DR: I was stockboy at a fancy clothes store. A low level associate would always boss me around and call me stupid even though she wasn't in charge. I found out she was stealing from the store. I was mean to her on purpose so that I'd be called in to a manager meeting to be fired. I quit, and presented proof to the manager that the associate and the assistant manager were both thieves. They both got fired. I began work at Sizzler.

(source) story by (/u/SaggingSkinnyJeans)

[fatedbutblinking]

hp next generation│characters

REMUS & TONKS

Teddy Lupin

Hufflepuff

Hair that changes often—currently a bright, electric blue; olive skin

Kind and considerate

Respectful and sweet

Humble and appreciative of Harry Potter and their family

Deeply in love with Victoire—for a lot more than her looks

Victoire tells everyone it was Teddy who fell for her first, just because he told her he loved her first, but Teddy secretly knows that it’s Victoire who fell first

Made Head Boy for his high academic achievement (including a nailed Outstanding in Defence Against the Dark Arts)

Out of all the Potter children, he is closest with Lily Potter; she used to ride his back when she was younger and make him personalised, singing birthday cards

HARRY & GINNY

James Sirius Potter

Gryffindor

Around 180 cm; classically handsome face; strong jawline; thick, dark brown, untidy hair that glints auburn in the sun and he constantly runs his hands through; irritatingly clear skin; prominent hazel eyes; cocky smirk

From first to third year, he conceitedly thinks that Allie likes him just because she said thank you to him after he told off some boys for pulling on her hair; this turns out to be false, as Allie starts going out with Dylan Thomas

The most arrogant out of his family members, his best friend and cousin Fred coming second

His nana started calling him “Jamie,” to which his friends started mocking him for

This led to James coming up with nicknames for everyone else, some sticking and some only for mocking (e.g. Allie, Freddie, Roxie—but not Dom because she’d kill them if they did)

Typically a player but knows when to settle down into a relationship—reliable and loyal if he’s really interested in you—if you’re just a one-time shag, he’s still nice to you though

A lover of Quidditch, pranks, making others laugh—he’s the class clown

Naturally smart; has a lot of potential to be great—especially in Potions and Alchemy—but starts off not diligent or focused enough

Cares for his family and friends—perhaps too much sometimes

Immature class clown turned just as funny Head Boy without wanting the latter

Gets others and himself into trouble all the time

Constantly curious—to the point where it, also constantly, gets him into trouble and detention with McGonagall

Free and confident being who he is, which Allie admires

Childish, stupid, hyper and more arrogant when drunk

After being turned by an infamous werewolf in the middle of his sixth year, he starts smoking excessively—”The more I do with my mouth, the less chance I’ll have to tell someone I’m a monstrous killer. Unless you, Allie, would like to help me instead?”—Dom, who used to be an addict in her fourth year when she hung out with Slytherin boys, persuades James to stop

When he becomes a werewolf in his sixth year, he decides to quit the Quidditch team so he won’t ruin it for anyone if he can’t play; he doesn’t tell Fred his reasoning—he can’t tell anyone he’s a werewolf or might be expelled for possible danger by certain Ministry workers—and Allie is forced to take his spot

McGonagall secretly finds James one of her favourite students, despite telling him off constantly for his pranks

Loves his dog Paddy

Bisexual or pansexual—“As long as they’re good-looking,” he says, cracking a cocky smirk.

The ultimate 21st century cool guy—really hot, intelligent and with no preference for partners’ sexuality

Very straightforward like Dominique—doesn’t know boundaries at times

Secretly kind

Super selfless

Finds it amusing that he actually likes Professor Malfoy, his new Alchemy teacher

Professor Malfoy finds it funny that he likes James too

Though predicted Outstanding in his Alchemy mock exam, James runs out halfway through the lesson to confess his feelings to Allie

“What’s with your son, Potter? He’s unbelievable.”—“Merlin, what’s he done now?”—“He ran out halfway through the lesson, finishing 75% of the exam—which is impressive enough as he should’ve been at 50%—and got 73% right! If your son doesn’t run out of the room during the real exam, I’m sure he could get an O.”

Albus Severus Potter

Slytherin

Only just taller than Roxanne

Almond-shaped, bright green eyes; neat black hair; thin-faced with knobby knees; thin and of average height

Listens to Radiohead and other Muggle bands

Angsty teen shut-the-fuck-up type

Used to be bullied for being so different from the rest of his family; girls dig the bad boy thing (though Albus isn’t bad and doesn’t act like it on purpose)

Like a sassy young Harry from Order of the Phoenix

Rolls eyes a lot

Nobody can tell what he’s thinking

Witty—self-deprecating humour

Lily Potter

Gryffindor—without a doubt

Around 162 cm with pale, white, freckled skin, vibrant brown eyes, straight, bright ginger hair; she eventually gets glasses due to her worsening eyesight—“At least I’m not as blind as you, Dad.”

Very curious and interested; cheery; talkative; honest; adventurous

Wants to have fun but is studious too—for sure not as extreme a pranker or partyer as James

Often argues with Albus as they’re both really stubborn; James can be seen laughing the background

Strong-willed and quick-witted

Admires Rose as an older sister

Ships Albus and Scorpius more than anyone

RON & HERMIONE

Rose Weasley

Gryffindor

Wavy scarlet/vermilion hair; light skin with minor freckles, as she doesn’t spend much time in the sun

Loves reading and the library

Prefers to keep to herself/be independent

Loves to point things out for others

Her fatal flaw is being too honest that she sounds condescending/rude, especially when she’s angry

Only impulsive when angry;

Never procrastinates

Extremely intelligent/book-smart

Slightly arrogant and snobby

Short-tempered and stubborn

Says she doesn’t care about appearances until Scorpius finds out about her contact lenses after hiding under her bed

Hugo Weasley

Ravenclaw

Shorter than most; boyish good looks; curly brown hair (an undercut when he was rebelling); lanky; long-sleeved shirts and jeans

Loves music—singing, acoustics, angst/soft/indie tunes

Quiet but frank when passionate or needed

Highly intelligent

Quietly opinionated

Named attractive by girls but he doesn’t care for them—only his studies and music

Doesn’t laugh; deadpan

Not very close with Potter-Weasley-Granger clan

Dislikes James for treating him like a child, being frivolous and always partying

Dislikes Dominique for being intimidatingly rude

NEVILLE & HANNAH

Alice (Allie) Longbottom

Ravenclaw

Around 158 cm; sweet-faced; doe-eyed; wavy dark-gold/caramel-blonde medium-length hair; long eyelashes; rich, doe, dark brown eyes; thick-knit cream and orange jumpers

A bad habit of hers is biting her nails

Doesn’t get drunk until of age but is said to remain nonchalant and the same after several drinks

Though she complains she hates it because it’s illegal, she secretly enjoys being the designated driver in the flying car—there’s no other way for her to fly, as she’s dreadful on a broom like her dad

Clumsy when she’s younger

Open-minded; the right amount of honesty; not rude

Tones down James and Fred by telling them if their pranks are going over the line

Considered the worst Quidditch player/broom-rider ever since her first flying lesson where she spun around the school for hours uncontrollably

One day when Fred is injured and can’t play a match, James convinces Allie to and she manages to help them win—by distracting the other scared players with her super-fast flying

A louder, sweeter, more humble version of Albus

Shy when with new people, but later—if quiet—she’s only observant

Wishes she had a large family but eventually finds that the Weasley-Potter-Granger clan are just as caring

Her mother, Hannah Abbott, the school matron, is dying—lethargic, pale, cadaverous, bony, tired hair 

Her parents weren’t sure they could have a child due to Hannah being ill (having a blood curse)

When Hannah dies, Allie becomes very depressed because her family is down to just her and her dad; she feels guilty that she didn’t spend as much time with her mum as she did with her dad

Allie sees Scorpius crying in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom after his mother died too from a blood curse; this leads to a close friendship and slight jealousy from James, who at this point has just realised he loves Allie

Thinks she needs to excel at school because her dad works there—wants to impress her dad and make him proud

In her seventh year, she hears about a chance to intern at St Mungo’s; wanting to be nearer to family, she applies and gets accepted

She visits her grandparents at Christmas, which is why they sort-of remember her

Neville only hears about the internship when McGonagall talks to him about it and is heartbroken that his daughter didn’t tell him—this was because she knew he’d say no

She impulsively decides she wants to be a Healer

James and her get into an argument about this

“You don’t care about being a Healer. You just want a reason to see your grandparents, to be nearer people who care about you. What you don’t realise is that, although plenty of us aren’t related to you, we love you too.”—James

“You want to be a Healer? You’ve never talked about this ever!”—“Well some people can’t decide what they want to do when they’re five, like you or Fred!”—“I don’t know what I’m doing, Allie! Merlin...what’re you going to do if your grandparents pass away? Will you quit being a Healer? Do what you love, Allie. Don’t do what you think other people want.”

After James becomes a werewolf, she sticks by his side; she even becomes an illegal Animagus to help him—she is a hare, like Luna Lovegood’s Patronus, and finds herself somewhat unuseful as she’s so small

Lysander is her first kiss

Boys consider her pretty in the “cute” way; adults describe her as “lovely”; Fred describes her as “the type of person that calls other girls beautiful”; James describes her as “beautiful. That’s it.”  

Her three current and past love interests are James, Dylan Thomas and Nicolas (a hot Beauxbatons exchange student), the first becoming her husband and the latter two ending up together

Zabini mocks this, telling Allie she “turned them gay.”

James murdered him on the Quidditch pitch the next day

GEORGE & ANGELINA

Fred Weasley

Gryffindor

187 cm; very tall; well-built; short, cropped raven hair; light freckles

Goofy like James

Needs to focus on his studies more and does in last two years of school, after failing multiple OWL exams and getting a Howler from his mum 

From then on, he is given a tutor, Chloe, who is a year older than him, in Ravenclaw, pretty and half-Asian

Fred falls in love with her, though is scared she thinks of him as an immature guy and doesn’t tell her until the Christmas of his sixth year where James and Ally are invited to the Slug Club party and he’s left alone to study; On the way back from the bathroom, Chloe decides to ditch the Slug Club and stay with Fred late into the night

Loves/is passionate about Quidditch more than anything; wants to play professionally

After James is turned into a werewolf and some people become slightly scared of him and find him unreliable, Wood has no choice but to choose Fred to be Quidditch Captain

Fred knows he’s second best to James, as he always is, and 

Always seen laughing with James

Always sleeps and snores in History of Magic

Infatuated with Ally for a period of time but never confesses himself

Instead, they become very, very close friends, Fred being the first person who finds out how Allie feels about James

Roxanne Weasley

Hufflepuff

Around 165 cm; long, rich dark auburn hair; flawless, freckle-less mocha skin

Admires Ally

Sickeningly sweet; polite; formal

Lies so people don’t get hurt

Introverted

Low self-esteem

Loves watching Quidditch, not playing, making her different from her mum and dad

Secretly very loud, opinionated and 

Not an attention-seeker but wants to be noticed by somebody outside of her family

Dominique and her end up having a lot in common, including being constantly annoyed at Fred

Crushes on Lysander, the popular, smart guy, but ends up with Lorcan, the outcasted, artsy guy

BILL & FLEUR

Louis Weasley

“Hot Louis”

Ravenclaw

Looks more like his mother

Always relaxed

Close friends with Lysander

*To be continued*

Dominique Weasley

Gryffindor but almost a Slytherin

Tall and skinny; long, strawberry-blonde hair often kept in a pony-tail; light tan from the hours spent playing Quidditch; dark blue eyes that flicker with every sarcastic thought

Somewhat jealous of her older sister Victoire but doesn’t hold too much resentment towards her

The best female beater on the Slytherin team in years; she only tries out for the team after a year of being a hilarious, swearing, honest Quidditch commentator

Admittedly a hypocrite

The badass, devil-may-care type

Extra asf

Finds Herbology boring, despite everyone loving Herbology because of Professor Longbottom

Gets kicked out of Beauxbatons for using magic inappropriately after her mum sends her there to discipline her

Rough relationship with her mum

She is surprised to learn that her dad dressed as a bad boy during school, as he now worships grades and do-gooder ideals

Victoire Weasley

Gryffindor

Beautiful; tall and willowy, like a model; sapphire-blue eyes; long, pale-blonde hair (that she cuts shorter later to be “taken seriously by Aurors”); forever clear, pale skin (apart from the light freckling on her cheeks and nose)

Sweet; caring

Made Head Girl

Curious, but not rebellious, cunning, stealthy or adventurous like her sister

Graceful but not stealthy

Plays it safe, but not compliant

Deeply in love with the kind, sweet, yet misunderstood Teddy—a boy whom she helps recover from depression by showering him with friendship and love

PERCY & AUDREY

Molly Weasley

Ravenclaw

Wavy gingery-brown hair; icy, pale blue eyes; very skinny; tall; very freckled skin

Head Girl after Victoire leaves

Strict

Caring but not doting

Responsible

Easily-angered

Bickers and argues a lot with everyone

Tends to hang around her family members or teachers

Highly intelligent due to determination

Well-spoken; know-it-all

Acts like she can control everyone around her

Is disliked or not preferred by the older kids in the Potter-Weasley-Granger clan, but the young ones like her for babysitting when she’s free

Admires how Ally cares for everyone, tries to keep them out of trouble, without making them hate her

Admired by Rose

Lucy Weasley

*To be continued*

LUNA & ROLF

Lysander Scamander

Ravenclaw

Intelligent

Cool and collected

Well-known by everyone; popular

Follows in his father, Rolf’s, footsteps

Handsome; neat dirty-blond hair; “dreamy” cornflower-blue eyes

Brightest wizard of his year

The classier, more organised out of the twins

Blunt and honest but tries to hold back

Aware of his achievements

Arrogant; “Yeah, I know.”

Like a classier, quieter version of James, which Lily hates at first

Nevertheless, Lily and him end up together after the both of them consistently visit Hagrid (Lily does this because she doesn’t have many friends and hangs out with Hagrid; Lysander does this because he loves Care of Magical Creatures)

Lorcan Scamander

Ravenclaw

Quiet in speech, but loud in every other aspect

Badly-dressed—clothes the wrong size, the wrong colour, but still manages to make it looks somewhat stylish

Not-so-secretly handsome

I’ll-be-who-I-want kind of personality

Longer, messy dirty-blond hair; kind, doe silvery eyes; smiley

Loves art

Creative, confident and selfless

Great at giving advice

Called “weird” and a “hippie” by some 

DRACO & ASTORIA

Scorpius Malfoy

Slytherin

White-blonde hair; pale blue-grey eyes; tall and lanky; sharp cheek bones; intimidating due to height but an actual cinnamon bun;

Easy-going

Your genuine he-who-listens-and-won’t-judge mate

Determined to make Rose like him

Persistent and passionate about things he loves

Loves Christmas with the Weasley-Potter-Granger clan more than with him and his dad alone, as being alone with his dad reminds him he doesn’t have his mum there too—which is why he always brings his dad along to the Burrow, which can be slightly awkward

Thinks of Allie as a big sister

[tessatechaitea]

Review of The Twilight Zone, Season 1, Episode 14: "Jody Leaves Her Date to Die"

Amanda Halley of The Ultimate Fashion History YouTube channel helped me better understand fashion with her constant reminder, "Fashion is not an island; it's a response." I'm one of those men who has lived 48 years in t-shirts and jeans (disregarding the few years in late elementary where I wore corduroy pants for some reason. I think that reason was that my mother didn't understand exactly how serious my inability to change my clothing style was and, in a major struggle to get me to not wear jeans to some family function, didn't realize she was constraining me to years of swishing corduroy pants once I accepted the change (I do remember how I got back into jeans though! While playing at my cousins, my corduroy pants zipper ripped (or the button popped?) and they just wouldn't stay up. So my aunt had some old jeans from Peter Martin (the neighbor boy from across the street) and said I could wear those. Of course, I adamantly refused to wear another boy's pants and decided to struggle through holding up my pants for the rest of my life. A little while later, my mother (she was there because it was probably Thanksgiving) came out with some jeans and said they were a pair I had left there previously. So I acquiesced and put them on, only realizing as I was putting them on in the bathroom that they were fucking Peter Martin's jeans and I had been had. But in a burst of maturity and insight into saving face that I can't believe came out of a youthful me, I made the cognitive decision to go along with the sham. And after that, I never wore corduroy pants again and it was jeans all the way down once more (sure, sure. As I got older, I wore a variety of different kinds of pants. But probably 95% jeans)). That was a pretty good digression so let me remind you where we were: I've basically only worn t-shirts and jeans my entire life so Amanda Halley's The Ultimate Fashion History YouTube channel has taught me more about history in a year or so than I knew in the previous 47. And her quote, "Fashion is not an island; it's response," struck a chord with me because, as an English major, it's how I learned to better appreciate poetry. Or, at least, how I learned to better appreciate poetry that I did not like. It's one thing to read William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow" and think, "What the fuck? Stupid. Whatever." It's another to learn about the other artists whom Williams discussed poetry and their theories about what modern poetry should be, and how it should differ from the previous generation. Although I don't know much about that because after reading "The Red Wheelbarrow" and thinking, "What the fuck? Stupid. Whatever," I had no interest in learning more about William Carlos Williams. But even poems that people think they love as a stand-alone experience, like Yeats' "The Second Coming," cannot truly be understood without context and reading multiple essays discussing Yeats' secret language and ritualistic metaphors. Poems, like fashion, are not islands. Every single one is a piece of dialogue in a generational conversation. Good luck ever feeling like you really understand anything after accepting that fact. Which brings me to this episode of The Twilight Zone, "Third from the Sun." While not as unfathomable as T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land" without understanding the references or contemplating where Vivienne Westwood's punk aesthetic came from without knowledge of previous years and decades of fashion, "Third from the Sun" relies on the viewer understanding the context in which this story was told. Based on a Richard Matheson story (because of course it was), "Third from the Sun" is a modernist response to living in the nuclear age. Obviously we still live with the threat of nuclear war because genies and bottles and idiots and whatnot so the story doesn't need as much context as maybe some of the other The Twilight Zone episodes that haven't aged as well. But the way it's told exemplifies the needed subversive nature of Rod Serling's television program for 1959. It comes with a sort of safety valve that allows a viewer to remain blind to the criticism of the United States. I'm sure what Matheson and Serling do in this story has been done before and since but it struck me as quite clever, and made me realize that possibly the only other example of this cleverness that I can currently recall with my muddled and aged brain is the ending scene of Get Out when the police car pulls up as Chris kneels over the woman who betrayed him and she begins calling for help. Although that scene maybe doesn't have quite the same safety valve. In fact, it refuses the safety valve completely. That scene is all, "See how you felt when that police car pulled up, you white? That's it. That's fucking living in the U.S. as a black man." But it's still sort of the same visceral reaction that the creators are expecting the audience to have at the end of the story. I should probably explain what that reaction is in "Third from the Sun." William Sturka helps build hydrogen bombs. One day after work, he learns that the bombs are going to be launched in 48 hours. The world is essentially over. He can no longer justify his career by pointing out he's just a replaceable cog in a gigantic war machine because that cog has helped bring it all crashing down. Luckily for him and his family, he has an escape plan! Unluckily for his daughter Jody's date and everybody else living on the planet, they don't have an escape plan! But that's okay because this is how stories work. The audience is given the main characters and encouraged to simply care about the main characters because caring about people who haven't even been written is a stupid waste of time. Sure, Jody's date exists but you never have to look at his face so who cares if he blows up or is later torn to pieces by the mutant post-apocalyptic zombie monkeys. This is about the Sturka family and how they will survive another day! The Sturka escape plan is to take an experimental space ship to a planet they've discovered in a nearby galaxy. They've learned that the people on that planet are similar to them and even speak a language quite closely related to theirs. This brings up a lot of other questions that can't be answered in a twenty five minute television show so just shut up. Some other drama takes place with a bad guy who wants to stop them but none of that really matters. Okay, fine, it matters but in a way that I don't want to get into. It matters because it demonstrates wrong-headed loyalty to a dangerous government and obsessive patriotism and cigarette smoking men who just want to see the world burn. But the terrible man trying to stop them is really just an obstacle to be traversed so Sturka and his family have something to do for twenty minutes, aside from discussing their plans of stealing a government aircraft while playing Bridge or Pinochle or whatever stupid card game for couples they played in the 50s. The main theme is that Sturka and his family are living in a world teetering on the edge of nuclear Armageddon and they're desperate to escape to safety. At the end of the episode, as they escape in their space ship, William and his friend discuss their destination. William learns the planet they're headed to is the third from its star and that it's called Earth. I think this is where I'd insert a gif of universe brain if I was that kind of Internet writer. I am not. Although since I'm more of a 'zine writer, I should at least be doing my own art for these reviews. Fuck. Now that I've thought of it, I've just made more work for myself for future reviews. Also, I think I'm going to turn these into physical 'zines. So that's the twisty bit going on in this episode! The entire time, the audience is thinking this is a tale of Earth because, well, we're living in the shadow of complete and utter annihilation brought on by the whims of our leaders. So the big surprise is that this was a different planet entirely! But the part that I think is clever and subversive and based in the context and dialogue of the time is that it relies on the audience to understand it and make the mental leap of logic for one final gasp of awareness. They aren't going somewhere safe! They're headed right back into the same on-the-brink-of-disaster world they just left. Which is why it reminds me of the final scene of Get Out which relies on the audience's pre-conceived notions of police and violence against black men. I suppose in 1959, you couldn't watch this episode of The Twilight Zone and not gasp at the realization that this poor family hasn't actually rescued itself. They're still in danger because our world has become that dangerous place. We believed they were fleeing Earth because Earth has gotten as frightening as the world in this episode and Matheson and Serling double down by saying, "Ha ha! Nope. They're going to Earth!" Perhaps there's a bit of hope in the story in that we still have more time than 48 hours. But I don't think that's the point. And much like Get Out, even people who pooh-pooh Black Lives Matter protests, must have had a visceral reaction to the police car pulling up while the protagonist knelt above the bloody body of his fiance and tormentor. It's a scene that forces a person acknowledge, by their own reaction and assumption about what's going to happen, that, even if they will vocally deny that police violence against black men is an epidemic, they understand the truth of it. I can't imagine a person exists who could watch that scene and not immediately understand that Chris's life has gone from one dangerous experience to another serious threat to his life. Just another scene that relies on the context of the time, and dialogue across decades. None of this shit is an island. Like the jeans I've worn my entire life, it's simply responses all the way down. Final Thought: I apologize for taking this review in two directions at once without properly knitting them together (the whole "it's a response thing" and the comparison to Get Out) but one came to mind as I was enmeshed in the other and, in the end, I don't have an editor and I'm not being paid for this. So if it's all poorly knitted together, I can only hope that you view it from the appropriate distance to hide its serious flaws. Thank you!

[ashintheairlikesnow]

(No triggers here, just two men being hideously awkward. It’s the return of Holland Vosijk, Grad Student and Kell Maresh, Undergrad!)

Holland picked the location this time, but Kell did his research, and he had a small wrapped box sitting in his lap to prove it. Winter break had been too busy for the two of them to really see each other, and when he’d texted Holland to ask if he wanted to meet up somewhere, the answer had come back in less than seven minutes.

 That was even faster than Luc answered Rhy, which Kell might have been smug about if he didn’t know that that was mostly because Luc literally never knew where his phone was and half the time Delilah Bard had it for some reason that no one ever seemed able to explain.

 "This is the dorkiest thing you've ever done," Rhy said as they pulled up in front of Joe’s, the combination used bookstore/bar/coffeeshop Holland picked for tonight. Kell could have driven himself, of course, but Rhy had insisted on bringing him, and he didn’t put up much of a fight.

 He and Rhy had done almost everything together their entire lives, ever since he’d come home the first day still wearing the awful too-big Day-Glo shirt and threadbare shorts from the foster home. Ever since, it had always been the two of them, everywhere they went.

 Well, except for school, where Rhy went to the priciest prep school in the state and Kell was tutored at home, alone. Except for Rhy being informed he would be majoring in business administration and doing an internship at Maresh Corp, grooming him to take over when Maxim retired, while Kell could choose his own major and career as long as he agreed (Maxim made him sign a contract) to work for Rhy if he ever asked him to, no questions asked, drop everything he wants and is and exist for Rhy instead.

 Except for Rhy being Rhy Maresh, heir to the largest privately-owned pharmaceutical company in the United States and subject of several magazine articles all about his bright future, and Kell being a publicity stunt with a pulse.

 Why had he picked up the phone when Emira called earlier? It always ruined his day, but he never, ever let her go to voicemail, and he would never understand why he kept answering her calls.

 "You're scowling again," Rhy said, a little gently. "Are you thinking about Mom and Dad? You always do that face when you think about them. Look, fuck ‘em. Calm your face. You’re on a date."

 "Just thinking," Kell said, tightening his grip on the box. It was wrapped in plain sky blue paper with a perfectly-tied bow made from a sheer white ribbon. Kell had no idea how to tie a bow or even wrap presents; Rhy had turned out to be an expert at it, just like he was an expert at everything else, and had done it for him.

 "Well, stop thinking and start enjoying your date. Seriously, I can't believe you did this. It was such a dorky idea."

 If Rhy wanted to drive him to meet Holland (with the understanding he would absolutely not need a ride home), he didn't mind. They'd barely seen each other all week, too busy with classes since they'd come back from break, and Kell hadn't missed that Rhy had taken the long way here tonight, to buy them a few more minutes of time to hang out.

 Rhy had insisted on overseeing his outfit this time, too. Joe's was a nicer place than anywhere else they'd met so far, and Kell hadn't even fought much about      that    . Kell shifted around in his seat, uncomfortable in the new black pants Rhy had bought him, the dark blue button-up. Their compromise was his shoes, the usual beat-up tennis shoes he wore everywhere he went, and his shirt - tonight, peeking through the button-up (he’d left four buttons open on purpose), he was wearing a Joy Division shirt, which Rhy informed him no one would recognize, and he had informed him right back that he didn’t care.

 "He and I didn't do Christmas presents, I didn't... I don't know if he even does Christmas, I never thought to ask. And besides that, you're always telling me Holland and I are both dorks, so-"

 "No," Rhy said smoothly. "I'm always calling you nerds. There's a difference." He leaned over, giving Kell a kind of one-armed hug, fiercely tight, then pulling back to give him one more inspection. "I'm going out with Luc tonight. You know the drill; call if you need me, otherwise I'll see you when I see you. Going back to our place after by yourself or together? Should I go to Luc's?"

 Kell smiled, nervously. "Depends on if he likes what's in the box."

 "Well, it's, as I said, the dorkiest thing you've ever done. Based on how things have gone so far, I can only imagine he'll love it. When you told me you wanted to get him a present I was really worried you meant, like, a fucking mixtape with your shitty music on it.”

 “My music isn’t shitty! Holland likes it.    ”

 “No, Holland likes you. He listens to fucking death metal, Kell. He’s not into your sad bastard shit.”

 “He can like both.” 

"Look, I'll tell Luc I'm going home with him. Should I tell him you said hey?"

 "Tell him I said he can go fuck himself, and I didn't appreciate him using my shampoo."

 "Yeah, no, I didn't like that, either." Rhy wrinkled his nose. "It's really weird when your boyfriend comes into your room smelling like your brother."

 "Yeah. So tell him to go fuck himself."

 "Absolutely not," Rhy said, with his bright shining smile. "That's my job. Now go on in, he's probably already here."

 "We said we'd meet at 8:00, it's only 7:50 now."

 "Yeah, but he thinks you're the shit. He's probably already here so he gets to see you walk in."

 It was Kell's turn to wrinkle his nose. "I don’t think so.”

 "Kell. Discover some self-confidence inside that endless well of anxiety you carry around everywhere. He likes your weird hair-"

 "Hey, I can't help my hair!"

 "You could if you ever, literally ever, tried. He likes your weird clothes-"

 "You picked these out!"

 "Ugh, I know, and watch him hate your outfit for the first time when it's actually decent for once. He likes all your weird you-ness, and you should trust that for once." Rhy sighed. "You never believe anyone can really like you, do you know that? You think you don’t deserve it, that we’re lying to you."

 “Do I?” 

 “Yes.” Rhy looks sad, for a second, and Rhy never looks sad. Then he brightens, and waves Kell away. "Go inside. I'll see you tomorrow, or the next day."

 Rhy drives away as soon as he steps out, the box clutched in his hands. Joe's takes up the entire inside of a small brick building just outside of downtown, and he opens the wooden door with some effort, the cold winter wind trying to push it closed again. A blast of heat hits him in the face as he enters, bookshelves on either side of him.

 There are books everywhere.  

 The shelves line the walls, two stories of bookshelves, along with winding metal stairs to little half-floors, a balcony that lets you look right down with decorative iron railings all along it bent into roses, vines, and flowers. There are shelves turning every inch of floor space into narrow little paths, with open spots for couches, tables, and armchairs.

 Standing at the bar, directly in front of him, is Holland Vosijk, who of course looks absolutely goddamn amazing and all he's wearing is a black sweater and dark jeans and his boots, those same boots, the boots Kell has dreams about. He’s got a five o’clock shadow and Kell has a sudden, wildly irrational urge to just walk up and touch it.

“Hey.” (click here to read the rest!)

[thisisemilysfault]

Go Set a Watchman Liveblog: Part Five (pp.85-113)

So, literally four years later and long past any modicum of cultural relevance, the liveblog continues! Mostly because I’m tired of seeing this book on my floor and thinking, “Oh, I should finish that.” If you followed me for this, I am so, so sorry. I’m pretty sure that only applies to one person, but still.

On to book Part III!

- Ooh, Jean Louise is in trouble. Aunt Alexandra found out about the “naked” swimming (they were not naked; Henry shoved her in the river, and she took him down with her), which means everyone knows, and she was already decidedly not Team Henry.

- Jean Louise gives no fucks and says people should mind their own business, along with a sarcastic comment about how she now HAS to marry Henry. Don’t let Henry hear you say that, Scout. (Sidenote: I just looked back at the previous chapter to remind myself what’s going on, and in amongst Henry’s casual racism is a bit of foreshadowing about someone being killed in a hit-and-run, I think. We’ll see.)

- Jean Louise and Atticus have secret signals for when Aunt Alexandra is being ridiculous, which reminds me of Bridget Jones and her dad (or, more highbrow, Lizzy and Mr. Bennet).

- Atticus makes a joke about Scout flashing her boobs and gives Aunt Alexandra a nickname, very cavalier for first thing in the morning.

- Aunt Alexandra knows the truth, but is no happier about it.

- Unintentionally (?) saucy Atticus: “I can think of several more interesting things to do in the middle of the night than pull a trick like that” (88). 

- Weird digression about Scout only wearing hats to Jem’s funeral. Dead Jem is getting a lot more play in this story than I expected.

- Uncle Jack is a “bone man” who retired to Maycomb at 45 to study Victorian Literature (89). Going to go ahead and name him our third character of dubious heterosexuality, after Dill and the unfortunate Francis.

- “[H]e was a bachelor but gave the impression of harboring amusing memories” (90). Yeah, I’ll bet.

- Nice mythological allusion to Nereus, and I like that it isn’t explained via narration. I appreciate when authors trust me to know things.

- You are in church, Scout, stop thinking about how your uncle doesn’t look like your dad.

- Aunt Alexandra might kill Henry right here in the Methodist church.

- Was not expecting the pastor to be described as “butt-headed,” but here we are (95).

- Explicit callout of the title here in church

- Ooh, a Yankee has told them to speed up their church music to make it more fun, Southerners in a tizzy

- Jack is snarky about the Supreme Court...please don’t let it be the decision I think it is

- The Yankee’s a “sissy,” so that makes 4 characters of dubious heterosexuality

- Jean Louise’s sudden desire to tidy the living rooms smacks of plot convenience. But I guess she has to get heavy-handed hints that Atticus is a racist somehow?

- Aunt Alexandra is unsurprised by racist pamphlet MacGuffin, and won’t let Jean Louise throw it away because...it’s rare? I am confused.

- Ooh, wheeling out the Nazi comparisons. Aunt Alexandra has drunk the racist Kool-Aid and doesn’t care.

- Calling it now: Henry is in the Klan

- Jean Louise’s sarcasm is strong and I am HERE FOR IT. Drag her!

- Ooh, spoke too soon, dubious historical accuracy on the whiteness of the Egyptian pharaohs, fix that please

- Scout’s dissociating already, apparently to Gilbert and Sullivan tunes. This conversation is going great!

- Maycomb County Citizen’s Council. Nice euphemism you got there.

- Ooh, yep. Henry is “one of the staunchest members” (103).

- I don’t think “You don’t know how bad things are down here” is working as a persuasive point, Aunt Alexandra.

- Jean Louise has gone to have an existential crisis figure out what this racist literature and mysterious community meeting could possibly mean in Southern Alabama in the 50s. I’m going to assume that’s denial, right there, rather than a sudden loss of brain cells.

- “ignorant, fear-ridden, red-faced, boorish, law-abiding, one hundred percent red-blooded Anglo-Saxons, her fellow Americans - trash” (104). Vicious, I love it.

- Oof, the denial is strong. This is going to end badly. Still, at least I won’t have to worry about her marrying Henry, dockside makeouts notwithstanding.

- Lots more detail on the political corruption of Maycomb here.

- Time for racist rant by a character I’ve never heard of!

- Oh no, it is the case I thought it was.

- Interesting change; Atticus wins Tom’s case here, which...apparently somehow leads to him chairing the Klan? The cognitive dissonance is strong for both of us, Scout.

- Other changes: Mayella is 14 (rather than 19), Tom’s other arm is completely chopped off, and rather than trying to prove that no assault happened, Atticus...proves consent? ...Just...what?

- Racist rant adds in some anti-Semitism, just for spice

- Oof, Scout is in shock. Father and sort-of boyfriend are suddenly not who she thought they were.

- Oh, there’s Miss Maudie! In theory, anyway. and Mrs. Dubose, mysteriously not dead

- Oh, Jaunty Ice Cream man, this is NOT THE TIME.

- The disillusionment is strong with this one.

- Little bit worried about this nausea business. Don’t be knocked up by a married New York boyfriend, Scout.

The more it diverges from TKaM, the more interesting I am finding it. I really, really hope Scout doesn’t just let them off the hook for this, but I’m worried that might be the case.

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun Part 4/? - Not At Rest Part 5/? - Dead Men Tell no Tales Part 6/? - Sitamun Rises Again Part 7/? - The Curse of Madame Desrosiers Part 8/? - Sabotage at Guedelon Part 9/? - A Miracle Part 10/? - Desrosiers’ Elixir Part 11/? - Athens in October Part 12/? - The Man in Black Part 13/? - Mr. Neustadt Part 14/? - The Other Side of the Story Part 15/? - A Favour Part 16/? - A Knock on the Window Part 17/? - Sir Stephen and Buckeye Part 18/? - Books of Alchemy Part 19/? - The Answers Part 20/? - A Gift Left Behind Part 21/? - Santorini Part 22/? - What the Doves Found Part 23/? - A Thief in the Night Part 24/? - Healing Part 25/? - Newton’s Code Part 26/? - Montenegro Part 27/? - The Lost Relic Part 28/? - The Homunculinus Part 29/? - The End is Near Part 30/? - The Face of Evil Part 31/? - The Morning After Part 32/? - Next Stop Part 33/? - A Sighting in Messina Part 34/? - Taormina Part 35/? - Burning Part 36/? - Recovery Part 37/? - Pilgrimage to Vesuvius Part 38/? - The Scent of Hell Part 39/? - She’ll be Coming Down the Mountain Part 40/? - Stowaways Part 41/? - Bon Voyage Part 42/? - Turnabout Part 43/? - The Apple Part 44/? - Vesuvius Wakes Part 45/? - Fire At Sea Part 46/? - The Real Jim Part 47/? - Return to Naples Part 48/? - La Mela Part 49/? - A Demonstration Part 50/? - Out of the Frying Pan Part 51/? - Into the Fire Part 52/? - The Last Homunculus

It’s up to Nat, Jim, and Perenelle to put their plan into action

They came up with a plan.

“How do we get the stone to the ship?” asked Nat.  “You said we need wires to transmit it… and it’s a long way from the dock now.”  Even if they could find a cable that long – kilometres, surely – how would they hook it up and make sure it didn’t leak?

Sir Stephen, with his outsider’s view of the present day, was the one who came up with the solution.  “There is wiring throughout the city, is there not?” he asked.  “There are not many people here to be using the electricity, so perhaps we can use that to bring the stone to the waterside, and then we only need enough cable to connect it to the ship.”

“I could do that,” said Perenelle, “but I need a power source besides the stone. Newton was using some of the stored energy from the volcanoes, but that will be gone now.”

Behind them, in the building, the roof caved in.  The pale purple light of the philosopher’s stone shone out in a beam, lighting up the clouds overhead.  It looked like something off the Vegas strip, and gave Natasha an unpleasant mental picture of birds and communications satellites dropping out of the sky when they ran into it.

“They’ll have a generator on the ship, obviously,” said Sam.  “We could see lights on it from the mountainside, so that’s still running.”

“Somebody would have to go back out to the ship to connect a cable,” said Nat. “At least this time we won’t have to worry about anybody trying to stop us.”

“Those railings around the little piazza,” Perenelle said.  “Those will work as temporary containment.  It’ll leak a bit, but once those have been transmuted, they’ll keep it in place long enough for us to get off the ship again.”

Nat made up her mind.  “Then let’s get on with it,” she said.

“Wait,” Allen protested.  “We don’t even know how we’re getting on board the ship!”

“We’ll have to figure it out on the way,” Nat said, and glanced back at the slowly collapsing Palazzo Del Corallo.  “I don’t think we’ve got time.”

They headed down to a power plant at the water’s edge.  There, Perenelle got to work in the switching room, shutting off connections they didn’t mean, while Sam and Sir Stephen found a drum of heavy-duty electric cable that was labeled 1000 METRI.  That sounded like plenty, but to transmit the stone they would need a circuit, so two smaller drums, five hundred metres each, had to be attached together to form the route back.  Then they unrolled it into a single giant mess of cable so that the other end could be taken out to the Scorpio II.

Clint had left the grappling hook arrow behind, so another solution had to be found for getting onto the ship.  Natasha found somebody’s little fishing boat pulled partly up on land, and waved the others over.

“It’s not much, but I’ll have to do,” said Nat.  “Who’s coming with me?”  The boat could only fit two or three people.

“I am, obviously,” said Perenelle.  She was now wearing somebody’s old denim shorts, which looked very much like something Newton himself would have worn, and a burgundy tank top with Stanford on the front.  Her hair was up in a bun, held in place with an ordinary elastic band… and yet somehow, even when dressed like a slob, she still managed to look like a fashion ad.

“Me, too,” said Jim.

“Why you?” asked Clint, who’d been about to volunteer.

Jim took a deep breath.  “Because they might need another set of hands.  As many people should go as possible and… well, I’m disposable, aren’t I?  I’m not going to live long and I might as well do something meaningful.”

“No time to argue about it,” said Natasha.  “Jim volunteered first.”  If they had to stand around and find logical reasons to pick somebody, they’d never get it done.

So it was Nat, Perenelle, and Jim who set out in the little motorboat, heading for the looming shape of the Scorpio II, with Nat wondering if it were really a good idea to bring Jim along. Could this be the moment they discovered Newton had implanted some kind of programming in him after all, to prevent anybody shutting down the stone after his death?  No that couldn’t be, because Jim hadn’t stopped them from fiddling with the tubes in the volcano…

Jim really had been something Newton intended to use once and then throw away. He really hadn’t been meant to live beyond following them through Athens.

Was it a good idea to bring him, then, knowing that he knew that?  Maybe this was Jim deciding that if Newton could no longer help him and Perenelle couldn’t be trusted to, he might as well just die with a bang instead of a whimper?  Committing suicide would be very out of character for Jim, who so far had repeatedly stressed that he wanted to live, but maybe he’d reached some tipping point. In which case, shouldn’t they have left him behind?  Or was it better, knowing he was going to die, to just let him get on with it?

She would probably have kept turning this over in her mind all the way to the ship, except that they didn’t quite make it.  The Scorpio II had continued to drift, and their cable wasn’t quite long enough to make it.  They were less than a dozen yards away when it ran out.

Nat pulled out her phone.  She didn’t have much battery left but she texted Sharon anyway.

We need more cable, she said.

The reply came back: there isn’t any more.  The light from the stone is getting redder by the way.

Nat looked up, and Jim and Perenelle followed her gaze.  The glow from the philosopher’s stone was easily visible, now forming a halo over the city instead of a single beam – the rest of the Palazzo De Corallo must have fallen down.  It was pinkish in colour.  Nat remembered Perenelle saying that it was impossible to turn off a star… stars turned red before they exploded, didn’t they?

“Tell them to feed it something,” said Perenelle.  “Anything.  Now would be a good time to drive a car in.  Just keep it under control.”

Nat handed her the phone.  “Find a solution,” she ordered Perenelle, and stood up.

“You’re gonna swim?” asked Jim.

“Yep,” she said.  “The pulleys from the lifeboats are still hanging… grab one of the ropes when it gets close enough and let the ship tow you towards shore.  I’ll get as close as possible so we’ll have slack cable.” After getting it on board, they would still have to reach the ship’s generators to wire it up.

“Shouldn’t I be the one to go?” Jim asked.  “I mean, this is gonna be dangerous, and…”

Nat glared at him.

“I’m not trying to be chivalrous!” he said.  “I’m just saying, from a practical point of view, I seal back up if I get hurt so shouldn’t I be the one doing the dangerous stuff?”

“Can you steer a boat?” asked Natasha.

“No, but neither could he!”  Jim pointed back at the shore, meaning Clint.

Nat just kicked her shoes off and dived in.

The water was warm – the Mediterranean always was – and salty.  She spat out her accidental mouthful and swam to where one of the lifeboats had been lowered.  The end of the rope was within reach.  Nat grabbed it, and shimmied back up to the Promenade Deck.  From there it was only a short run to the bridge, at the far end of the ship.

She was nearly there when she realized she wasn’t alone.  There was a man sitting in one of the deck chairs next to the pool, staring up at the sky.  Who was that? The passengers should have all evacuated and as far as they knew, the rest of the crew had bailed out on the way.  A possibility occurred to her, and despite the need to hurry, Nat couldn’t quite stop herself from coming closer to see.

Sure enough, it was a homunculus.  This one was short-haired, and dressed in a t-shirt and jeans.  Perenelle had said there were four on the ship – they’d thrown one overboard and fought off another, and Newton himself had destroyed the third.  This was the fourth, the last one that might be a threat to them, but at the moment he didn’t look like a threat to anybody. He was just lying there, as if he were asleep with his eyes open.  There was nothing to indicate that he’d been there all night, but there was nothing to indicate that he hadn’t.

“Are you okay?” asked Natasha.

He blinked, and then sat up to look at her.

Natasha knew she probably shouldn’t worry about him, but knowing that the homunculi were people, she couldn’t just leave him sitting there.

“You should get off this boat,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because it’s going to sink,” Nat replied, though she wondered… did it matter? Like any of them, this one would only live for a couple of weeks.

The homunculus shook his head.  “My job was to keep Perenelle Flamel and the CAAP from leaving this ship, and I already failed at that.  Newton told me if I failed, I should stop and wait for further orders.”

“You’re not going to get any,” she told him.  “Newton is dead.”

The homunculus’ eyes widened, startled.  “He is?”

“Yes,” said Nat.  “He grabbed one of the pipes leading to the philosopher’s stone and turned to gold.  He doesn’t have any more orders for you.  You’re free.”

“Free?”  He stared at her as if he didn’t know what the word meant, and shook his head.  “No, he said if anything happened to him, I had to finish what he started.”  The homunculus stood up.  “What did you do with the philosopher’s stone?”

Natasha’s mind raced.  Newton hadn’t seemed to believe that homunculi could really be self-aware, despite what he’d had his duplicate tell them… but he must have been worried about it, because he’d taken steps to make sure this one wouldn’t wander off when his job was done. What should she tell him?  If she told him the stone still existed, he might take steps to protect him.  If she told him it was gone, there was no telling what he might do.

There was no time to lie, either.  Now that the homunculus was paying attention to his surroundings again, he could see the red glow hanging over Naples.  He moved towards the railing, and Natasha grabbed his arm, twisting his wrist so he couldn’t keep going without pain.

“You don’t have to do what Newton told you,” she said.  “Perenelle might be able to help you.”

“I don’t need help,” said the homunculus, and with his other arm, he swung at her face.

Nat ducked under the blow and flipped him over her back, dislocating his shoulder in the process.  He fell into a stack of deck chairs, landing hard, but not hard enough to do him any damage that would stick.  As he got up, he stretched his arm and the bone popped back into place, grabbed a folded chair, and ran at him again.

She vaulted up onto the poolside bar and kicked the blow aside.  “We don’t have time for this!” she protested.  Why hadn’t she just left him there?

“He told me to finish what he started!” the homunculus said.  “He said it was the only thing that mattered!”  He threw the chair aside and climbed up to get her.

She yanked a keg handle, spraying him in the face with beer.  “Did he tell you why?”  Jim was reasonable.  Hopefully this one was, too.

The homunculus staggered back, sputtering, then grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter and broke it to make a weapon.  “Yes,” he said.  “And if he’s dead, then it’s up to me.”

[hamiltimebinches]

John Laurens x Reader: Flowering Affections Chapter 7

A/n: Sorry for taking so long to upload this. Chapter 6 here

Timeline: Modern

Warnings: None

Words: 2,496

    Personally, my plan last night wasn’t to wake up to ten missed calls and forty-seven unread messages. That’s what happened though. Sitting up in my bed with my phone in my hand I looked down at the screen in bewilderment. Seven of the missed calls were from John, and the other three were each from Herc, Laf, and Alex. I had five texts from an unknown number, two from Thomas, eight messages from Alex, nine from Herc, and the other twenty-three were from John. It seemed he really wants to get in contact with me.

    I stifled a yawn and unlocked my phone. I went into my messages and tapped on the unknown number. There was five texts and they said:

    Hey, this is Eliza! I was just wondering if you get the time you could text me. (Sent at 1:50 a.m.)

    Just to let you know I got your number from Alex’s phone. (Sent at 1:52 a.m.)

    We all got home safe. I made sure to drop John, Laf, and Herc at their shared apartment and Alex is at our apartment with me. Just thought I’d let you know. (Sent at 1:55 a.m.)

    (Y/n)? What happened earlier? You were there but suddenly you were gone. I haven’t seen you since at least twenty after midnight. (Sent at 2:06 a.m.)

    I’m worried, please reply as soon as you see these. I hope you’re okay. (Sent at 2:15 a.m.)

    Interesting. I kinda feel bad for worrying Eliza like that but I don’t want to reply yet. Not because I like leaving her in the dark or worried, because I don’t want to have to go through what happened last night once again. Not yet at least. So, I’ll just leave her texts for now. No, I won’t do that. I’ll just tell her something else.

    Sorry about just leaving like that last night. Something came up and I just had to leave. I can go over what happened later if you want. I have something to do right now. (Sent at 8:03 a.m.)

    With that I exited the conversation to check the other forty-two texts. Ugh, that’s gonna suck. I’ll start with the eight from Alex. Even though they’re just eight messages each one is probably going to be a paragraph though. Man, if I’d known how many texts I was going to have to go through in the morning I would have never slept last night. Then I could have responded to each of them as they were sent.

    Hey, (Y/n). What’s up? What are you doing? (Sent at 5:53 a.m.)

    What happened last night? I heard from Eliza that you just suddenly up and left. Not that she saw you leave but one moment you were there the next you were just, well, gone. (Sent at 5:55 a.m.)

    Seriously, what happened? Why’d you leave? (Sent at 5:56 a.m.)

    Just because you’re my friend you can’t just not explain yourself for suddenly leaving. Especially not because you are worrying my girlfriend half to death. (Sent at 5:59 a.m.)

    What you did is not okay. This totally isn’t cool. (Sent at 6:01 a.m.)

    Please respond. (Sent at 6:20 a.m.)

    I’m sorry if I offended you. I know how I can come off as rude sometimes and that was not my intentions. (Sent at 6:23 a.m.)

    Please, (Y/n). I’m only confronting you because I’m worried. I’m worried something’s happened to you. No one’s seen you since last night, or more technically, much earlier today. I’ll just text John and see if he knows what’s going on with you. I hope you’re okay. (Sent at 6:30 a.m.)

    I placed a hand over my heart. Not only did I worry Eliza but I worried Alex. I’m not even offended in the slightest by his texts. It just shows me how much he cares. It’s warmed my heart a bit and made me feel slightly better. I woke up feeling shitty from what happened last night but now I feel a bit better. A banner slid down onto my screen, Eliza’s responded to my text. I left Alex’s texts and went to hers.

    Oh, don’t worry! That’s completely fine, I’m just glad you’re safe. Maybe we can talk over tea or something this week? (Sent at 8:09 a.m.)

    Yeah, totally! Let me get back to you later, I have to look at my schedule and see when I’m free. (Sent at 8:10 a.m.)

   I decided next to go through Herc’s texts, I’ll leave the most and Thomas’ for last. I’ll probably just skim through John’s because there’s so many of them. Herc’s texts weren’t terrible, basically just a mixture of Alex and Eliza’s, meaning he was worried and upset but wasn’t as abrasive as the texts from Alexander. I sent back a quick apology and let him know that everything was fine, I just had to leave that was all.

    Skimming through, John’s his texts were similar to what I got from the others. Concern, confusion, a bit of frustration as it got towards the end. For whatever reason I found myself getting irritated by the texts I had received from John. His concern for whatever reason grated on my nerves unlike it had with the others. Why do I feel so angry just even looking at his contact? Why do I feel so angry at John? Is it because he didn’t keep his promise? Those hurtful words he said, even though he wouldn’t remember them now? Why am I so upset at him? Is it wrong for me to be angry right now? No, I don’t think so. Although for one reason or another his last text really bothered me. It said:

    (Y/n), please. I don’t know why you’re not responding to me or anyone else but please answer. I’m worried about you, what happened last night? Are you okay? I don’t know if somehow I upset you but please, please don’t take it out on everyone else. Talk to me. I’d be content with that even if for whatever reason you’ll end up hating me. I just want to know what’s going on. Whenever you have the time we can talk. My schedule is rather free this week and I’d even drop anything I’m doing if you want to talk. Just, contact someone to let us know you’re okay. (Sent at 6:45 a.m.)

    Maybe it’s the fact that John seems so sincere in the text. Or maybe that it’s making me feel guilty for just leaving the way I did and worrying everyone. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to believe Maria that part of the fault for what happened last night is John’s. Whatever the reason all I know is that I’m mad and not in the mood to talk to John at all. Which reminds me, I have to apologize to Maria, it’s still early, maybe I can make her her favorite breakfast. First though I have to check the texts from Thomas.

    Good morning, (Y/n)! (Sent at 7:50 a.m.)

    How are you feeling from last night? I know that what happened last night was scary so I just want to make sure that you’re fine so far. You can always call or text me if you need anything. (Sent at 7:53 a.m.)

    I smiled as I reread the text for the third time. For some reason Thomas’ concern isn’t grating on my nerves, I even find it endearing. It’s so sweet that he’s worried about me and that he took the time to check up on me. No guy has ever gone out of his way to do something like that for me, well other than John. We’re going to ignore that fact for now though. I’m angry at him so I don’t want to think about that.

    I quickly tapped out an answer then slid out of bed, leaving my phone behind on the ruffled covers. The wood floors were cold as I traipsed over to my dresser, pulling the middle drawer out to grab a pair of lacy jean shorts. After that I pushed in the drawer and opened another, this one being higher up than the last, and pulled out one of my favorite shirts. My mother had given it to me before I left for college this year. It’s a flowy white shirt that goes off the shoulder. I reached into another smaller drawer and grabbed a pair of rainbow socks.

    I quickly dressed, adding my favorite sea turtle necklace. I brushed out my rat’s nest of hair and twisted it into a tight dutch braid. With that I grabbed my phone, slipping it in my back pocket, and left my room, the door closing with a quiet click. As I passed by the bathroom I caught a glimpse of what I looked like in the mirror. Damn! I look great! Too bad I can’t look like this when I actually have plans to go out. No time to waste looking at my reflection though, I need to make breakfast to apologize before Maria wakes up.

    Upon making it to the kitchen I finally decided what I wanted to make for the apology. I’ll make her favorite breakfast, which just so happens to be my favorite breakfast as well. I’ll make waffles but these aren’t your normal waffles, oh nononono. These waffles are the size of  the entire plate. With these waffles I am going to make my own strawberry sauce for a topping and cut up strawberries and peaches into slices to go with it. To top everything off I’m going to add whip cream to it.

    I opened one of the many white cupboards looking for a mixing bowl. We have plenty of them but for some reason they are never where they’re supposed to be. Why is it like that? When you’re looking for something it’s never there but when your not looking for it it’s where it’s supposed to be. Just as I found the glass mixing bowl I had been in search for my phone dinged and vibrated as I was reaching for the large glass bowl. I slowly sank back down to where I was standing flat on my feet and my arm lowered until my palm was resting on the nice counters.

    For a moment I was confused. What was the ding and vibrations about? Then I realized what it was and felt stupid for forgetting. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my phone. The new text was from Thomas and I unlocked my phone to view the message. Right under my message was a new one. I ended up reading over my text again and then Thomas’ response.

    I’m feeling fine, thank you for asking. It means a lot. Thank you again for what you did last night, Thomas. (Sent at 8:14 a.m.)

    As I said the night before, it was no problem. Just the right thing to do. (Sent at 8:37 a.m.)

    I rolled my eyes at the response. Only Thomas would say that, only Thomas. In that aspect he’s just like he had been in high school. Always playing big deals off as nothing, like it was as easy writing your own name. It had gotten on my nerves so much that freshmen year but I surprisingly had found that I missed it when I went back home after everything was settled between my parents. It had been strange to not see him everyday at school and have to deal with his more annoying qualities. Last night I had found that fact about him annoying once more but now I can only find myself amused by it.

    Whatever you say, Thomas, whatever you say. To me it will always be a big deal. (Sent at 8:38 a.m.)

    After that I set my phone down on the counter and went back to stretching to grab the large mixing bowl. Why does it have to be so high up?! Just because you’re a giant Maria doesn’t mean I am! Finally, with one last-ditch effort I wrapped my fingers around the rim of the bowl and pulled it down into my arms. With a sigh of relief, I placed the bowl down on the counter. I looked over to my phone as it dinged and lit up upon receiving another text. It said:

 You are exaggerating, my dear. (Sent at 8:40 a.m.)

  I rolled my eyes at his answer and picked up my phone. I once again tapped out a response on the keyboard and sent it.

    I am not! Now shut up, I need to make waffles. (Sent at 8:41 a.m.) 

    After that I set my phone back down on the counter and got to work getting the ingredients needed to make two of my mother’s famous large waffles. The whole time after I sent that text I devoted all of my attention to my breakfast making, completely ignoring my phone whenever it would ding in notification for a new text. It appears that after the one response I got from Thomas all the texts that I got were from John. Most of them were asking what was going on. He was also wondering why I was responding to everyone but him. I especially ignored his texts, at the moment I just can’t stand John.

    “Mmm, what smells so good?” Maria asked as she sleepily stumbled into the kitchen. “Perfect timing, I just finished putting everything on the plates and in our spots at the island.” I said with a smile. She rubbed at her eye with a yawn; she’s still in her pjs and as she rubbed at her eye her shirt lifted up exposing some of her stomach. Aw, why does my best friend have to be so cute! “What’d you make?” She asked as she sluggishly made her way over to the island. “Our favorite! It’s too, y’know, apologize for last night. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I really am sorry, Maria.” I apologized, grabbing her hands in mine. What? It’s not weird for friends to hold hands.

    “It’s fine, (Y/n), I shouldn’t have pressed you like that. Last night must have been terrifying for you and we were both upset and stressed. No harm was done so there’s no reason for you to apologize.” Maria said, gently squeezing my hands. It seems she’s much more awake now. “Oh! Is that your mom’s waffles and strawberry sauce, with sliced strawberries and peaches and whip cream?!” She asked, suddenly staring at the two plates that I took extra care to make look as aesthetically pleasing as possible. I let out a giggle, leave it to Maria to ruin a sweet moment with her undying love for food. I can’t judge her though, I get just as excited about food as she does. “Yes they are! Now come on, we should eat them before they get cool. I know from experience that cold waffles aren’t very good.”

[hellomissmabel]

The Red Queen (1/3)

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Nat x reader, Bucky x reader

Warnings: Car crash. Someone being called a bitch.

Word count: 1.754

Summary: A small yet skilled art thief is drawn to the French Riviera to settle a score, only to be met with the surprise of a lifetime.

The prompt: The reader can erase memories, or so she thinks. In reality, she merely misplaces them. But those misplaced memories have to go somewhere, the only question is, where?

A/N: This is a mini series I’ve written while on the road. It’s not an AU (surprise surprise!) and I feel like I’m a bit rusty writing something else. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it @jurassicbarnes <3

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go down. It was supposed to be quick, an easy in and out. These past five weeks, you had meticulously studied the entire estate, including the stables, mansion and its occupants. You didn’t leave any room for mistakes or miscalculations, simply because you didn’t make any. Something else must’ve triggered the alarm, or rather, someone else.

“I am unarmed,” you state plainly, carefully turning towards to the three guards now in front of you. They are all carrying a handgun, two other knives stashed away in their monochrome uniform. Number one is already distracted, speaking into his walkie-talkie, muttering something about a young woman getting caught in the drawing room. The second guard has his eyes all set on you. He is a little overweight and therefore makes an easier target, unlike the third man who appears to be as agile as a figure skater and as strong as a body builder.

All in all, you have a 50% chance this goes sideways.

“Don’t move!,” the sturdy guard shouts, his finger ready to pull the trigger.

“It’s alright, Fred.” The third guard eyes you, his hand on the other man’s gun as he lowers it very slowly, still untrusting towards you. “Craig,” he says to the man on the walkie-talkie, “Tell Jean it’s nothing. She’s a guest, I checked her invitation upon arrival. She just got lost on her way to the bathroom, right?”

He winks shortly when his gaze lands on you again. You quickly nod, swallowing away the lump in your throat. You know for a fact he’s lying. He didn’t see you come in and he didn’t check your invitation, even though you did take the main entrance and you did have a skilfully forged invitation. But in the current situation, you don’t have the luxury to call his bluff. So you just go with it, trying not to blow your cover.

With a fake accent, you explain in perfect French that you asked one of the waitresses for directions but that you must’ve taken a wrong turn. “I simply wanted to reapply my lipstick.” You point towards your lips, painted in a deep red. “My husband... He’ll be worried, wondering why it’s taking me this long.”

You can see the shoulders of the first guard relax but the second man, Fred, still remains a stiff posture. In an attempt to make yourself sound more genuine, you add a touch of hysteria to your already high-pitched tone, nervously fidgeting with your Balenciaga.

“I didn’t know this room was under surveillance,” you say in broken English, laced with a thick, fake French accent. “Please,” you continue to plead, “I did nothing wrong.”

Fred and Craig both exchange looks with the third man who never, not even once, averted his eyes. You catch a glimpse of a smirk when he waves the men away, stating he will escort you back to the festivities. “I’m sorry for all the trouble, madame. But surely you must understand that with such an extensive art collection, the host, mister Valois, doesn’t want to take any risks.”

By now you’re sure you’re dealing with another thief, one that has wormed his way into the family’s security personnel and undoubtedly has his eye on the entire collection. Nobody goes to such great lengths for a small score. It must’ve cost him a great deal of money to get his identity together and a great deal of effort to gain the family’s trust.

He’s a professional, but so are you. “Yes,” you exhale in a long breath, still true to your act as the upset French wife. “Yes, I completely understand, monsieur.”

As he is walking you back to the garden where the party is taking place, one hand on your lower back and the other by his side, he eventually confirms your suspicions. “What piece of the collection are you after, hm?,” he hums under his breath.

When you have made sure no-one is eavesdropping on the conversation, you answer honestly. “The Monet. You?”

“My men are outside waiting for my signal. At midnight, there will be a diversion,” he nods in the direction of the ice sculpture. Behind it, people have gathered in anticipation of the fireworks. “Make sure you’re gone by then.”

“No problem. Still have enough time to secure my pay check and steal that Monet.”

He chuckles darkly, his hand on the small of your back curling around your waist in a vice-like grip. “You can forget about that, missy. The Monet belongs to my employer. And thanks to your little stunt back there, nobody will suspect me now.”

“Let go of me,” you hiss through clenched teeth. “You triggered the alarm on purpose!”

You’ve immersed the heart of the festivities and he finally lets go of you. “I’m the puppeteer,” he grins as he takes a bow. “And I believe my reputation proceeds me.”

“The puppeteer,” you mull the name around in your mouth like a bad taste.

He is one of the most wanted thieves in the art business, a well-known name on the black market. He can get you anything, from a long-lost Picasso to a highly desired Ensor from a private collection. But this kind of service also comes at a price, one only a very select clientele can afford to pay. He also likes to take his time, creating elaborate alibies as well as eliminating any competition.

He’s seen your face, so you’re as good as dead. But you’ve got a couple tricks up your sleeve, too.

Inching close enough, your lips hovering over his in a small smile, you cup his face and look into his eyes. “My name is Y/N Y/L/N. I believe my name must ring a bell.”

For a moment, disbelief is written all over his face. But as soon as you’ve uttered those words, they have been erased from his mind. His eyes are locked with yours as you search his mind for any traces of your encounter now and earlier.

He blinks a few times and you release him, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. “This is for Monaco,” you whisper into his ear as you repeat the gesture, cradling his face in your hands and keeping his eyes on you until they turn expressionless, all memories wiped away. You’ve made him a blank slate.

“This is for ruining my life,” you tell him as you take a step back, “It was me you ran off the road while you were being chased by the police for stealing that Van Gogh. This is your judgement day.”

Taking out your cell phone from your clutch, you dial the number of the French police. Again in impeccable French, you tell them you’ve seen masked men enter the premises, followed by a description of the security guard that let them in. Immediately hanging up afterwards, you toss the phone in a nearby fountain, certain they will never trace it back to you.

At the makeshift car park, your eyes scan for an easily accessible car. Your heels click against the concrete floor as you find yourself an easily accessible car that will blend in nicely. It’s sleek and black and unlocked, one of the biggest mistakes made my rich people who think that the valet will take it all off their hands. Unfortunately for them, this valet didn’t even bother pressing that one little button. Luckily for you, you’ve got yourself a getaway car now.

Opening the door to the driver’s side, you slide into the seat and attempt to start up the ignition. Once the right wires have been crossed, the engine roars under your awakening touch, purring like a cat being caressed once your rest your hand on the steering wheel.

“Let’s see what this baby can do,” you smirk to yourself, pulling away and pushing the engine to a greater and greater speed until the houses and the city flashes by in an imperceptible way. Everything has become a blur and so has your life’s purpose. Dissolved. Erased.

Turning the radio up, another pop song blasting through the speakers, you block out the oblivion tingling your mind. But not long after you’ve put the party behind you, a charcoal grey motorcycle turns up on your left side, approaching fast. It’s impossible to discern whether the driver is male or female, the leather blending seamlessly with the darkness of night. This sets off an alarm bell, but it’s nothing you can’t handle.

You decide to take an unexpected turn, spiralling down more narrow streets where the car poses a tight fit. It’s a silent drive down an unfamiliar track, with no GPS signal to guide you to the other end. But you know the French Riviera like the back of your hand and all roads eventually wind up together. You’ll find your way back in the nick of time. At least you’ve lost that fishy motorcycle.

A loud thud forebodes the screeching tyres that follow as your hands claw at the steering wheel. The motorcycle has returned and has now proceeded to push you off the road. If this were your own car, you’d always keep a gun at your disposal. But now you’re left completely defenceless, your only option the safety of this car. Nevertheless, the person on the motorcycle is already one step ahead of you, pulling out their own gun and shooting at your tyres. The car spins out of control and if not for your seatbelt, you would’ve flown out of the vehicle within seconds before the crash.

Your head feels like it’s no longer attached to your neck and your eyes are falling shut under the impact of the collision. The lead taste of blood fills your mouth as a dark figure shows up in the corner of my eye, the motorcycle parked not far away from the crash site. You’re about to pass out when the car door, already unhinged by the accident, is ripped from the vehicle by a strong and swift hand. The person controlling the motorcycle is not a man, but a woman. A woman with red hair and sharp eyes like the daggers attached to her thighs.

“Who the fuck are you?,” you whisper with the last of your strength.

She smirks and grips your hair in a fist, pulling your head back so I’m forced to look at her. “I’m Black Widow, bitch,” she snarls before slamming your face into the steering wheel, knocking you out instantly.

Part 2

Tagging: @avengerofyourheart @a-little-hell-to-raise @marvelingatthewonder @mrshopkirk @hardcorehippos @knittingknerdy @winterboobaer @italwaysendsinafightt @viollettes @myserium @feelmyroarrrr @justareader @austinamelio @volklana @4theluvofall @bovaria @themcuhasruinedme @theoneandonlysaucymo @caplanbuckybarnes @nenyakj @amrita31199 @emilyevanston @minervaem @howlingbarnes @buchananbarnestrash @youandb @you-and-bucky @fvckingsteverogers @thatawkwardtinyperson @that-sokovian-bastard @abovethesmokestacks @marvelrevival @marvel-fanfiction @justanotherbuckydevotee @barnes-heaven @heartmade-writingbucky @buckyywiththegoodhair @captnbarnesrogers @mellifluous-melodramas @its-not-a-phase-hux @melconnor2007 @ivvitm1109 @toofuckinfabulous @ailynalonso15 @jurassicbarnes @hollycornish @delicatecapnerd @camigt1999 @learisa @curlyexpat @palaiasaurus64 @fanndas-snow-goddess @crisssivonne @yourenotrogers @tomhollandzs @xbergiex

[bangtangurlarmy]

Wings [Part 50] || Taehyung

AND THEY LIVED

Pairing - Kim Taehyung x Reader

Genre - Fantasy, Fallen Angel! AU, Fluff, Smut, Angst

Summary - With a miracle that is never before seen, Taehyung is free of a life sentence that had held him captive for centuries. And now he is finally returning to where he belongs.

Prologue ; Part 49

Taehyung had just two people to bid goodbyes to: Your mother, who had so tactfully taught him the things she'd learned, to survive and live, who had been an absolute sweetheart, and of course, just like a mother to him.

She wrapped Taehyung in a motherly embrace, her arms strong yet delicate around him as he clasped onto her. With a soft and inaudible prayer, she left him, her eyes twinkling with fondness and love, her fingers wrapping around Taehyung's own while she looked at him. 'Take care of my daughter, Taehyung. And maybe, if you think she can take it, let her know that I sent a lot of love.' Her eyes crinkled at the corners, brimming with tears that he'd never seen the woman shed. Only then did he notice the shadow of longing in her eyes - perhaps she could come too.

'No, my son. I can't possibly leave this place. You've got a chance out of hundreds of thousands, don't let that slip away.' She replied to his thought. He nodded his head hesitantly, barely trusting his voice as he took in her youthful face. Although she hadn't aged physically, Taehyung was wise enough to know that she was as old as his grandmother. He could see the deteriorating youth in her eyes, if not read it on her facial features. He hugged her again, one last time, voicing a promise to always take care of her daughter.

Next, the last person he had to say goodbye to was none other than the reason he was leaving in the first place. He'd be the one to turn him into a mortal, and sending him to the real world - to you. Taehyung walked through the massive doors that lead to the court room and immediately, his eyes fell upon his dear friend who with such grace, occupied the throne.

Dressed in robes of black, red and gold - maybe he'd never find out why his friend had an obsession with gold - Min Yoongi got to his feet, the courtier who was reading a very much boring Royal Decree, stopping his speech once he noticed the king was not even for a second paying attention to his words. With two arms spread, the kind proceeded towards his one and only close friend, his arms finding themselves wrapped around Taehyung in a hug. The last thing Taehyung would have ever expected.

The gasps and yelps that echoed in the room were proudly ignored by the two friends, who said their goodbyes in long silence. Taehyung was the first to pull away.

'I don't think I could ever thank you enough, Yoongi.' A trembling smile was set on the male's lips. The same was returned.

'You don't ever have to,' Yoongi said, his long, raven hair hiding much of his eyes. 'Ready to meet her after five long months?' Yoongi asked with mirth in his voice, as though he himself were leaving. He couldn't help it - he just felt this certain happiness to finally being able to set his friend free. And he was sure, others would follow. It could take years, and maybe millennium, but he'd never stop trying.

Taehyung nodded his head subtly, still wishing he could stay with him. The king flicked the Sinner's forehead, 'Stop it. Now, keep your thoughts quiet, I need to concentrate.'

Taehyung bit his lip as he watched the king take a few steps back, leaving a good space of two feet between them. With a deep exhale, Yoongi shut his eyes and his lips began moving in an inaudible chanting of a prayer. Or that's what it looked like to Taehyung. And then slowly, Taehyung felt his feet lift from the ground, like he was being pulled. He felt the area where his wings were attached to his skin burn, the stinging turning to a smouldering heat. It felt like his skin was melting. But he knew what was happening: He was being stripped off his wings; the same wings that were his pride, once upon a time. The same wings that Yoongi had deemed useless to reattach.

Then it struck him - this was planned way before Taehyung had understood the young man who still had his eyes closed - his lips still moving in silence. A perfect score for Min Yoongi, the King of the Underworld.

He would've smiled at him if it weren't for the vanquishing pain. His throat tore as he let out a feral scream, a weight suddenly lifting off his back and the pain residing in its own pace. His shoulders sagged, and he noticed how high he'd gotten off the floor. Perhaps around ten feet. He watched Yoongi, his eyes feeling droopy as he did so, but he wanted to remember him - his first friend in this cruel world.

He kept watching even as the king's eyes opened, the court room in hushed silence as they too watched the miracle. A word they never thought would come to reality in a realm like this. In a realm so cruel, hope was all lost the moment foot was stepped onto the gravel. Yoongi looked up at Taehyung, who now had lost all his traits that had once kept him tied to Kronell. Taehyung felt his vision blacken, but fought against it. Longer, he pleaded with his body; he wanted to stay with Yoongi a little longer, even if he stood ten feet below him. Yoongi sent him a winning smile, 'My mother loved gold! So it naturally became mine as well!' He laughed as he watched Taehyung disappear - his form vaporizing into thin air, never to return again.

Ah, Taehyung grinned as he slipped into darkness. He found out why Yoongi loved the color, after all.

'Never forget me, Taehyung,' Yoongi whispered, his friend finally disappearing from his kingdom forever, 'And I'll never forget you.'

You stared at the graduation cap and gown that hung on the wall right beside your bed. It was there as a reminder of how much time had actually passed. Calendars just seemed to tell you when Jin, Jimin, Hoseok and Taehyung had left you.

Your eyes averted to the picture beside the gown - to your class photo. The last memories you had of your friends at University, and a spot right above you remained empty - it had been reserved for Hoseok. You swept two fingers over the spot.

It had been a week since your graduation.  And you'd surprised yourself by passing the finals with the highest distinction. You'd won yourself offers at many top-notch companies. It was like you life was set. But, that could wait. For now, you just wanted to take a break and organize yourself.

Your fingers curled and uncurled, them feeling stiff all of a sudden. Bringing your palms up to your line of vision, you ran your sight along the two long scars than ran the diagonal length of your palm. It had come from holding that feather-dagger so many months ago.

But for some reason, it felt just like yesterday.

Sighing, you walked away from the wall and towards your balcony. You looked out the window - it was a fairly pleasant day, the sky was slightly cloudy with warm breeze blowing through your hair. But even with the whistling of the wind, the house felt empty - silent.

Naturally it would: Jungkook had left just two days after your graduation with his group to the States. They had more polishing to do before they could debut - years long dream of your younger brother. And you prayed for that to become reality, every day without fail. Your lips parted into a smile as you remembered the day of your graduation. Jungkook had been such a sweetheart and attended your graduation, and had then later taken you out to dinner.

'But, I don't think you can afford this, Kook.' You'd told him. He simply waved your remark away, his god-forsaken smirk planted on his face.

'You're my sister, Y/N. And you have no idea how proud I am to have you as my family. So, Y/N,' he'd said, pulling out the chair and letting you sit before taking his place in front of you, 'why don't you enjoy this moment while it lasts? Because I can assure you I won't ever be able to take you out on a dinner like this again.' He'd joked, and you'd laughed heartily along with him. That night felt right - and after so long, you'd finally felt genuinely happy. And throughout the night, Jungkook had been a gentleman you'd never thought him to be. Whoever he would find, would definitely be the luckiest.

You trudged out of your room and shuffled your way into the kitchen. Maybe you should try to make some coffee. It'd been months since you'd last had one. Or even made one.

Taehyung woke up in a dimly lit alley. He flinched when he saw a rat scurrying close to his leg. 'Out of all the places he could've left me,' Taehyung began mumbling as he picked himself up, dusting himself with his hands, 'he picked an alley. Great move, Min Yoongi. Totally appreciate it.' Taehyung scoffed playfully at his own words. Then he froze.

How long had he been out? A day? Hours?

His hand instinctively came up as he looked at his wrist. He clicked his tongue. Of course he didn't have a watch with him...what was he thinking? But with the sufficient light that seeped into the ally, he prayed it was only post afternoon. First, he'd have to get out of the alley and maybe get himself to smell fresh if he'd really spent a day in here - he raised his arm and sniffed his armpit. He was impressed - he wasn't stinking at all.

Second, he'd have to find your apartment. He prayed he remembered how it looked, if not your floor.

Then third, he'd have to meet you. God, he was feeling nauseous already.

He walked towards the light and found himself on a mildly busy footpath as he emerged from the darkness. Great, now to search for your apartment. He looked around, his eyes blatantly searching the area and then when he was just about to turn around to the opposite direction, he took a double take.

A familiar apartment stood a few blocks away, the gates looking way more familiar to him. A grin ripped his lips apart.

Dodging and twirling, he made his away through the mild crowd and ran as fast as he could towards the apartment - more specifically, the gates. His ripped jeans made it all the more easier to run as he closed in on the gates of the apartment residence. He slowed down as he reached closer, jogging turning to walking before he finally stood in the same place he'd first kissed you on a chilly night, and said goodbye to you, for what he thought was forever. And now here he was, standing in that exact spot again, staring at your building, his eyes immediately finding a lit window on the tenth floor. He knew where you lived! He remembered!

Calming his breath, he inhaled deeply before walking towards the gates that opened upon his arrival, the guard barely sparing him a glance while Taehyung watched the incredulous man in a scrutinizing manner. He was different. Perhaps the previous had left as well. Shrugging his shoulders, he jogged through the entrance of the apartment and had gone straight to the lift. His heart was beating like a sledgehammer pounding against concrete. With shaky hands, he pressed the number ten among the other buttons in the elevator, the world now seeming to slow down a great deal.

He watched as the numbers proceeded one by one, way slower than his heart was pumping. There's no rush. Absolutely no rush at all. But his impatient tapping of feet on the floor of the elevator and fidgeting of his fingers screamed otherwise.

Then when he finally felt his heart beat reducing to a normal pace, the elevator dinged, and opened. It was the tenth floor already. His pulse skyrocketed. He felt sweat accumulate around his hairline, his palms wiping themselves on the sides of his jeans.

Butterflies fluttered around like crazy in his stomach as he approached your door and finally stood in front of it.

Digest them! He reprimanded himself. Clearing his throat, he extended a fist, ready to knock on the door. He was just about to, but he pulled his arm back. Possibilities that he hadn't thought about before, came crashing down: What if you'd left? What if you weren't living in the area anymore? Or in the country? Would all of this be in vain?

He pondered over puerile thoughts, having a very much dramatic melee with himself. If Yoongi had been there, he'd probably knock him out and then ring the bell, leaving Taehyung to get embarrassed over his actions. But Yoongi wasn't here to reprimand him now.

It was now or never. His friend had sacrificed too much for this. He couldn't just let it break apart.

But if you were really gone...

He punched his fist onto the doorbell. Then his eyes widened as he began cursing silently at the pain that shot through his arm.

You heard the bell ring.

Groaning loudly, you rolled your eyes at the unmade coffee and began making your way to the door. Was the landlord dumb? You were not ready to give the extra room, in this case, Jungkook's room for rent! And this was his third visit today. If he had come again with a random person who was looking for a place to live, you'd probably shove one of your slippers into his face. Not bothering to look through the peephole, you were already complaining as you began opening the door.

'Look, Mr. Lee, I told you-' You words stopped as you saw a man in front of your door bent forward, clutching his fist. He straightened almost instantly, knocking the air out of your lungs as a familiar scent rushed towards your nose, your eyes taking a second longer to interpret the identity of the blond man who stood in front of you wearing ripped jeans and a shirt, never having looked so fine before.

'Taehyung...' Your voice came out as a whisper, your eyes probably as wide as saucers - mirroring his.

And then that moment of shock broke, and you flung yourself onto the man.

Taehyung grunted as he caught you in his arms, wrapping them tightly around your waist with a silent chuckle and dipping his head into the crook of your neck, taking your scent in as he relished the feeling of you in his arms. He walked into the apartment, his leg kicking the door close. Then he just stood there, holding you in his arms while you cried your eyes out onto his shoulder.

Hours later, you were still finding the fact that Taehyung, the same man whose mate you were - and still are - he assured you, was laying right beside you on your bed, your head currently resting on his chest that raised and fell, his heart finally beating in rhythm, unbelievable. His fingers played with your hair while his other hand ran soothingly the length of your arm.

'What are you thinking?' Taehyung questioned, and for a second, he felt weird for asking so. Because the first thing he'd be able to do was listen to your thoughts. But now that he was very much a mortal, he had things to adjust to.

'You're on my mind. Just, you.' You replied without hesitation. He sighed, his hand stilling against your arm before he used his fingers to tip your head, making you look at him. He placed a firm kiss on your lips, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake, as he gazed right at you.

'I'm with you now, Y/N. And I'm never leaving you again.' He promised.

And for the first time in five months, you slept soundly that night.

Next morning you awoke to a sunny day, the light almost blinding you as you opened your eyes. Your hand stretched over the mattress and you felt the cold sheets, making your eyes snap open. You jolted upwards, the comforter almost falling off your naked chest as you got ready to shout Taehyung's name.

You opened your mouth, when the door to your room opened and a shirtless Taehyung walked in, two cups in his hands. 'Good morning, love.' He knelt on the mattress and leaned over to peck you on the lips. You stared at him wide eyed before everything settled well in your mind. You had to stop being so paranoid. And what Taehyung asked next, did just that.

'Coffee?'

THE END.

Now to finish my pending requests - I’m so sorry for the delays. *Sweats nervously*

[perpetually-jungshook]

Jungkook: 50% Cotton

Genre: awkward shy Jungkook, 100% fluff, the lightest sprinkle of smut, based on this request

Warnings: CRINGECRINGECRINGE

Word Count: 6.1k

A/N: AS PROMISED, BEFORE THE END OF THE WEEKEND. So because there was no setting suggested except “dorm,” which to me means uni is involved, I kind of took a little bit a lotta bit of creative liberty. I also added Hobi because… why not? Haha~ Hope you enjoy!!

Sequel: 50% Polyester (Rated M- as in, it’s literally just fluffy smut)

You stare at the silver, white, and gold fish as they lazily swim around the pillars, a sight that still leaves you with a small prickling feeling at the back of your neck. Although, the more you come here, the less you seem to notice.

Even though you go to school in the middle of a big city, it’s been a while since you’ve actually legitimately gone “out” in the conventional sense of the term. For the past couple years, all you’ve done is vault the turnstiles, sneak onto the train with a group of friends, and ride out to an abandoned, flooded mall. There’s nothing to do except sit, talk, drink, smoke, and watch as a few smart men occasionally come by to feed or collect a sizable portion of the trapped fish. It’s not glamorous, but it rarely costs money and it gives you somewhere to be that’s not your dorm.

Loud laughter draws your attention. You would recognize it anywhere. Jung Hoseok.

You can’t help but smirk as his new girlfriend yelps helplessly, almost slipping on a stray patch of slippery moss. It’s her… second time coming to the mall? If he keeps her around, she’ll get used to it, but by the look on her face, you’re starting to think she might not want to.

Is she prettier than you? You don’t think so. Smarter? Maybe, but judging by the name-brands she’s wearing, probably not. Better in bed? For the two years you’d been together, you’d only slept with Hoseok maybe five or six times due to complicated work and class schedules.

That might be why he chose her over you. Well, this is the third “her” so far, but you can’t ever seem to pinpoint the reason they would be more qualified-

Why are you thinking about this? You should be over him and his ridiculously attractive smile, contagious laugh, and genuinely caring personality. The two of you broke up half a year ago. Okay, he broke up with you and you are still a little put off by it, but he’s a good guy, a great friend. You want to hate how nice he is, but you really can’t.

Alright, confession time. Hoseok was the one who first brought you here and introduced you to your current group of friends, the fifteen or so that make the thirty minute ride to the mall every weekend. You secretly wish this wasn’t the case, namely because it makes you feel like you depend on him. But at this point, what can you do?

You love him, even if it’s no longer in the romantic sense of the term. It’s ridiculous, but you do love Jung-

“This seat taken?”

Your gaze laboriously travels away from Hoseok and his new girlfriend to find Jungkook standing next to you, hands clasped behind his back, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet.

“Kook, you don’t need to ask to sit next to me,” you laugh, scooting over to make room.

“I know,” he shrugs, fitting himself snugly between your hip and the small edge that lines the side of the escalator.

“So how’s your girlfriend?” you tease, resting your elbows on your knees and your chin on the heel of your palm.

“She’s not…” Jungkook’s cheeks dust with vibrant pink as he sighs loudly. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Right, she only stares at the back of your head for an hour every other day,” you say, jabbing him playfully with your elbow, brightening his blush.

He clears his throat, “I don’t really think she does…”

“But Jimin swore he saw it happen at least five or six times.”

He pouts humorously, kicking idly at the surface water that sits just a couple steps down, creating ripples that scare away a few of the fish, voice low, “You and I both know Jimin makes shit up to give you guys fuel to make fun of me.”

You pull him into a headlock- well, as close to a headlock as physically possible considering he’s taller than you and you’re in a rather confined, precarious space, “And it works. Look at you, Kook, flustered. What a cutie.”

“H-hey, lemme go.”

“Make me.”

You’ve always been fond of Jungkook. He’s a bit younger than everyone else, but he never smokes (unlike Yoongi, who’s level of saltiness is in direct correlation with how stoned he is), he never drinks (unlike Tae and Jimin, who seem to hold their alcohol with the best of them), he doesn’t bring around a new girl every week (unlike Seokjin and- lord knows where Namjoon and his dates always disappear to), and he definitely, most importantly, isn’t Jung Hoseok.

While none of these things are necessarily deplorable (except trying to sneak a very smashed Tae and Jimin back on the train to go home), it’s always pleasant to be able to have a sober conversation with a guy who isn’t trying to stick their tongue down someone’s throat.

But then again.

“You asked for it,” he growls playfully and wraps an arm around your waist, scooping you up, over his shoulder.

“Jeon, put me down.”

“But you told me to make you let go.”

You start struggling- well, more like wiggling, your kicks and punches half hearted at best. It doesn’t help that both of you are laughing. As if it’ll make you stop, Jungkook suddenly leans dangerously over the side of the long-broken, unmoving escalator, dangling you just a meter over tepid water.

You’re eighty percent sure he won’t drop you accidentally. While you don’t hang out with him outside of the mall, his muscles suggest he works out. Frequently. So he can probably hold your weight just fine. But would he drop you purposefully? After taking that question into consideration, the percentage drops down to about fifty.

“I didn’t ask for you to throw me into the fish water,” you squeal, now clinging onto him desperately, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Okay, okay, if you’ll stop moving I’ll-”

His body suddenly lurches forward as what’s left of the escalator’s railing gives under your collective weight. Jungkook is fortunate enough to be standing, so he’s able to drop to his hands and knees, but this is the very movement that causes you to plunge right into the dirty fish water. To his credit, you only had less than a meter to fall, the water isn’t too deep, and he does catch you. Sort of.

With a tremendous splash, your butt, thighs, and waist dive beneath the water line, but your knees, catching on the escalator steps, and arms, still wrapped around Jungkook’s neck, are what save you from total humiliation. He pulls you up with a quick jerk of his arm, water spilling and cascading back into the stagnant pond.

“OhmygodI’msorry,” the words spill out of his mouth so fast you can barely tell where one ends and the other begins. “Ididn’tmeantodothat!”

“It’s fine,” you squeak, trying to ignore the slimy feeling that now coats your clothes, which is hopefully only psychological.

“No, it’s not,” his eyes are wide with panic as his hands ghost over you, inspecting for you-don’t-know-what. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“But you’re soaking wet-”

“Everything okay down there?”

Both of you look up to see Hoseok and a few other faces peering down over the skeleton of the second floor railing. He looks concerned, but his girlfriend is clearly (poorly) hiding a smirk. To be fair, you criticized her clumsiness earlier, so you can’t really fault her for being amused.

“All good,” you shout back, forcing a laugh. “Kookie and I are just playing.”

Hoseok gives you a comically suspicious nod before turning back to his other friends to continue their conversation. Relieved, your attention swivels back to Jungkook.

“I can’t believe you dropped me,” there’s no malice in your tone.

“I really didn’t mean to,” Jungkook says, dropping his head. “It just… broke.”

You sigh, reaching up to ruffle his hair, “I know. It wasn’t your fault. I forgive you. But now look at my clothes, Kook. They’re soaked with fishy shit water. Do I wash them? Or just throw them away later?”

“Are you going to wear them if you wash them-? Oh no… you’re going to have to sit in this the whole train ride back,” he whispers, eyes growing wide with realization. You hadn’t thought of that and now the smallest bit of saltiness permeates through your mood. “Wait, I have an idea.”

Jungkook grabs your wrist and leads you up the broken escalator to the second floor, then continues walking away from your group of friends.

“Where are we going?”

Your companion doesn’t answer, merely turning a corner and taking you a few meters into the hazy darkness of an empty shop that probably sold food before the whole mall was shut down and abandoned. Confusion turns to panic as Jungkook starts stripping.

“What are you doing?” you ask, feeling the color leave your face.

“Giving you something to wear that isn’t covered in fish water. How much of your clothes got wet? Sweater and jeans for sure- but like…bra?” there’s a bluntness to his tone that might be taken for casual comfortableness, but you’ve known him too long to mistake what he’s really feeling for something so simple. He’s mortified.

“I’m not wearing a bra,” you readily admit, mostly to tease him. If the light wasn’t so dim, you were sure he’d be blushing furiously. “I didn’t think I’d be taking off my sweater.”

“I- I’ll turn around, but here,” Jungkook extends his hoodie, leaving him in a simple black tee shirt. It’s only mid fall, but the temperature will start dropping soon.

“Kookie, thank you, but you’ll be cold.”

“Just take it. Think of it like an apology,” he turns around, crossing his arms firmly over his chest, and despite the low lighting you can tell he’s gone completely rigid with nerves. But why? You’ve known each other long enough, even if your relationship was mostly peripheral, that you don’t feel uncomfortable.

Shrugging, you put your back to him and pull your heavy sweater over your head, letting it fall to the floor with a wet slap. The cool air of the abandoned mall tickles across your bare skin, causing you to shiver. So without hesitation, you slip into the hoodie and zip it up, amused as the hem falls to your thighs and the sleeves easily engulf your hands.

“Can I turn around now?”

“Yes.”

Even in the dark, you can see him smile fondly, “I would give you my pants too… but that might be weird.”

“Just a little,” you laugh, picking up your sweater by the collar like it might bite you. “Now why’d you ask about my underwear?”

He audibly chokes before clearing his throat to respond, “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I clearly remember you asking about my bra,” you tease, settling into the soft, comfortable warmth of his jacket.

“Lies. Pure, unadulterated lies,” he huffs, following you out of the shop and back toward the rest of the group.

You give him a playful shove but drop the subject as you approach a buzzed Jimin and a clearly drunk Taehyung. Embarrassing Jungkook is easy and fun- in fact, it’s one of your favorite pastimes at the mall, but you would never do it purposefully in front of his friends.

Thankfully, your pants (and underwear) don’t take long to dry out, but there’s no doubt in your mind that the other passengers on the train ride back notice the vague, musty smell. You get quite a few curious glances, but you don’t pay them much attention, choosing to hide behind Jungkook. He doesn’t seem to mind, only poorly suppressing a laugh every time you press your face into shoulder.

Everyone parts ways after reaching the university, either to find their cars or head back to the dorms. It’s only after reaching your room and closing your door that you realize you’re still wearing Jungkook’s hoodie.

“Oops,” you sigh, depositing your slimy sweater and pants in the hamper.

Obviously, you should return it to him. You are no jacket-stealer. But after being plunged in fish water and wearing it sans bra, you should probably wash it first. This is the logic that leads you to deem it “okay” to wear the hoodie to bed that night. After all, it’s getting washed so he won’t notice.

You wake up the next morning with both arms huddled against your chest, one of the sleeves haphazardly resting on your face, but you feel deliciously warm inside the soft confines of Jungkook’s jacket. It takes you a few minutes to stir into complete alertness, but as soon as you reach for your phone to check the time, it lights up with a text from Hoseok.

Hobi: Yongjae’s working at 5, wanna go to the mall?

Me: When do I ever say no? :P

Hobi: Just thought I’d ask after yesterday XD

Me: ;)

Hobi: You’ll need money for the ride back~

You don’t know what else to say, so you let the conversation die, a small ache in your heart. The invitation gives you hope though. About what? You aren’t sure, but as you go about completing various homework assignments or household chores (a load of laundry included), a seed of excitement begins to sprout in your chest. Who would be going today? Hoseok, obviously, and maybe his girlfriend. Yoongi has never misses a single outing and Jimin and Tae nine times out of ten manage to find their way there- but once under the influence things tend to get weird. Seokjin and Namjoon are more rare companions, but it’s not like they would want to spend time with you anyway. At least you would have Jungkook. Probably. Hopefully.

A small smile ghosting your lips, you pull the hoodie out of the laundry basket before shrugging it on, deciding wearing it will be easier than carrying it. He may have dumped you in the stagnant floodwater, but at least he had tried to help afterward. Your smile gets larger at the memory.

What a funny kid.

A cold wind nips at your cheeks and nose as you cross the campus, hands stuffed in your pockets, fingernails idly tapping against the case of your phone. Your pace is quick, knowing you left a little late and knowing there’s only a small window that Youngjae will be able to look the other way. But it gets noticeably faster as soon as you catch sight of your friends, especially one in particular.

For some reason, this time, it isn’t Hoseok.

Jungkook notices you almost immediately, his expression brightening as you call his name, running to meet him and adding, “I’ve brought your jacket.”

“Oh, right, I almost forgot. Thanks,” he laughs breathily, almost hesitantly taking the hoodie from your outstretched hands and tying it around his waist. He looks down at you for a moment, mouth opening likely in an attempt to say something, but the rest of the group begins to move so you loop your arm through his and fall into step behind Namjoon and his newest girl.

You tug on Jungkook’s sleeve, causing him to bend down slightly for you to whisper, “How long ago do you think Joon met her? One cup of instant noodles says earlier today.”

“Two cups of instant noodles says yesterday.”

“You’re on, Jeon,” your next step has a bounce in it, giving you enough momentum to rise onto your tip toes and effectively tap the tip of his nose. Jungkook recoils immediately, grumbling. You can only laugh.

Funny kid indeed.

You reach the mall in good time and everyone takes a seat near the railing that overlooks the flood water and the two broken escalators. The fish appear small from your vantage point on the second floor, but you can still easily see the dense population writhing in the murky pond.

“I bumped into Namjoon yesterday morning at the Starbucks on campus,” the girl eventually elaborates, latching onto his arm after ten minutes of pointless small talk. As the two of them continue their story, you turn to Jungkook with a frown.

He’s already smiling wickedly at you, whispering, “That’s two cup noodles for me.”

“I know. You don’t have to rub it in,” you pout, but aren’t really mad. They’re cheap, he’s your friend, and you’re the one who undershot the estimation.

“I’m not-”

“Shhhhhh,” a few specks of spit fly from Jimin’s lips as he leans over, clumsily pressing a finger to Jungkook’s face, clearly already drunk. “I’m trying to listen to a story. So shut up or get a room.”

The younger boy swallows whatever he was going to say, shyness overcoming the need to return fire at your playful banter.

Without another word, you get to your feet and pull at Jungkook’s sleeve. He gives you a questioning look, but allows you to lead him away from the group huddled in a tight circle, save Yoongi who’s lying down and staring up at the inaccessible upper floors with a frown. Just as the strong smell of weed and alcohol begin to leave your nostrils, you turn the corner and lead your only companion back into the dimly lit store in which he gave you his jacket.

“Why did we come here?” Jungkook asks, clearly just as much amused as bemused.

“Jimin wanted us to get a room, so we did,” you take a seat on the dirt dusted floor. You can still see your footprints from yesterday.

“Ah, okay,” he lets out a small hum of contentedness, taking a seat in front of you and gently scooting forward until both of your knees brush. “So… what do you want to do?”

“Let’s talk about your girlfriend,” laughing, you reach forward, slapping your hands humorously on his thighs, causing him to startle.

“But I- I don’t have a- oh her. She ‘randomly bumped into me’ outside my dorm today. I think Jimin told her where it was,” his tone is laden with distaste. “She… asked if I wanted to have coffee sometime.”

“So she is your girlfriend!” you withdraw, your smile oddly becoming a bit more forced.

Jungkook bends over a bit to rest his elbows on his knees, raking his fingers through his hair, “I said no.”

There’s a moment of silence while you gape at him, but it’s filled quickly with chirpy laughter echoing from the main part of the mall. To make it less awkward, you finally manage to form a response, well, a question, “Why?”

For as long as you’ve known him, Jungkook hasn’t had a girlfriend. He’s handsome, thoughtful, funny, and from what he’s shared with you about his classes, he’s also fairly clever. So why wouldn’t he be dating someone? You’d always assumed it was because he was shy, which is not a bad thing. In fact, you think it adds to his charm. But maybe he’s gay or something. After all, who are you to assume-?

“Are you, erm, cold?” Jungkook interrupts your train of thought and not-too-subtly changes the subject.

You hadn’t noticed until he says something, but, with the sun setting and the walkway outside the shop now painted in gold, a small chill has crept over the mall. Of course, because the you’d worn Jungkook’s jacket in order to give it back to him, you hadn’t thought to bring another.

“A little,” you admit, but shrug it off as something you’ll have to put up with because of a ridiculous oversight.

“Here,” he unzips his hoodie and places it in your lap.

You’re flattered, but you feel a little bad for taking it again, “Kook, I really don’t need-”

“I have two,” he sounds amused, untying the one around his waist to shrug it on. “I’ve just been… sitting on this one so… yknow.”

“But-”

“Just say thank you,” he laughs, taking the initiative, flinging the jacket around you so that it drapes over you like a cape. This leaves both of his hands on your shoulders and is it you or are they there for a second longer than necessary? Why do your cheeks feel so warm?

“Thanks,” your reply is unsteady, but genuine.

“N-no problem,” the smile is clear in Jungkook’s voice, but his momentary burst of self confidence has clearly eased away. Now wrapped in the warmth of his body heat and another ridiculously comfortable, much too large for you hoodie, you’re about to press him for more information about this girl mysteriously showing up outside his dorm, but a vibrating in your pocket beats you to the question.

You pull out your phone to read the new text.

Hobi: Gf is tired, I’m heading back to campus. Be safe ;)

What’s with the winky face?

Me: Same to you.

Hobi: ;DDDD

You stare at the screen, slightly confused. What is he talking about “be safe?” Why is he sending you suggestive emojis? Well, it’ll be a mystery to solve for another day. You spend the next few hours talking to Jungkook about everything and nothing. If asked, you don’t feel like you could repeat any part of the conversation accurately, but on the train ride back to campus, this strange, fuzzy, satisfied feeling keeps spreading through your chest; especially when you glance at Jungkook only to meet his gaze, causing both of you to look away. This repeats several times.

“It’s okay, you can borrow it,” he shrugs as you reach campus and attempt to give his hoodie back before yesterday repeats itself. “It’s dark out and cold and- and you can always just give it back… next time.”

Letting out an amused hum, you close the distance between you with a single step to wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face in his chest, “Thank you. Again.”

He’s stiff and it takes him a few, worryingly long seconds to return the embrace, but your anxiety melts the moment you feel his hands splay gently on your back.

His voice is quiet, “No problem.”

“See you soon, Kook.”

Sadly, you’re unable to join them the next day due to an unfinished homework assignment, which means you won’t be seeing Jungkook until the following Friday, maybe Saturday. This gives you the validation you need to start wearing the borrowed hoodie at every opportunity. Why? It’s comfortable, but it also makes you inexplicably happy. You don’t sleep in it this time, not wanting to wash it, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t part of your outfit every day until the next invitation from Hoseok.

Hobi: Youngjae’s got a shift at 6 tonight, see you there?

Me: Who’s going??

It’s a question you’ve never explicitly asked before, but the words practically type themselves.

Hobi: Mmmm, I’ll just say you won’t be disappointed ^-^

What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t reply. Whatever the case, Hoseok is right. You “accidentally” forget your jacket again and the whole song and dance repeats. Jungkook takes the hoodie and gives you a new one, you keep it for a while and return it. Weeks pass and this happens again and again. You begin looking forward to seeing him a lot more than you should. Jungkook’s shy smile, his cheerful laugh, his thoughtful disposition…

You don’t understand why he never complains about the constant exchanging of jackets. He even sometimes lets you keep them if you know you’d be seeing each other several days in a row. You’d bee lying if you said you didn’t want to keep all of them. For some reason, Jungkook’s hoodies are so much more comfortable than yours and… they smell like him, a scent that no description could do justice, a scent that always makes you smile.

The week before final exams approaches at a sprint and you receive no texts from Hoseok. This means Youngjae probably isn’t going to be at the train station. Oddly, you’re not so much disappointed by the fact that you won’t be visiting the mall, but rather at the thought that you probably won’t be seeing Jungkook. It’s strange that after about two years of knowing him, you don’t have his number to communicate directly. But you also never really thought to ask. He’s Hoseok’s friend as much as yours and you’ve only ever known him in the context of the mall. Would it be weird to ask for his contact information? Being so shy, he certainly wouldn’t ask for yours. You begin to regret not saying anything over the countless hours you’ve spent together lately.

Just as you start to lose hope, there’s a knock at your door. You open it to reveal the simultaneously most expected and least expected visitor.

“Hello,” Jungkook’s voice cracks as he greets you, causing him to wince and attempt to hide his embarrassment behind a smile. “I hope you don’t mind I found Hobi on his way to the library and asked where your dorm was and then he brought me and just… left and then I didn’t know what to do but come up here and-”

“You’re rambling,” you laugh, heart leaping into your throat with abrupt nervous excitement. “But that’s okay. It’s cute. What brings you here, Kookie?”

He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, gaze dropping to his feet, “I, ah, when only a few people showed up to go to the mall but you didn’t, I thought I might get bored without you so I figured I would see if you were busy or-”

“Rambling, Kookie.”

“Sorry! Sorry,” he sighs, pushing his hair back, away from his forehead. Pregnant pause. “What I MEANT to say was I was wondering if you still had my jacket?”

“That I do,” there’s a small sinking feeling as you realize that you now have no excuse to borrow another one. “Want to come inside while I get it?”

You figure you shouldn’t leave him outside, especially since you wanted to talk to him as much as possible and it seemed like the most casual way to add at least a little time.

“Yeah, thanks,” he shuffles into your room, taking a seat on your bed and taking off his university brand sweatshirt, placing it beside him. It’s warm in your room with the heater on, so you don’t blame him. But to be honest, it takes you a second to look away from the newly exposed skin of his arms. Who knew such a shy boy could be hiding inside of a guy with that kind of body. “Were you busy? Did I interrupt something?”

“No, no you’re fine,” you shrug, stalling looking for the hoodie so he won’t leave. You know you won’t be able to keep him here for much longer without thinking of a good excuse. It’s so strange, seeing Jungkook outside the context of the dilapidated mall, in a normal, almost homely setting. “How’s your girlfriend?”

“She’s not…” he lets out an exasperated, heavy breath. “Can I tell you something?”

“Kook, you know you can talk to me about anything.”

“I lied.”

“Y-you what?” A nervous heat rushes to your cheeks.

He pulls his legs up onto the bed, crossing them and staring at his lap, “I didn’t come here for my jacket. I… just wanted to see you.”

“Wanted to see me?” you parrot, unsure what to say. You don’t want to jump to conclusions and get your hopes up, but something starts building inside you, bubbling.

“Shit, why is this so hard?” he laughs breathily, playing with a rope bracelet around his wrist.

“Kookie, use your words,” you encourage gently, picking up the borrowed hoodie from where you’d left it on the chair in front of your desk, taking a seat next to him with it in your lap. “Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

He looks stiff, uncomfortable, nervous. A knot begins to form in your chest, constricting with a mix of excitement, curiosity, and a vague hint of fear. Why are you afraid? You’re not sure, but you suddenly feel like there’s a possibility you might lose-

“I like you,” the words are so fast, you almost miss them.

“What? Of course you like me. I mean, I hope you do. Since we’re friends and all.”

The tightness of the knot increases to a painful point. Had you heard right? Is this some kind of awful joke? Jungkook loves to tease you, but never mercilessly, never cruelly.

He lets out a whine, eyebrows knitting, “N-no. I like- I have feelings for you.”

A beat of silence.

“I have for a while but I couldn’t say anything because I was scared you’d be mad or run away and I’d never see you again and I’d rather just be friends than lose you but with finals coming up I realized I might not talk to you for a while and I had to say something and oh my god I’m exactly like that girl from my class AND I’m rambling-”

Something inside you snaps, the knot in your chest uncoiling, allowing you to push forward with the emotional momentum and close the small gap that lies like a chasm between you.

Your lips meet his.

Thankfully you chose the moment he decides to take a breath so he’s not talking and this makes the kiss less awkward. Of course, this doesn’t mean it’s not awkward.

Jungkook pulls away immediately, looking at you like you’d electrocuted him.

“Sorry-”

“Sorry-”

Embarrassment floods through you. Had you read the situation wrong? Was he not ready for that? Had you crossed a line? Wait, why is he apologizing? You voice the last question and Jungkook buries his face in his hands.

“I don’t even know. Maybe I don’t want you to rush into anything because you feel sorry for me?”

“Kookie,” the relief that floods through you is clear in your voice. He continues to avoid your gaze, again hiding behind his hands. You gently tug at his wrists. “Jungkook, please look at me.”

You never use his full name when speaking so, probably curious, he finally lets his hands drop to his lap, worried, beautiful brown eyes now visible.

“I didn’t do that because I feel sorry for you. I did it because it’s something I wanted to do for a while now,” you admit, much to your own surprise. “I’m sorry if I crossed a line though. I didn’t even ask.”

Silence.

“Can I kiss you again?” Jungkook asks, laughing nervously. “I promise it’ll be better this time.”

Instead of replying verbally, you give him a small nod and lean forward, leaving just a centimeter or two of space between your lips. He asked if he could kiss you, and you weren’t about to deny his request.

He looks surprised that you took initiative but stopped at such a close proximity. You watch his expression carefully, a smile playing at your lips as you imagine his internal dialogue. Do it. But I can’t. Yes you can. This manifests itself in his movements. Jungkook leans forward a bit, only to pull back and tilt his head slightly, only to pull back again. He bumps your nose, lets out a small laugh, and tilts his head once more.

You’re patient and appreciative that he’s trying. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable, but you want to show him that this is not something he should make him nervous. This isn’t about proof or solidifying your surety that he’s telling the truth. This is about you wanting to show Jungkook that you respect him enough to wait until he’s ready.

It takes an amusingly long thirty seconds or so for him to finally close the gap completely. His lips are soft and taste like… strawberry? You can’t help but smile at the thought of him applying chapstick earlier. You wonder if it ever crossed his mind that it would actually come to good use.

Still, Jungkook is humorously stiff, his lips unmoving against yours.

You briefly wonder if he’s ever kissed anyone period, but you push the thought to the side and bring up your hands to rest them gently against his cheeks. He should be enjoying this moment, but he’s probably too busy being anxious.

You’re not much better off, heart hammering in your chest, pulse pounding in your ears, but you still somehow manage to whisper encouragingly against his lips, “Relax.”

The fingers of one hand tangling into the hair at the back of his neck, you soothingly trace patterns along his jawline with the other and you can feel him melt into the touch. Jungkook’s shoulders fall forward a bit and despite your eyelids fluttering closed, you can feel the nervous tension slowly evaporating. It takes a few more seconds, but then he leans into the kiss, hands coming to rest on your upper arms.

The contact surprises you slightly- in the best way- and causes the smallest of shivers to tickle up your spine. But this is nothing compared to the subsequent moment when you feel his tongue press to the seam of your lips. You allow him entry immediately, eager to get a taste of the sweet boy you’d somehow come to care about so much without even knowing.

Your arms loosely wrap around his neck and you aren’t exactly sure who initiates the movement, but it doesn’t take long before the firm press of the mattress is against your back, Jungkook continuing to explore your mouth while you marvel at the soft texture of his tongue. Where had this confidence come from? He’s by no means cocky, but this couldn’t be the same Jungkook that bumped noses with you earlier.

Seconds and minutes become measured in slow breaths and gentle jaw movements as both of you continue exploring this new dimension of your friendship. Relationship? You aren’t sure and right now it doesn’t seem too important.

Jungkook’s borrowed hoodie had been in your lap, and with a good portion of his weight resting on one elbow, the cloth has become a rather big, uncomfortable lump pressing against you. It doesn’t take much effort to pull it from between your bodies, but this leaves room for Jungkook’s hips to lower directly to yours.

You feel it immediately, even through his jeans and even though he’s not completely hard. As if silently noticing it wasn’t enough, the sudden friction from the hoodie causes him to groan, a sound that shoots straight to the apex of your thighs in a wave of heat.

No sooner does the noise leave his mouth when Jungkook springs away from you, a horrified look on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he squeaks, flinching, hands pressing against his crotch in an attempt to hide his partial erection. When he deems that unsatisfactory, he stoops down to pick up the fallen hoodie and use it instead. “I’ll- I’ll just go now.”

“Kookie,” you whine playfully. “C’mon don’t be embarrassed.”

“It’s fine,” his words are quick as he shuffles to the door. “I’ll see you around.”

Just before he manages to make it across the threshold, you push yourself to your feet and jog forward, wrapping your arms around his middle, nose pressing into the space between his shoulder blades. This stops him effectively.

“I’ll definitely see you around, Kook,” you whisper, smiling at the hint of strawberry chapstick on your lips. “I know you’re not ready, but if you ever want… ah… I’ll wait for you.”

Jungkook’s body shakes with a few rapid nods before you release him and he spirits from your dorm. Maybe he won’t ever be ready for something like that with you. But you know for a fact that he’s someone you’re willing to wait for.

You walk back into your room and take a seat on your bed, running your fingers through your hair and replaying the scene in your mind’s eye over and over. You kick yourself for all the stupid things you said and wonder if there was anything you could have done to make him relax more, to make him realize that you weren’t a threat, that you are someone he can feel comfortable around.

Sighing in frustration at yourself, you lean back and almost bump you head on the wall, but something saves you. A sweatshirt. A university brand sweatshirt that is obviously far too big for you. Jungkook had left it here.

Joy spills through your chest as you now unabashedly pull it over your head. It smells like him. Getting up and turning down the heater so you’ll be able to wear the sweatshirt comfortably, you idly stuff your hands in the pocket to find a folded piece of paper?

You pull it out, examining the handwriting carefully. What’s this? It looks like a bunch of numbers… And then it dawns on you. It’s his number. His phone number. A smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you pick up your phone from your nightstand.

What a funny kid.

✩✩✩♔✩✩✩

A/N: so this turned about about 800% fluffier than I originally thought it would be... and the “smut” part is kind of lacking but I didn’t feel like it would fit with his character... I’m really bad at requests sorry 😂 but thank you, anon for putting me through this SoftKook torture for asking! Hope everyone’s having a wonderful day. 

Send me your thoughts here. Or just come say hi ;) feedback is appreciated

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Much love ~🐰 xx

[notproudofanyofthis]

Maggie May

Maggie May has a mullet. Yellow blonde that comes from a bottle. In fact, sometimes she wears a wig, which is to say, on a daily basis, she chooses to have a mullet. She once got kicked out of the American Legion for getting in a fight when another woman tried to pull off her wig. Her skin has been long sun-weathered, crinkly and creased, caked in thick foundation. She wears bright pink lipstick across her thin lips which she pulls back almost to her ears when she smiles, and blue eye-shadow to accentuate her intensely wide open, watery blue eyes. In her skin-tight denim jeans and denim jacket, she seems not to realize the rest of the world has moved on from the 80s, although she fits in with this town, where people have missed the memo about a great number of things.

How old is Maggie May? When my mother visits, Maggie May corners her and asks, “How old do you think I am?” My mom guesses, low-balling it as one must when one is cornered into guessing a woman’s age. “Nope!” Maggie May says, exultant. Leaning in, her eyes widen, as if she has a big secret to tell, and stage-whispers, “I’m 67.” My mother pretends to be shocked. “Now let me guess your age,” Maggie May says, and promptly over-estimates my mom’s age by five years.

Before I ever met her, I was warned not to talk to Maggie May. Joleen warned me first. “Becca,” she says, pinning me with her eyes, “do NOT be nice to Maggie May.” When I ask why, she simply responds, “Oh, you’ll see.”

One evening my friend Milo joins me at karaoke, and we sit next to each other at the bar. Maggie May comes up and does to Milo what she does to anyone who will listen: corners them, leans into their face, talks and talks with her wide crazy eyes, then barks a high-pitched laugh at whatever the last thing was that she said, and walks away just as suddenly as she had arrived, a petite blonde tornado. After she walks away, Milo turns to me and says, “Rebecca, you’ve gotta help me. That woman frightens me.”

The second warning to stay away from Maggie May comes from Sunny, a bar-tender whom I dated for two stupidly tumultuous months. Sunny is ten years younger than me. I was insecure about our age difference, felt like an old, unattractive, used-up, un-lovable person at the time, and Sunny said simply, “I don’t mind your age. I have a thing for older women.” In what seems to be a protective gesture, he warns me, “Stay away from Maggie May. She’s crazy.” I would dismiss his opinion as misogynist but for Joleen’s corroboration. How does Sunny know Maggie May? Maggie May dated Sunny’s brother Adam, an on-again off-again relationship Sunny’s and Adam’s step-mother has forbidden. 

The first time I chat with her (or rather, the first time she chats at me), all she talks about is Adam, who is approximately 30 years younger than her. “He’s my soul-mate,” she says. The second time she corners me at karaoke, she talks about Adam. “He’s my soul-mate,” she tells me again, always forgetting that she has told me this before. The third time we talk, she obsesses over Adam. “He’s my soul-mate,” she says, although they are not currently together. “His mom won’t let me see him,” she laments, week after week. But isn’t Adam an adult who can make his own choices? Yes, but everyone, including probably Adam himself, knows Maggie May is trouble for him. Adam has previously spent some time in jail, related to some trouble he got into, possibly with Maggie May’s assistance, possibly involving drugs.

Maggie May brings a jar of horse-radish to karaoke every week, and eats it with a spoon. At some point a mutual karaoke acquaintance sidles up to me and mutters through the side of his mouth, “Do you ever wonder if maybe there’s something else in that horse-radish?”

I am staying out at the river, on the out-skirts of town, just below the dam, at “the hatchery,” as everyone calls it, even though the hatchery has been closed for years, its doors boarded up, its windows smashed. It’s quiet here, the occasional fisherman driving in, but otherwise I have the place almost completely to myself. I am dry-docking, so I ride my bike over to the park bathroom to take a shower. I open the stall door and there, scrawled on the wall of the shower in thick black Sharpie, is a large scrolling note in girl-ish, strangely juvenile letters. The graffiti reads, “I heart Adam.”

I laugh. “Fuckin’ Maggie May,” I say to myself, shaking my head.

At karaoke, Maggie May has never not sung Loretta Lynn’s “Coal-Miner’s Daughter.” When required to sing more than one song, she starts with “Coal-Miner’s Daughter” and then moves on to another Loretta Lynn song about a phone-call break-up. Maggie May’s voice is not bad. In fact I believe she could sing more than just her favorites, but when I encourage her to take a risk and sing something new, she becomes visibly distressed, so I ease off, and we all continue listening to her repeat “Coal-Miner’s Daughter” every Tuesday and sometimes also Thursdays and Saturdays.

“Look!” she tells me, turning her back to me. She lowers her jean jacket and points to a large tattoo scrolling across her sun-weathered leathery shoulders. The tattoo says “COAL-MINER’S DAUGHTER.” I briefly wonder if she is an actual coal-miner’s daughter, but I don’t ask, because one of the things I learned early on about Maggie May is, if you show the slightest interest in her, she latches on, sometimes literally, and never lets go, basking in the sun-light of your attention like a blooming skunk cabbage.

One week Maggie May comes to karaoke and announces that she won’t be back for a month. “I’m going to Nashville,” she tells me proudly. “I’ve got a recording deal. A record producer saw me singing ‘Coal-Miner’s Daughter’ on YouTube and he wants to record me.” When she returns two weeks later, never again is there any mention of any record deal.

One night at karaoke Maggie May is distraught. She is sitting with an old, dirty-looking man. She comes over to me, her eyes wide. “That man is stalking me!” she says, almost seeming on the verge of tears.

She has told me before that various men are stalking her. This being not the first time she has a stalker, I express the right kind of empathy she’s looking for, so she continues. The story is, she has been living with this dirty old man. He bought her a car. Now, she wants to break up with him, but when she tried to do so, he threatened to take away the car. When she argues with him that he can’t take the car back because her job depends upon it, he reaches out across the bar and takes her keys. “And then he left!” she tells me. “So now I don’t have a ride home from karaoke! Do you think I should call the police? They never do anything. Can you give me a ride home? It’s only five minutes from here.”

I have gotten sucked into Maggie May’s drama, just as Joleen predicted. I already have a carpool buddy I need to take home. But reluctantly I tell her yes, I can drive her home. “Do NOT be nice to Maggie May,” Joleen’s voice nags in the back of my mind, and now I understand the portent of her warning.

Karaoke ends. Ariel and I head to my car. Maggie May runs after us and tells me, “I left my phone inside, I’ll be right back. Don’t leave without me!” Then she goes inside, and disappears. Two minutes becomes five minutes. Five minutes becomes ten minutes. Ariel wants to leave. So we leave.

The next week, she is angry with me for “abandoning” her. I tell her I didn’t know where she had gone. “It’s fine,” she says, in that voice that says it’s not really fine. “I got a ride from Mandy.”

Mandy comes over to me later, while Maggie May is elsewhere, and whisperingly fills me in on how that car ride went. Apparently, instead of a five-minute drive, Mandy ended up driving Maggie May all the way out to Caballo, a 20-minute ride at least, along a dark winding county road. “She had that Adam guy with her,” Mandy tells me, “and they made out in my rear-view mirror the entire time I drove. It was so awkward. They were practically having sex in my back seat.” When they get out to their destination in Caballo, Maggie May announces to Mandy that she just needs to go in and get something from Adam’s place real quick. Then she and Adam disappear inside the house and she doesn’t come back out for a long time. Mandy waits, and waits, and finally leaves.

After Sunny and I break apart, the subject of Sunny comes up some night at karaoke. “Weren’t you dating Adam’s brother Sunny?” Maggie May asks me pointedly.

“Unfortunately, yes,” I tell her.

“I dated Sunny too,” she says. “He’s got a thing for older women,” she says, winking at me, her cake-y blue eyeshadow sparkling.

I realize, horrified, that I am in the same category as 67-year-old Maggie May. I am An Older Woman. I feel disgusted with myself. I slept with a guy who slept with Maggie May? Ugh! And he never told me! He talked shit about Maggie May so many times, but always in the context of the crazy relationship she had with his brother Adam—never did he once mention he himself had slept with her.

(Later I find out Sunny also slept with Ashley’s mom, Susan, a 50-something meth addict with crooked teeth. When I learn this, I wonder just how much lower I can possibly sink. Bitterly, I have learned the true meaning of a joke several people have told me, which goes something like, “In this town, you don’t break up with your boyfriend, you just lose your turn.”)

But for all that, Maggie May never frightened me. Perhaps it was because I had already been inoculated by Joleen against getting sucked into Maggie May’s various dramas, but I always just gave Maggie May the one thing she wanted most, which was attention, the belief that she had a friend, someone to listen to her fast-talk. I hold my own with Maggie May, because sometimes I am able to get a word in edge-wise and surprise her with genuinely curious follow-up questions to her rapid-fire stories. One day as she swoons about Adam, her soul-mate, I ask her, “Maggie May, do you think you and Adam are *good* for each other?” And in a moment of honesty she looks at me with those watery blue eyes and says, “No, probably not,” and laughs her high laugh and flits away to chat with somebody else.