#and his exploding cufflinks.

[themalhambird]

It's WIP Wednesday!

And thanks to the Power of NaNoWriMo (but the off brand, excel spreadsheet version that's way less involved and therefore less scary) I actually have *checks notes* works in active progress!

...have some "Escape Velocity but it's all about Nero because side characters are fun and I can't write children. "

Against the backdrop of a quietly murmuring crowd, a summer breeze blowing in across the Thames, Captain Hardcourt hears Trent’s command come through his ear piece and curls his finger around the trigger of his rifle. “On your knees, Nero- hands behind your head.” “I don’t kneel.” The target’s voice is cool and cultured, smoother than silk. “For your sake…Sergeant? Commander?” “Captain,” Captain Hardcourt says, then immediately wonders why he’d given the bastard anything.  “Captain,” The target says agreeably. “For your sake, and the sake of that delightful set of squaddies behind you, might I suggest that you kindly back off?” Hardcourt scoffs. “You’re surrounded. Comrade Stiff there-” he jerks his chin as the corpse on the floor, “- isn’t going to be much help, and as for your associate…if she’s not dead already, more than a minute in the Thames with an open wound will kill her faster than you can blink.” Nero slowly blinks. Like some great cat slowly calculating how quickly it can fuck up your day while conning you in to thinking it’s a friend. He knows he’s got the high ground- he knows the numbers, the weapons, the fact of the watching crowd are all on his side, and yet…he feels just the faintest frisson of unease.  “Show me your hands,” he barks again. “Lieutenant-” he swings himself to the side, nods at Lieutenant Musgrove and steps back to give the other man the space to pull the pin on the chloroform grenade, and throw it into the capsule. At the same time Nero draws his hands from his pockets and flicks his wrists, almost faster than the eye can follow- Trent swears and jumps back as the sound of two independent explosions feed back into his headset via twelve different microphones.

[be4chywritez]

trophy boyfriend | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x actress!reader

rec: can you PLEASE do like a actress!reader x quinn hughes and like hes just a dork around her

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

The hum of soft jazz plays in the hotel suite as your glam team moves around you like a well-oiled machine. A makeup artist dabs at the corner of your lips, a stylist adjusts the sparkling hem of your designer gown, and a hairstylist puts the final touches on your updo.

Across the room, Quinn is struggling with his cufflinks.

You glance at him through the mirror, watching as he frowns down at the small buttons, his fingers fumbling slightly. It’s adorable, really—the way this man can maneuver a puck at lightning speed but is absolutely defeated by formalwear.

With an amused sigh, you wave off your team.

“Okay, okay, I got it from here,” you say, standing up and making your way over.

Quinn lets out a breath of relief. “Thank god.”

You shake your head, taking his wrist in your hands. “You are an Olympic athlete,” you tease, carefully fastening the cufflink. “You have literal hand-eye coordination of steel. But this? This is what beats you?”

He huffs. “These things are impossible.”

You smirk, moving onto the next one. “They’re not impossible, babe.”

Quinn just watches you, his expression softening. The way your fingers move with ease, the way you’re so gentle with him, the way you look so stupidly beautiful up close.

And then, before he can stop himself—

“Jesus,” he breathes, low and awed. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Your fingers pause.

The words hit you straight in the chest, so raw, so genuine that it makes you blink up at him.

A slow smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah?”

Quinn nods, completely transfixed. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing over the fabric of your dress. “Like—so beautiful. I don’t even—” He exhales, shaking his head, almost in disbelief. “—I don’t even have words for it.”

You bite back a grin. “You just said a whole sentence, love.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple. “You know what I mean.”

You do. And the warmth in your chest tells you it’s mutual.

The luxury black SUV glides through the streets of Los Angeles, the distant flashes of cameras already visible as you near the venue.

Quinn shifts slightly beside you, adjusting the cuffs you helped him with earlier. He looks perfect—classic black tux, tousled hair, sharp jawline that’s gonna make Twitter implode in approximately thirty minutes.

But you can tell he’s a little on edge.

“You okay?” you ask, placing a hand on his knee.

Quinn glances at you, then lets out a small huff. “I just—” He rubs a hand over his face. “I feel like I don’t belong here.”

You tilt your head, squeezing his knee. “Why?”

He gestures vaguely. “I mean, look at me. I play hockey. My idea of a big night is, like… eating pasta before a game and going to bed by ten.”

You smile. “Sounds like a riveting lifestyle.”

“I’m serious,” he mutters, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

You soften, lacing your fingers with his. “Quinn, you do belong here. I wanted you here, with me. No one else. Just you.”

He glances at you then—really looks at you. The sincerity in your voice, the way you’re still holding his hand even when the cameras outside are waiting to catch every move.

And maybe… maybe he does belong here.

Or at the very least—he belongs with you.

The second your car door opens, the lights and noise explode.

You step out first, flashing an effortless smile, moving through the flashing cameras like second nature.

Quinn follows.

And immediately freezes.

The sheer volume of photographers, the shouted questions, the flashes—it’s all so different from the controlled environment of a post-game media scrum.

His expression doesn’t change, his posture stays stiff. He doesn’t react.

Except—when he looks at you.

You turn back, reaching for his hand. The second he takes it, his fingers curling around yours, something shifts. His shoulders drop slightly, his face loses the blank tightness.

The cameras eat it up—Quinn Hughes, usually stoic, softening the moment you touch him.

But the second you turn away to answer a question, he’s back to looking completely out of place.

The interviewers try.

“So, Quinn! How does it feel being at the Oscars with Y/N tonight?”

He blinks. “Uh… it’s cool?”

A beat of silence.

The interviewer laughs politely. You don’t even try to hide your smirk.

Quinn, to his credit, doesn’t crumble. But you can sense it—the way his hand tightens slightly in yours, the way his jaw tenses.

He’s not freaking out, but he’s not loving it either.

You make a quick decision.

Instead of lingering for more interviews, you squeeze his hand and lean in. “Let’s go inside.”

Quinn doesn’t hesitate.

As you lead him through the last waves of flashing cameras and into the safety of the venue, you feel it—his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

Like a silent thank you.

And when you glance up at him, finally out of the public eye, he gives you a small, private smile.

It’s the first real one of the night.

The theater is breathtaking—warm lights reflecting off golden décor, a hum of energy rolling through the crowd, the biggest names in Hollywood all gathered in one place.

At your table, Quinn sits beside you, his hand resting casually on your knee under the table. His touch is warm, grounding, everything you need to keep yourself from overthinking.

The show moves on, category after category, but as the night stretches on, so do your nerves.

And then—

“And now, the nominees for Actress in a Leading Role…”

Your name flashes across the massive screen, the camera cutting to you at the exact moment your heart slams against your ribs.

You don’t move.

You’re hyper-aware of the way your breathing slows, of how the applause fades into a quiet hum in your ears.

Then—Quinn’s hand tightens around yours.

You glance over.

His thumb sweeps over your knuckles—soft, steady, like he’s reminding you that no matter what happens, he’s right there.

"You got this," he murmurs. So sure.

Your pulse steadies. You squeeze his hand back.

The presenter opens the envelope.

“And the Oscar goes to…”

The pause stretches.

Your stomach flips.

And then—

They say your name.

For a moment, the world stops.

Your mind blanks, heart hammering, ears ringing. You barely register the way the crowd erupts, the way your co-stars cheer.

But Quinn?

Quinn is already on his feet.

He’s not over-the-top, but he’s clapping immediately, beaming. It’s pure instinct—his entire face lit up, dimples deep, eyes wide with pride, awe, love.

You push your chair back, standing on shaky legs, but before you go anywhere—before you even think about stepping onto that stage—you turn to him.

You throw your arms around his neck, holding onto him first.

His arms wrap around your waist without hesitation, his grip strong, his warmth grounding you.

And just as you pull away, you press a quick, breathless kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Then you’re moving—up the stairs, onto the stage, into the blinding lights, the golden statue placed in your hands.

You thank your director, your cast, your team. You keep it short, simple, heartfelt.

And then, just before you finish, your eyes drift back to where Quinn is still standing.

He’s still clapping, still smiling. Like you just hung the stars.

“And, of course,” you add, a small smile pulling at your lips, “to the person who reminded me every day that I could do this. Who never let me believe otherwise. Thank you, Quinn.”

The second you step behind the curtain, Oscar clutched in your hand, your heart still pounding, your eyes immediately scan for him.

It doesn’t take long.

Quinn is waiting just a few feet away, standing with his hands in his pockets, his smile so big it’s practically blinding.

And before he can say anything—before he can even move—

You run straight into him.

He barely has time to react before you throw your arms around his neck, jumping up slightly as his arms come around you.

He catches you with ease, his laugh warm against your ear.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your hands cradling his face. His skin is warm, his smile softer now, his hands still holding you tight like he’s not quite ready to let go.

“You did it,” he murmurs, voice full of something so deep, so real. “I knew you would.”

Your fingers brush over his cheek. “You sure?” you tease. “Because I seem to remember some panicked, middle-of-the-night doubts.”

Quinn huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, and I seem to remember talking you down from every single one.”

You grin, pressing your forehead to his. “I guess I should start listening to you more often, huh?”

He smirks. “You definitely should.”

A photographer calls your name softly, reminding you where you are, but neither of you move just yet.

You look at Quinn. He looks at you.

And then—

You kiss him. Soft, sure, just enough.

And when you pull back, he just grins, shaking his head like he still can’t believe you’re real.

Before you can say anything else, a stage manager ushers you onto a small carpet where reporters and interviewers lined up.

"How are you celebrating tonight?" the reporter asks, microphone extended toward you.

You barely hesitate. "Probably get In-N-Out with my boyfriend."

The press room bursts into laughter.

Quinn, just a few feet away, shakes his head but can’t hide his smile.

-

The smell of fresh burgers fills the car, the golden statue sitting between you in the backseat.

Quinn takes a sip of his drink, glancing over at you. "So, this is how an Oscar-winner celebrates?"

You tear open a packet of fries. "This is how I celebrate."

Before he can respond, your phone starts buzzing.

Jack.

You roll your eyes and answer, putting it on speaker.

Jack’s voice immediately fills the car. "HOLY SHIT."

Luke’s right behind him. "SHE ACTUALLY WON."

You laugh, reaching for your burger. "You guys stayed up to watch?"

"Duh," Jack says. "Quinn, dude, how the hell did you pull this off?"

Quinn groans. "Good to hear from you too, Jack."

Luke is still processing. "I mean, we always joke about you being the most unexpected couple ever, but like… you really went and did it."

Quinn just shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

And you?

You just squeeze his hand, because you wouldn’t want to be celebrating with anyone else.

You’re back home, fresh out of the shower, warm and sleepy as you crawl into bed next to Quinn.

The Oscar sits on the dresser.

Quinn rolls onto his side, watching you as you settle against the pillows. His hand drifts across your hip, his touch absentminded, lazy.

You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “You tired?”

He hums. “Not as tired as you.”

You yawn—completely proving his point.

Quinn laughs, tucking you closer, his warmth melting into yours.

“Night, Oscar-winner,” he murmurs against your hair.

You smile against his collarbone. "Night, Hughes."

[strayingawayy]

series: love me two times

businessman minho! x former one night stand reader (and soon to be spouse)

chapter 2: trending naked

read introduction here

chapter 1

word count: 2500 words

WARNINGS: strong language, sexual content, emotional manipulation, toxic family dynamics, power imbalances, alcohol use, eventual gun violence, blood and injury, blackmail, surveillance, themes of control, secrecy, betrayal, repression, psychological tension under the guise of romance, dubious business dealings, manipulation via arranged marriage, and consistent, unapologetically bad decision making from most, if not all, characters involved. british humour. in case you all pussy out from that.

A/N: after a month of banging my head, here's chapter 2. i'm not that proud to present it but i sincerely hope you all enjoy it. to a certain extent atleast.

playlist.

─── Some things weren’t meant to be seen.

Not by cameras. Not by friends. Certainly not by the entire world before breakfast. Some truths weren’t meant to come out, not this fast, not like this, and definitely not with a scandal trending in thirty countries.

And some mornings…

Well, some mornings arrive like a car crash in slow motion—silent, bloody, and impossible to stop. This was one of those mornings.

And by nightfall, it wouldn’t be the only thing that had exploded.

Because the scandal was just foreplay.

Minho doesn’t give too many fucks. That, perhaps, is exactly why the media can’t get enough of him. His reputation for ignoring paparazzi—walking past flashbulbs like they were beneath him, brushing off scandal like lint from his shoulders—only fuels the curated image the world has built for him: rich, cold, handsome.

The kind of man who never apologises, never chases, never looks back.

A man with cufflinks that cost more than most people’s rent and a gaze sharp enough to file lawsuits.

He never fails to live up to the version people have conjured of him: an aloof enigma who seems to have stepped straight out of a bloody Wattpad story with a dark past, a tailored coat, and a five-star attitude. Ice in his veins. Designer cologne on his skin. The untouchable heir to a corporate empire.

Which is why it was, in fact, utterly unacceptable that he had woken up to find himself trending worldwide.

Naked.

Trending naked.

His bed, once a haven of order and pristine thread counts, was now a battlefield of duvet limbs and existential panic. And just as he stirred—blissfully unaware that his dignity had been annihilated in high definition—his bedroom door was kicked open with the force of a raid.

“BLOODY HELL, MINHO, WAKE UP, YOU ABSOLUTE WEAPON!”

Three things happened in rapid succession.

First: his brain registered Han Jisung’s voice at an inhumane decibel level.

Second: his eyes opened to the sight of said menace launching himself bodily onto the bed.

Third: he was being shaken so violently he momentarily forgot his own name.

“YOU’RE ON THE NEWS,” Jisung screamed, as though this were the beginning of a film and not, as it would turn out, the single most embarrassing day of Minho’s entire existence. As though the evening of the engagement wasn't enough.

Minho groaned, shoving weakly at Jisung’s hyperactive limbs. “So? I’m always on the news.”

Jisung’s eyes went white with incredulity. “NOT LIKE THIS.”

As if summoned by the very chaos vibrating through the room, Changbin barrelled in behind him, phone clutched in hand, screen already aglow with doom.

And there it was.

The headline that would haunt Minho for the rest of his natural life, and potentially a few reincarnations after that:

LEE MINHO & FIANCÉ(E)’S PRIVATE MOMENT LEAKED — SCANDAL OR SECRET LOVE STORY?

Minho blinked. “...Private moment?”

Jisung, ever helpful, snatched the phone from Changbin with the reflexes of a pickpocket (we’re going to ignore his experience in this regard) and began scrolling like a man possessed.

“The media’s trying to be classy about it,” he muttered, squinting at the article, “but, mate, it’s a full-blown sex tape.”

“That’s not possible,” Minho said, more to the universe than anyone in the room.

Changbin inhaled slowly, as if preparing to deliver last rites. “Oh, but it is.”

Jisung tapped ‘play’.

And there.

There.

On the screen: Minho. You. A luxury hotel bed with gold-accented sheets. Your leg hiked over his shoulder like a Cirque du Soleil audition. The unmistakable cadence of debauchery. There was a brief moment of hope—it could be someone else, blurry or cropped footage—

But no.

There was his face, though not evidently visible but definitely his. His body. His hair slightly mussed in that aesthetically criminal way. And then—just to ensure he’d never sleep again—audio.

“Oh my God,” Minho breathed, horror pooling behind his eyes like storm clouds.

Changbin nudged him, eyes still on the screen. “Bro, you gripped the headboard.”

Han let out a noise so ungodly it might’ve summoned spirits. “Nah, why did Y/N tell you to shut up and you actually did?”

Minho’s hand shot out, slamming the phone screen-down against the mattress like it would do him any good. “I am going to pass away.”

But alas. The gods of disgrace were only just getting started.

Because the next moment?

Jisung—bright, chipper, and holding a remote like a harbinger of doom—turned on the television.

And there, in crisp HD on national news, was a panel of analysts dissecting Minho’s thrusting technique.

“So, if you pause at 1:15, we see Minho taking the lead.”

“Briefly.”

“Right, so that’s where you can see the power shift. Minho thinks he’s leading, but actually Y/N takes control.”

“Fascinating power dynamic. Wonder if that’ll affect the company in the future. And at 2:03, we see a rare moment of desperation—”

“And a rare moment of his perky arse—”

Minho buried his face in his hands. “This is not happening.”

“This is the best day of my life,” Jisung corrected, practically vibrating with mirth.

And just when Minho thought he’d reached the peak of his humiliation—

The door slammed open.

You.

You looked like a mythological fury: hair askew, eyes burning with a fury that could level cities, your phone clutched so tightly it was a miracle it hadn’t shattered under the force of your wrath.

Minho had faced hostile shareholders. Ruthless competitors. Once, even a death threat from a rival conglomerate.

He had never been this afraid.

“YOU,” you spat, striding towards him like a vengeance incarnate.

“Me,” Minho squeaked.

You hurled your phone at him—a Samsung-shaped missile of fury. He only just managed to catch it before it smacked him between the eyes.

The screen?

A live press conference.

“We are deeply concerned by this invasion of privacy—”

“Yes, but let’s focus on the real issue. What does this mean for Lee Corp’s reputation?”

“More importantly, what does it mean for his stamina?”

Minho launched the phone across the room like it was cursed.

Han and Changbin were now weeping on the bed with laughter, occasionally slapping the duvet for oxygen. Like that would help.

“FIX THIS,” you snarled, stepping closer.

Minho gulped. “Okay. But, um, how?”

You were incandescent.

“I don’t know, Minho, maybe by explaining why THE WHOLE WORLD JUST WATCHED ME DOMINATE YOU IN A FIVE-STAR HOTEL?”

Jisung wheezed.

Changbin slid off the bed entirely.

Minho inhaled a dust bunny from the mattress and promptly choked on his own spit.

“First of all,” he croaked, his ears practically glowing, “I would not say ‘dominate’—”

You grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it. Full force. Righteous and deserved.

“THIS ISN’T FUNNY.”

He held up both hands. “You’re right. Not funny. Very serious.”

You exhaled sharply, pacing now like a tiger in a cage.

“This is huge,” you muttered, half to yourself. “My career? Ruined. My name? Dragged through the mud. My family? Calling me to ask if I’ve ‘forsaken God’—”

Minho blinked. “Okay, that’s dramatic.”

You stopped dead, eyes wide.

“DRAMATIC? MINHO, I HAD TO BLOCK MY AUNT ON FACEBOOK BECAUSE SHE CALLED ME A JEZEBEL.”

A beat.

“…What century is she living in?”

“FOCUS.”

Minho sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair.

And for the first time since this entire trainwreck had begun, he really looked at you.

Your arms were folded tightly across your chest, jaw clenched so hard it trembled. Your breathing was uneven. And underneath the righteous fury, the fire, the rage—

He saw it.

Humiliation.

Fear.

This wasn’t just a scandal to you. This was your life. Your reputation. Your family.

Your safety.

Minho straightened, cleared his throat and managed to muster enough courage to find his voice.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now. Calmer. “We’ll fix this.”

You laughed—a bitter, brittle thing. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

Minho’s jaw locked.

He didn’t know.

Not yet.

But whoever had leaked that footage? Whoever had thought they could reduce you to gossip and grainy pixels? Humiliate you and smear your life across the tabloids like it was theatre?

They had made the single worst mistake of their lives.

And Lee Minho was going to make sure they regretted it.

•━━━━━━━━━━━•

Twenty minutes later, however, Minho was sitting in his office, head in his hands, while his PR team screamed at each other like contestants on a reality show.

“Do we deny?”

“We can’t deny! It’s him! We can literally see his face!”

“Okay, but how do we spin this?”

“Maybe say it was deepfake technology?”

“Oh, so AI Minho was out here breaking beds now?”

“WE NEED AN OFFICIAL STATEMENT!”

Minho groaned. “Jesus Christ, can everyone just—”

“Shut up?” one intern offered, ducking as a binder went flying across the room.

The office was a warzone. Papers. Coffee cups. Screaming. Someone crying softly in the corner. Possibly the Head of Crisis Communications. Hard to tell through the chaos.

Minho sat slumped at the conference table like a cursed prince in a kingdom of flaming paperwork, flanked by twelve PR specialists and zero solutions.

He hadn’t even had coffee.

“The stock’s dipped five percent in the last hour,” a voice piped up from the end of the table.

“Five?” another gasped.

“Six,” corrected a third, refreshing a graph with trembling fingers.

Minho exhaled through his nose. “So what I’m hearing is: we’re all doing really well.”

“I have a plan,” said a voice.

Silence.

All heads turned.

It was Felix.

Felix, in his immaculate blazer and pixel-perfect skin, who—until this very moment—had been watching from the window like a gothic Victorian ghost. Now, he stepped forward, chin raised, golden hair gleaming like divine retribution.

“You’re not going to like it,” he added, with the kind of grim solemnity usually reserved for war generals.

Minho gestured weakly. “Let’s hear it.”

Felix tapped his phone. The smart TV blinked to life.

LEE MINHO: THE MAN BEHIND THE HEADBOARD. A Love Story.

Minho said, “No.”

“Listen,” Felix said. “We lean in. We make it a love story. A passionate, uncontrollable, deeply consensual love story between two people thrown into an arranged engagement who—oh no!—accidentally fell into bed before marriage.”

“You are insane.”

“I’m a visionary, hyung.”

Jisung burst into the room. “It’s not insane. It’s working.”

“What?”

“Your ship tag is trending. #MinYN. There’s already a Tumblr fic called Cuffed By Fate and it’s got 4200 likes. Wish people reblogged more these days though.”

“In one hour?”

“Internet moves fast," Jisung supplies with a shrug, cheeks stuffed with grapes he had managed to grab in the midst of this chaos.

Changbin followed in, tablet in hand. “You’re not going to like this either—but your dad called.”

Minho sat up. “What?”

“He says this whole ‘sex tape’ thing? It’s good for business.”

Everyone stared.

“The engagement was polling terribly. Now people think it’s romantic. Reckless. There’s a petition for you two to star in a K-drama.”

Minho leaned back slowly.

“I want everyone out.”

They scrambled. PR scattered. Jisung took three pastries and saluted on the way out.

Only Minho, Chan, and Felix remained.

“I want to know who leaked it.”

Felix nodded, smile gone and work mode locked in as he adjusted his glasses. “We’re tracing the footage. CCTV. Remote access. Not an accident.”

“Who the fuck has that kind of access?” Minho’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

Chan’s arms folded, and for a heartbeat the room held its breath. Then, in a low, careful tone: “Someone high up. Someone close. Possibly… family.”

Minho felt the walls tilt. His mind raced—replaying every meeting, every forced smile, every curt nod exchanged with your father. Protection. Control. The words echoed in his skull.

Had the engagement ever been about safeguarding you—or about cementing ownership?

He pictured the hidden CCTV feed, the silent transmission, the deliberate timing. This wasn’t an accident. It was precision.

Minho’s chair scraped back as he stood. His pulse hammered in his ears. “Where are they?”

Chan hesitated. “Left with their father’s driver.”

“Willingly?” Minho’s question trembled on the edge of accusation.

Silence stretched. Then: “I’m not sure.”

Gears turned in Minho’s mind. Someone orchestrated this. Someone who knew every code, every security hole, every blind spot. Someone trusted. Someone inside.

He tugged on his coat, fingers brushing the gun at his hip. Outside, the city pulsed with oblivious life. But here—right here—Minho understood the stakes had just become lethal.

He stepped toward the door. His jaw clenched.

He only wished he knew the true target.

...

taglist: @imfoive @jisunggy @hyunebunx @peskybirdysya @rockstarkkami @knowbites @mischievousleeknow @thepoeticpurplepotato @artemesiareads @valreifang @alisonyus @jisuperboard @8minho @robinnotgood24 @sarahfirecrystals-blog @lmnhx @maskedcrawford @bluesoobinnie @butterflydemons @pinkpunkdynamite @stickymusictale @lazymfblog @krssliu @halesandy @vcordova1460 @gnusihcom @cutecucumberkimberly @coldcraftmusiclight @superwholockiancrackhead @starfishblobblob @privatespotyk @thingsiwannaseelater @loveunt0ld @showingmafandomlove @2minpov @hantaechan @skyinkpop-blog @helpijustgothere @herejusttemporary @kpopenthusiast143 @miyaluvvsyou @shuuporanglinos @abbiestearsricochet @pixie-felix @loxgirl2004 @met30c1ty @feelikecinderella @uhhhhhokay @moon0fthenight @cashtonsbetch

[hameesstuff]

"The Last Masquerade”

Pairing: Agent! Johnny x Agent! Reader

Themes: Spy!Johnny Suh x Spy!Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn | Masquerade Ball | Spy AU | Smut

Preview: They were trained by rival agencies. He calls you reckless. You call him predictable. Every op you’ve ever shared ends in blood, banter, and a body count. Until this one. One night. One ball. One job that forces you to pretend to be lovers in front of the most powerful arms dealer in Europe. But beneath the glittering masks and rehearsed smiles... your act starts to crack.

___________________________________________

Part 1 – “Pretend With Me”

Paris Safehouse — 6:18 p.m.

The silk dress was too tight.

Or maybe your skin was just crawling.

You adjusted the bodice in the mirror for the third time, catching his reflection behind you — Johnny, seated at the edge of the window in a half-buttoned dress shirt and cufflinks he hadn’t bothered to fasten yet. A gun on the table, a black masquerade mask resting beside it.

The room smelled like gun oil and the cologne he always wore on foreign soil: cedar and something cold.

“You’re staring again,” you said, smoothing down the side slit of your gown.

He didn't look away. “So are you.”

You turned.

He leaned back slowly, spreading his arms across the window bench, suit jacket abandoned somewhere behind him. The bandage on his left bicep was fresh — courtesy of you patching him up after a narrow escape last night.

“Sure you can walk in those heels?” he asked, eyes trailing unapologetically down your legs.

“Sure you can lie with that limp?”

He smirked. “I’ve faked worse.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your gloves from the chair. “Remind me why you’re my date again?”

“Because your real one’s in a Russian prison. And I look better in black.”

You stepped closer, cocking your head. “Try not to flirt too convincingly tonight. I’d hate to break character and stab you in front of a crowd.”

“Please do,” he murmured, standing and taking your gloved hand. “We’ve always danced better with knives drawn.”

9:04 p.m. — Le Palais Sanglant

You walked into the ballroom on his arm, a vision in blood-red silk and smoke-lined eyes. His mask glinted obsidian. Yours shimmered gold — goddess and ghost, side by side.

The chandeliers above spilled light like fire across mirrors and masks, shadows whispering between ballgowns and tuxedos. The target — Veyron — stood at the far end, watching. Waiting.

And Johnny… Johnny never stopped touching you. Hand at your hip. Palm at your spine. A whisper too warm against your temple.

"Keep smiling," he said through his teeth. “He’s watching.”

“I am smiling,” you replied with poisoned honey. “Because I’ve never hated anyone more.”

He chuckled low. “You sure? You tremble when I touch your waist.”

You leaned in, lips almost brushing his cheek. “You should know by now — I only shake when I’m about to kill someone.”

The Waltz

The dance floor shimmered like a dream.

He spun you into the first movement, fluid and precise — just like training, just like instinct. But there was something different in the way he held you tonight.

Tighter. Softer. Meaner.

"You clean up well," you said coolly.

He twirled you effortlessly. "You break hearts better than codes."

"I don't do hearts."

He leaned close, voice in your ear. “You did once.”

Your chest tightened.

He dipped you so low you saw the crystal ceiling — then pulled you back up, closer than ever.

“Keep pretending, Nightingale,” he murmured. “But I know what your silence means.”

You smiled.

“I’m not pretending,” you whispered.

And Johnny... blinked once — just long enough for his grip to falter. Just enough for you to know:

You’d won that round.

Part 2 – “Where It Hurts”

Paris — 10:42 p.m.

The shot came just as you turned your head.

Crack.

Glass rained from the chandelier. Screams tore through the ballroom.

You moved fast—dragged Johnny down with you as chaos exploded behind the velvet curtains.

“Sniper, southeast corner,” you hissed into your comm. “Suh’s compromised. I'm with him.”

You felt his hand tighten around yours as you pulled him behind the marble bar.

Close. Too close.

Blood was already sliding down his temple.

“You okay?” you asked.

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you like he was trying to memorize something in case it was the last time.

“Johnny—”

“I’m fine,” he said, standing. “Come on.”

Escape Alley – 11:12 p.m.

Rain slicked the cobblestones as the two of you ran.

You clutched your side, dress soaked and ripped, and he staggered slightly as he turned back to check behind you.

“Keep moving,” he muttered.

“Don’t tell me what—”

“Just keep moving.”

He caught your arm and shoved you into a stone arch just as another bullet slammed into the brick behind you.

Your chest hit his. His hand cradled your head, keeping you pressed to him as he waited for silence.

Your pulse was a thunderstorm.

So was his.

Safehouse – 1:03 a.m.

You locked the door behind you, fingers trembling from the adrenaline comedown.

Johnny kicked off his boots, collapsed onto the old sofa, and exhaled slowly. There was blood on his sleeve.

You crossed the room before you realized you were even moving.

“Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

“Take the shirt off.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You could at least buy me dinner first.”

You knelt in front of him, rolling your eyes. “I should’ve left you bleeding in that alley.”

But your hands were gentle. Familiar. Slower than necessary.

You peeled his shirt down carefully, exposing his ribs — the shallow cut still oozing red near his side. Another bruise was blossoming across his chest. You pressed a cloth to it without a word.

His breath caught.

“Since when do you care?” he murmured.

You didn't answer right away. Just kept cleaning the blood, not meeting his eyes.

“I don’t care,” you lied.

“Right.”

You finally looked up. “You could’ve died tonight.”

“So could you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

Your fingers stilled on his skin.

You swallowed. “The point is I didn’t want you to.”

The Shift

Silence stretched between you — full of static, heat, something that used to be hatred but now resembled gravity.

He reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’ve never touched me like this,” he said quietly.

“You’ve never bled for me before.”

His lips parted like he wanted to say something sharp. Something safe. But nothing came out.

You leaned in.

And he didn’t stop you.

The kiss was slow. Careful. Like two people who never learned how to do soft things with each other. His hands came to your waist. Yours slid behind his neck, anchoring.

He didn’t push. You didn’t pull.

You just stayed there.

Mouths brushing in a rhythm softer than breath, slower than war.

When you pulled back, his eyes were heavy, lips parted. You stayed forehead to forehead, hands still clutching each other like bruises.

Then — quiet as a secret — he tilted his head, leaned in…

…and kissed the side of your neck.

Once.

Slow.

Warm.

Like he meant to write a message there.

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time in your whole damn rivalry, you let yourself lean into him. Not as an enemy. Not as a spy.

Just as you.

Part 3 – “Burn Marks”

Paris Safehouse — Later That Night

He kissed you again once the bandages were wrapped.

This time, slower.

His touch was patient. Careful. As if his body knew what his mouth wouldn’t say.

You straddled his lap, arms curled around his shoulders. His hands moved reverently, as though discovering you piece by piece. The way his thumb circled your hipbone. The way his nose brushed against your cheek. The pause before he whispered, “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You said his name like a secret — and that was enough.

He laid you down gently on the old couch. Mouthed along your collarbone, then lower. His lips barely touched you at first — slow as breath, warm as silk.

When he finally entered you, he held your face like you’d shatter. Foreheads pressed, lashes brushing, no urgency. Just that unbearable stillness.

Like the world had ended and started all over in the same heartbeat.

He moved inside you like he was memorizing it.

And you let him.

Let him kiss every part of you like it was fragile. Let his hands shake a little when you whispered, “You’re not my enemy anymore.”

He pressed his lips to your neck again and said, “You never were.”

Part 4 – “Extraction Denied”

Bogotá, Colombia — 02:11 a.m.

Cartel Compound – Inside the Red Zone

“Five minutes,” your voice crackled over the comm. “I can clear the vault and be topside—”

“Negative,” came Doyoung’s clipped reply. “Target Bravo’s rerouted the patrol. Johnny, confirm visual.”

You were crouched in the shadows, blade slick with blood, heart drumming like war in your ears. Gunfire echoed above. The operation was falling apart.

“Johnny?” you whispered, adjusting the pack on your back. “Where the hell are you?”

“East stairwell,” he answered. “Coming to you. Hold tight.”

The Hall of Smoke

The compound was chaos — flickering lights, bullets snapping into concrete walls, shouting in Spanish. You moved like instinct, like art through war. Three guards down. One more behind the vault door. You gritted your teeth and kicked it in.

Files. Cocaine. Two servers lit like shrines.

You ripped the hard drives out and stuffed them into your gear just as the alarms blared louder. A metallic grind. A siren shrieking.

Then—radio silence.

“Johnny?” you hissed. “Do not go dark on me—”

His voice came through, hoarse. “We’ve got two men down. Main exit is compromised. They’re locking the compound from the outside.”

Your hands went cold.

“I’ll make it to the roof,” you said.

“Not in time.”

“I will.”

“You’re three stories under concrete and boxed in.”

“I’ve seen worse odds—”

“I haven’t.”

You paused.

His voice softened—just enough to punch you in the gut.

“If you don’t make it,” he said, “I won’t either.”

You started sprinting, vaulting over crates toward the backup shaft.

But the explosion hit before you reached it.

A deafening boom shook the floor — your ears rang, the ground tilted, the hallway vanished in smoke.

Command Vehicle – 03:07 a.m.

The helicopter was spinning its blades. The surviving team was already on board. Blood. Shouting. Burned gear and ruined plans.

Johnny stood on the tarmac, comm to his ear, refusing to move.

“She’s alive. She’s still inside,” he said to the ops commander.

“There’s no signal,” she replied. “There’s no time.”

“Then give me five more minutes.”

“Johnny—”

“I SAID FIVE.”

But the team was pulling him back.

His eyes scanned the flames erupting from the side of the building.

And then—

The structure began to collapse inward.

Steel and smoke and fire swallowed the red-lit hallway where you were last seen.

Johnny dropped to his knees.

Later — Safehouse, Panama

He was silent for hours.

Didn’t speak on the flight. Didn’t clean the blood from his hands.

He sat in the safehouse bathroom, still in full gear, knuckles scraped raw.

In front of him, on the table, was your necklace — the thin one you always wore beneath your tactical shirt.

It was warm in his palm.

He closed his eyes.

And finally—he wept.

Not broken.

Just silent.

Shaking.

Like a man whose war had finally outrun him.

Part 5 – “The Ghost Walks In”

3 months later.

Rome – 10:58 p.m.

Post-Mission Safehouse, Trastevere

The laughter was the loudest it had been in months.

The team had earned it — a successful operation in Naples, no casualties, clean extraction. A miracle, really. Mark was recounting how he'd pickpocketed a guard using only a cappuccino and a distraction named Jaehyun.

Johnny was leaned against the wall, drink in hand, only half-listening.

He didn’t laugh anymore. Not fully.

His smile stopped just short of his eyes.

Then the door creaked.

No knock. No sound. Just the groan of old wood.

No one looked up.

The rain had just started outside — soft, rhythmic — and the warm bar lights cast golden halos across the floor. The scent of herbs, smoke, and red wine clung to the air.

You stepped inside without ceremony.

Wet from the storm. Hair tucked behind one ear. That same scar now faded across your temple like punctuation. You didn’t say a word.

You just walked in, poured yourself a glass of water at the counter, turned—

And sat down at the empty seat at the head of the table.

The one that used to be yours.

Mark froze mid-sentence.

Jaehyun’s beer stopped halfway to his mouth.

Doyoung choked on his own breath.

But it was Johnny who looked last.

And when he did—

He didn’t drop his glass.

He didn’t say your name.

He didn’t move.

He just stared at you like time had slowed. Like the wine-dark room was a dream and you were the first real thing in it.

You took a sip of water. Set the glass down.

Then smiled — soft, not smug. Just tired and alive and finally home.

“Is this seat taken?” you asked.

No one spoke.

Then Johnny did.

He moved across the room like in a film — slow, silent — until he was standing in front of you.

So close, your knees nearly brushed.

His hand lifted.

Not to touch.

Just to look at you better.

“Say something,” you whispered.

He stared for another beat. Then:

“I thought I buried you.”

You blinked once. “You almost did.”

“I waited.”

“I know.”

“You died.”

“I didn’t.”

“I did.”

The silence cracked.

And then—he reached for you.

Both hands, all of him, gathering you like you were made of breath and breaking and everything he thought he’d lost in that fire. His mouth hovered over yours.

You tilted your chin up just slightly.

“I came back,” you whispered.

And he kissed you like he didn’t believe you yet.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t angry.

It was long — slow, searching — like he needed to memorize the shape of you again. Like he needed to rewrite the months he spent grieving you into a single point of contact: lips, breath, hands trembling.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

You whispered, “Took you long enough.”

He smiled for the first time in weeks. It was small.

But real.

“You’re staying?” he asked.

“As long as you’ll have me.”

Mark groaned from the table. “Someone sedate me, I’m crying.”

Jaehyun raised a toast. “To the dead rising.”

Doyoung whispered under his breath, “I knew she’d walk in like a movie scene.”

You didn’t look at them.

You looked at Johnny.

And he looked at you like you were the only person who existed.

The End.

___________________________________________

[haveyouplayedthisttrpg]

Have you played THEY CAME FROM [CLASSIFIED] ?

By Onyx Path Publishing

It’s the fab 60’s here in London. The music is groovy, the girls are a go-go and the agents are secret. Beneath the brightly colored suits and revealing cocktail dresses is a world of conspiracy and subterfuge. Criminal Masterminds with doomsday devices set their plans for world domination in motion. Jewel thieves steal millions leaving no trail behind. Dictators invade nations and auction off intelligence to other evildoers. All cases the Agency takes and sends its best and brightest to handle.

Based off classic 1960’s spy films and television programs, play as actors playing characters based off spy archetypes. The no nonsense detective with the deadly intuition. The suave operative charming his way through the toughest of situations. The inventive Quartermaster using their gadgets and doodads to save the day and other famous types of spies you’ve seen sneak through volcano lairs and lavish bars. With the GM as the director of this flick be prepared for a game of secret plots, backstabbing betrayals, super sleuthing and the occasional one liner. Classic movie tropes, cheap special effects and bad editing are just as useful to the actors as any laser pen or exploding cufflink is to the character. Included with the game is a set of “plot” cards the director could draw to make a quick fiendish plot ready for the foiling and even play “Twist” cards to impose dramatic twists to agents and raise the stakes of the narrative. The Queen (and our box office numbers) is counting on you agent.

[under0-0s]

The 300 Million Con. A Solo-Stark Mission. (From the Journals.)

( Listen to the music to enhance the reading experience. )

The wind on the coast of Tuscany tasted expensive—like it had passed through too many cigars and too many closed deals before it ever touched the sea. Somewhere below, laughter twisted out from the thousand lights of Villa Luce d’Ombra, perched like a jewel with a rotten heart on the cliffs above the Tyrrhenian Sea. The villa had been silent for years, but tonight it breathed like a beast—each flicker of a chandelier a heartbeat, each echo of laughter another shiver of muscle under velvet skin.

It was Don Emilio Cavazza’s birthday. And while the world pretended he was a harmless tycoon with a fondness for rare art and rarer wine, Tony Stark knew better. Because somewhere under the layers of music, marble, silk gowns and billion-dollar egos, hidden in plain sight like a secret whispered in Latin, sat the thing Stark was here for—the painting. The one veiled behind gold-thread curtains, guarded by ex-SAS mercs wearing diamond-studded cufflinks and tailored suits.

But it wasn’t just any painting.

Beneath that canvas, locked behind what Cavazza had so poetically dubbed “La Profeta Silenziosa,” were seven of the rarest, most dangerous, most illegally acquired diamonds in the world. Stark had nicknamed them "The Seven Sins"—each one stolen from a separate high-security transfer. They weren’t just gems; they were war potential. He knew because he built the sensor tech buried in them. Stark-grade mineral refinement. Nanocarbon lattice weaves. These weren’t pretty stones. These were weapons. And Cavazza was giving them to himself as a birthday gift, fused into the canvas like offerings to a false god.

The irony?

Stark had built the transport armor they were stolen from.

He didn’t tell Pepper. Didn’t call Nat. Didn’t so much as ping Rhodey. This wasn’t a team mission. This wasn’t world-saving. This was a man looking at the cracks in his own legacy and deciding he was done letting monsters wear his mistakes like medals.

At 11:42 PM, Tony hovered at 15,000 feet above the villa. His HUD cast sharp, surgical light across his face. Below, the world looked soft and stupid—full of glitter, music, and lies.

“FRIDAY,” he murmured. “Update.”

“Guests in place. Twenty-four armed guards inside. Six snipers in rotating positions, two drone sentries overhead. And yes, the birthday boy is still bragging about his ‘gift.’ He made a toast about how even the devil needs art.”

Tony’s breath steamed in the chilled titanium of the helmet. “Cute. Put a bow on my entry. Make it noisy.”

“You sure you don’t want to—”

“FRIDAY. Drop the bass.”

And with that, he dived.

There was no ceremony. No flourish. Just raw, beautiful, deafening descent. The suit ignited, streaking like a meteor. The wind howled. The air ripped. Then—

CRACK. The first pane of security glass gave way with a hiss and a scream, shards flying outward like a shattered halo.

CRACK. The second pane followed. Thicker. Reinforced. An obsidian-black screen meant to repel rocket fire. It collapsed under him like sugar glass, catching sparks that trailed after him like the tail of an angry comet.

CRACK. The final layer—Stark-tech composite. Invisible until you were too close. Stolen. Reverse-engineered. Cavazza’s people had used it to wrap the painting in an energy barrier built to resist Stark weapons.

Tony hit it with everything.

The sound didn’t register like a break. It registered like a judgment—a full-bodied, choir-level roar of vengeance and metal, splintering the last shield and driving Iron Man downward—

Into the champagne pyramid.

Glass rained. Champagne sprayed. Forty levels of imported crystal shattered upward and outward in a single operatic moment, and Tony landed in the middle like a fallen archangel, standing as the last tier exploded across his chestplate. The bubbles fizzed out in slow motion, reflecting firelight, moonlight, and absolute rage.

He didn’t speak.

Not yet.

Not as the stunned crowd screamed and scattered. Not as men reached for guns, or whispered frantic orders into earpieces that now only crackled static—FRIDAY had already taken them offline. Not even as Don Emilio Cavazza slowly turned, eyes wide, realizing the devil had RSVP’d after all.

Tony’s faceplate hissed open.

His hair, soaked in Dom Pérignon, clung to his forehead. His eyes weren’t joking. There was no quip in the line of his jaw.

“I’m gonna ask real slow,” he said, voice the calm before the atomic storm. “Where. Are. My. Diamonds.”

A pause. Cavazza recovered quickly. He smiled, the kind that politicians and mobsters wear in court.

“They’re mine now. Art, Stark. You wouldn’t understand. What’s legacy without—”

BOOM. Tony’s pulse beam shot sideways, obliterating a gold-framed mirror. Glass snowed down. Screams echoed.

A single pulse shot from his hand, knocking three guards backward into a piano, which exploded in discordant horror. Screams erupted. Guns fired. The party devolved into madness.

“I said where.”

Guards opened fire. The orchestra panicked. Tony moved like lightning in a bottle—repulsors lighting up the floor, micro-missiles knocking men backwards into dessert tables and marble fountains. One poor bastard got sent flying straight into a twelve-foot ice sculpture of Cavazza’s face, reducing it to a cold smear across the tiles.

The room erupted. Weapons drawn. Bodyguards swarming like flies. Someone screamed in Russian. Another in Neapolitan. Tony ducked left, fired off a kinetic pulse that took out two guards and sent a third flying into a birthday cake the size of a Smart car.

Bullets began flying. He deflected them lazily with micro-shields, strolling toward the painting like he was window shopping. The guests scattered, cowering behind marble columns and caviar stations. Over the comms, FRIDAY piped up. “Should I inform the Italians?” “I am informing them,” Tony grunted, repulsing a merc through a violinist’s cello. “The hard way.”

As chaos bloomed, Tony pushed forward. He punched a man so hard he hit the wall and slid down like melted wax. Lasers danced. One of the drones tried to engage from above—FRIDAY hijacked it midair and turned it on its owners. Blood sprayed in arcs against white columns.

And in the center of it all—still standing—was the veiled painting.

Tony danced through it like a storm—repulsors flashing, micro-drones slicing through weapons, EMP bursts disabling communications in a 200-meter radius. He moved faster than rage. Cleaner than war. He kicked someone through a wall. Threw another into the fondue station. One of the snipers tried to draw a bead from the chandelier—

Boom. Stark sent the entire fixture crashing down.

The air was thick with smoke and glitter and spilled vintage. As he neared the painting, Cavazza lunged toward him, knife in hand. Tony didn’t even look—he caught the wrist mid-air and crushed the blade like a toy.

He stalked toward it through smoke and broken violins. One guard lunged, screaming. Tony caught him mid-leap and tossed him like trash. Another went for the canvas.

“Big mistake,” Tony muttered.

He fired.

The repulsor blast didn’t hit the man. It lifted him and threw him backward into a chandelier, which fell in a golden crash.

Now there was only the painting.

Tony stared at it.

For a moment, he just breathed.

Then, slow, almost reverent, he reached out and pulled the veil away.

Beneath was a nightmare: a faceless angel weeping, its hollow eye sockets shimmering with seven perfectly mounted diamonds. Stark’s diamonds. Not just embedded, but wired. Each one connected to a hidden mesh of energy conduits, designed to power something. A message? A weapon? A sick form of poetic justice?

It didn’t matter. Tony didn’t flinch. Didn’t marvel. He just muttered, “FRIDAY. Extraction protocol.”

From his gauntlets, precision magnetic claws extended. He removed each diamond with surgical skill, depositing them into a vacuum-sealed chamber embedded in his chestplate. The gems clicked into place with quiet finality, each one reducing the scream in his head by a fraction.

Then he turned.

Cavazza lay on the ground, bleeding, staring up with hatred.

Tony knelt.

“You stole from me,” he said, voice low, helmet off, face lit by fire and reflection. “You stole something that could’ve broken the world. That’s not art. That’s suicide in a nice frame.”

He leaned closer.

“Happy birthday.”

Tony didn’t look back. The Seven Sins rested in his chest, humming quietly. Legacy reclaimed. Mistakes avenged.

And somewhere, deep in the cold between stars, Tony Stark allowed himself a breath.

The moon above him stared through the ruin he’d made of the glass ceiling.

“FRIDAY,” he said, chest heaving, “I’m going home. Get me a toothbrush. And a dry-cleaner who won’t judge.”

He hovered upward, repulsors roaring to life. The suit hummed like a beast coming down from a frenzy, soot and smoke curling off his shoulders as he ascended past the dripping chandelier ruins, past the slumped bodies, past the flutes and fountains and the shattered empire of a man who thought he couldn’t be touched.

And as he disappeared into the Tuscan night, a soft laugh echoed in the HUD, FRIDAY’s voice faintly amused. “Successful mission, boss?” “Define ‘success,’” Tony replied, flicking a shard of glass from his wristplate. “I ruined a party, stole a billion-dollar painting, got sprayed with 200-year-old champagne, and didn’t kill anyone.”

Pause.

“Yeah. Classic Stark.”

TAGS BECAUSE I HOPE THIS LIVES: @oh-to-be-a-murderer @strange-little-spy @sillybigbird @itzzkaylaaa @crazyinlovewithfandoms @thatone-midgardian @insomniac-lifestyle @multiverse-peterbparker @over-bi-the-wayside @the-winter-soldier-official @lunamarvels @hydra-failure @strange-little-spy @the1-and-only-peggycarter @clintbarton-thearrowguy @thund3randrain

[thatbanditqueen]

Basic Training Ch 6

Summary: Bess spends a Friday evening with Elvis on base, and gets excited for the party he invited her to the next day. We learn a little more about Bess' family as she gets ready to meet Elvis' friends, however, things do not go as planned.

Warnings: Fingering, dry humping, descriptions of the ever elusive female orgasm (not when Elvis is around....), and discussions of mental illness.

WC: 8.4 K i tried and failed to stick to my 5 - 6 k goal

My writing is very much influenced by the other women I write with, my lovely sister wives @be-my-ally @vintageshanny @missmaywemeetagain @from-memphis-with-love @ellie-24 @powerofelvis @peskybedtime and @shakerattlescroll give me suggestions, answer my research queries and help me find the will to live and write. Also, thanks to @ab4eva and @lookingforrainbows for their enthusiasm because honestly yes I thrive on engagement with other Elvis fans.

Special shout out to @whositmcwhatsit from whom I have stolen her characterization of Elvis learning what an OC likes as he pleasures her in bed, changing his voice when he is alone with an OC vs. in front of others, using his thumbs to rub OCs backs.... basically I subscribe to the belief that all art is deriative and collaborative and I pinch things unwittingly from everyone who I read regularly so thank you, and sorry, no, I won't ask for permission. I am a bandit queen after all. But if you have read @whositmcwhatsit's stuff you might find some of my characterizations of Elvis familiar and you should probably go read some of her stuff instead. She also alpha'd this for me and gave me lots of feedback and dialogue/plot ideas. But no Jade, I am already too jealous of your talents to give you co-author credit so stop begging me (in my head).

You can read the previous chapters of this fic about Elvis at Fort Hood in 1958 here

This is the playlist I made for this chapter. Kewl kids do that.

Chapter 6: Guided Missiles

Friday, April 11, 1958

7:07 p.m.  on the grounds of Fort Hood, Killeen, TX

Guided missiles, bound to explode

Destroying my heart is your goal

You have succeeded in making me blue

Now I know the enemy is you

The Cufflinks’ “Guided Missiles” played over the radio as Bess navigated her car along the base road, she had just begun to relax her thigh into Elvis’ leg while enjoying how he crooned along into her hair with the song. Then she felt his hand on her inner thigh and bolted upright with a gasp, trying to wiggle him off as she changed gears.

“You are making it hard for me to drive, Tupelo.”

Elvis snickered under his breath, enjoying the way Bess shivered from the way his hand moved her hem up.

“I’m jus’ being helpful, Moo Moo, this skirt’s so goddamn tight, don’t know how you can change gears.”

Bess shook her head as she pulled into the PX parking lot, sliding his hand out of her legs.

“Well, aren’t you chivalrous?”

“Zat’s me, baby.” Elvis’ lips were nibbling her ear. “I’d open your door any day.” Somehow his hand was back between her legs and she gasped when it feathered over her panties.

“My door,” she pushed him off and put the car in park, “is just fine where it is, soldier.”

He grinned at her, and the way he looked down, biting his lip, was so naughty it made Bess tense with longing. She instantly regretted coming here with him, blushing when his eyes met hers, his fingers now caressing her elbow. Their soft touch did not feel any more innocent on her arm than they had on her thigh and she coughed nervously.

“Um, uh, alright, fork it over.”

He arched an eyebrow at her.

“What?“

“You were the one who wanted candy.”

“Bess, I’m not able to carry my wallet during field exercises, an’ I came to meet’cha straight after.”

Bess rubbed his knee playfully and waggled her lips.

“Hmm, Mr. Chivalrous, indeed. Ok, guess I can spring for some Reese’s -”

“Get a bunch, and a few Pepsi colas?”

Bess couldn’t even summon one sarcastic smart aleck retort, her mind was dulled by the way his cheeks lifted up in a boyish excitement. It made her want to grab his face and cover him with a thousand kisses. Instead, she nodded dumbly and managed to make her way out of the car intact, pulling down her skirt. If she tried focusing really hard she was able to walk upright into the commissary.

Once she was a few feet inside, away from Elvis’ hands, her wits returned and, in a matter of minutes, she was at the soda fountain asking the girl behind the counter to add a few more peanut butter cups to her paper bag. 

Walking back out of the shop, Bess folded the top of the bag over itself a few times, enjoying the feel of the sharp crisp edge under her hand. She smiled to herself, thinking of Elvis’ silly grin as he conspiratorially looked around after dinner and whispered in her ear that he was in the mood for something sweet.

Studying Elvis over the last two weeks, Bess found he was not at all what she had expected. He was smart and funny, yet also childlike and sweet and simple. His face greeted her with the same genuine excitement every evening when she met him at the bottom of their dirty, dingy back stairwell. He had asked her to bring the same meal the last three nights in a row, homemade meatloaf on challah bread. And he was content to do the same thing every night: drive around listening to the radio and necking in her car. This trip to PX was the first time they had deviated from their familiar routine and gone anywhere remotely public together.

“So, this is how movie stars indulge in the finer th -”

Bess stopped talking as she sat down and realized Elvis was not in her car. Peering around the parking lot, she saw his side profile a few cars over, sitting between two girls in the back seat of a white Buick. Two giggling girls. Two very pretty, young giggling girls. 

Bristling, Bess took a deep breath and calmly placed the candy next to her, then calmly pulled the handle and then calmly but forcefully slammed her door with a bang. She saw one of the girls look over, a blonde, but Elvis remained lost in conversation, laughing at something the brunette had said. 

Bess wondered if he was even aware she had returned to the car. Not sure what to do, she settled on acting nonchalant and proceeded to fix her lipstick in the rearview mirror, trying to conceal how hard she was straining to hear what they said.

“Course I do, honey, scout’s honor. Yes, that’s right, 16 cars. Well now, what’s the point of making money if you can’t spend it? Wait a minute, huh, now, actually, it’s 15, I just gave my Messerschmitt to my tailor.”

She couldn’t make out the girls' muffled, breathy voices, just Elvis’, which was, for some reason, deeper and much more pronounced now that he had an audience.

“Oh, well now, most people ain’t heard a it, but it’s a German car, a small ‘un, rides on three wheels and goes real fast, boy, real fast, on account of how light it is. Feel like you’re racing in a bubble.” He whistled a high note. “Whooeee, goes right past all the suckers in their regular cars.  But, well, heck, I hardly got to drive it, though, so naw, I don’ miss it. I was away so much, when the guy who makes my suits wouldn’t shut up ‘bout it, I finally told him, I said, ‘Bernie,’ I said, ‘Ya can have my Messer but you have to let me pick out ev’ry thing I want in ya store here. Today’… Yeah, it was a good deal, man, I cleaned him out.”

Bess rolled her eyes and sat there waiting while Elvis chuckled and answered more questions from the girls. Then, ever the chivalrous, attentive gentleman, asked them about themselves, wondering where they went to school, what they did for fun, and whether they had any boyfriends

“Don’ lie now.” She heard his voice get flirty. “I don’t believe it, pretty girls like you? I bet you’re breaking all the guys' hearts here.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” one asked him, and Elvis laughed.

“Nah, no one special. See, I'm so busy, and I’m always on the move, it wouldn’t be fair to any gal to for me try and settle down now, ‘specially now I’m off to Germany. I’m just playin’ the field. Why, are you asking me out? Honey, ain’t fair to tease me like that.”

Elvis sat and talked with them for ten more minutes or so, but Bess was only half listening. His words about how he didn’t have a special girl played over again in her mind. Bess started eating the peanut cups impatiently as the idea of how insignificant she was to Elvis snowballed in her mind. She was just a girl he met during basic training, one of the many girls whose car he felt he could just walk up to and sit in. One of, what, hundreds he had probably kissed in dark corridors, movie theaters, recording studios, cars, motel rooms? Completely interchangeable with any other girl. Completely interchangeable with these silly, stupid girls he was flirting with while she waited.

What the fuck was she doing with her life? Baking bread and meatloaf and packing a picnic dinner to schlep on base every night? Curling her hair before bed and waking up early so she could take extra care to look nice?  While he treated her like a pathetic doormat he could send off to buy him candy and then keep waiting for what now, twenty minutes? Bess had half a mind to drive off, and the only thing that stopped her was her pride. She would not let him know that he had upset her, she was not going to have a tantrum like a child.

The peanut butter and chocolate had hardly begun to melt when Bess threw another candy in her mouth and told herself she was being silly. Those girls had probably called him over, everyone in Killeen was on Elvis alert, and he was probably just being polite and humoring them. She ate some more of the candy and felt a little better, telling herself it was harmless. And what, she expected him to spill his guts about his love life with two kids? And so what if it was true? She knew he had other girlfriends,  she’d seen pictures of him out around town with stars like Natalie Wood, Yvonne Lime, and Anita Wood in the movie magazines. Elvis' playboy lifestyle hadn’t seemed to matter this morning, because she knew they were just having fun. She was having fun, she reminded herself again, and she shouldn’t get worked up.

But it was ten more minutes before Elvis said his goodbyes, and Bess’ ire rose again as he lingered over their car window, making them promise to meet him at the base movie theater next week.

“What about you, Moo Moo, you like Danny Kaye?”

Bess looked at him coolly as he got into her car, then back at the windshield as she shifted the car into reverse.

“Sounds like you’ve already secured companions, one for each side.” She elbowed him off as he leaned to put his arm around her.

“I reckon you’re right.” He attempted to put his hand where it had been before, lightly trailing his fingers over the back of her neck. “Guess I’ll just have to put you on my lap,” he hummed in her ear, grabbing the bag of candy as Bess navigated the car out of the parking lot. 

She could tell he was joking around with her, but she scooted away from him nonetheless, sitting up straight and rigid as she drove, the bitter taste of his indifference still fresh on her tongue despite the half dozen chocolates she’d eaten in the last ten minutes.

“What happened to the Reese’s?” Elvis’ voice trailed off as he popped the last one in his mouth, and he took a longer look at Bess’ stiff stance.

“Oh, I didn’t think you were interested in them anymore.”

Elvis sucked on the candy and grabbed a bottle of Pepsi from the six pack below his feet, opening the cap with a pop.

“You cheesed off ‘bout them girls back there?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s a free world, you can go around speaking to whomever you like.”

 Elvis sipped his Pepsi, looking sideways at Bess.

“Huh, so you hugging that steering wheel like you tryin’ to marry it for no reason, then, huh?”

Bess glanced over, her terse expression breaking. “Well, it doesn’t feel particularly good to be left twiddling my thumbs for thirty minutes.”

Taking another swig of his Pepsi, Elvis began to message the base of Bess’ neck.

“Aw, hell, honey, I didn’t even realize I was over there that long.” His fingers massaged the base of her neck. “Time got away from me, now that’s the god’s honest truth.”

Bess grunted as Elvis' thumb rubbed slowly over her shoulder blade, moving to her waist to pull her towards him.

“Hey now.” He kissed the top of her head, and Bess could feel her anger dissipating. “Scoot in here, let me show you how I feel ‘bout you, Moo Moo. Those girls don’ mean nothing.” He squeezed her waist.

“Seemed like something,” Bess whined, hating herself the minute the words left her mouth, she sounded needy and pitiful. 

“Aw, Moo Moo, don’t be like that. I spend my days driving ‘round in tanks with forty other men. When those lil gals called me over, almost felt like my old life again. I love my fans, honey, but that’s all they are. Ain’t special to me like you are.”

“Hmmmm.” She could feel herself giving in as his thumb worked its slow, rhythmic magic in circles at her waist. His thumb's movements made all her blood rush to her core, and a throbbing need mingled with the anger in her chest. He sensed her mood shifting and kissed her neck as she drove.

“Always so jealous, Bessie baby, might start to think you like me.”

Bess sighed out as he pulled her towards him tighter.

“You’re wrong, Elvis Presley,” she murmured halfheartedly. “I am just bored, passing time ‘til I get out of this hell hole. You could go off with a car full of girls and it wouldn’t bother me.”

His hand was at the side of her head, pulling her into his shoulder, stroking her hair.

“You’re so pretty when you get all riled up, Moo Moo, your cheeks get so red. It’s how I imagine you’d be -“ He paused, his voice was tender and babyish now, even as he spoke with an impish smirk, giggling at his own innuendo. “ - after chasing me down in that car fulla girls.”

Bess sat up, slapping his hand off her, no longer really mad about the girls, just his teasing. Elvis' arms were around her again in a flash, and he kissed her cheek.

 “I’m jus’ teasin’, honey. Now come on, be a good lil girl and find us a nice place to park.”

He turned the radio on, tapping once he found a station playing a song he liked, and waggling his eyebrows at Bess as he began to sing with The Clovers to “Blue Velvet.”

Bess shook her head to herself, enjoying how the night air cooled her warm, red cheeks. She had sworn that once he got back in the car, she would drop him off and not let Elvis charm her into spending the rest of the night with him. But here, now, she knew she was a goner. Her body betrayed her and the need to feel his lips on hers, as soon as possible, overrode any sense of pride or logic. She drove her blue Ford into the first dark alley she found among the armory buildings.

Awkwardly smoothing down her blouse, Bess tried not to seem excited or in a hurry as she sighed nervously and watched Elvis tilt his head toward the back seat. They wordlessly got out, and she stumbled into her open door. It was pitch black, the air was thick with anticipation, and Bess trembled as she edged along the leather. After two weeks, she still got nervous alone in the car with Elvis.

His lip hung down as he moved over and he caught her knee, lightly trailing over it before pulling her legs onto his lap. His eyes followed his fingers as they moved up her leg, sucking in his breath. Each night, without fail, his face would fill with awe when they began to fool around. He always looked like he had never touched a girl before, like she was the first woman he had ever met. Just the slightest caress seemed to light a fire in his eyes, and he slowly, reverently removed her shoes, one by one, swirling his fingers over each ankle.

They had left the radio playing, it was a doo wop program and the slow beat of a bass guitar thrummed in Bess’ ears as Elvis’ index finger begin to roll  back and forth at the edge of her skirt. His eyes met hers, looking her up and down as he sighed.

“Hey there, lil Moo Moo.” A goofy smile spread under his half-lidded eyes, and he bit his lip, looking as though he had just unearthed a secret. His hand was now on her knee, and a charged tremor flared up the back of her calves. “I’m crazy ‘bout you, honey. I need you to know it.”

The longing in his voice made Bess want to wrap her legs around Elvis’ waist and pull him on top of her. Draw him as close as possible, flip over and crush him into the leather seat, getting as close as she possibly could until the car shook with the sounds of their love making. Instead, Bess took a deep breath and tried to embody an appealing, modest restraint.

“I’m sorry, Elvis, sorry for giving you a hard time. And for eating all the chocolates.”

He leaned over her, and his warm breath hit her ear as he whispered.

 “I know baby, s’ok. I forgive you. You gonna be a good lil girl from now on?”

“Mmmhmmm.” She answered in her own babying voice, not questioning where that affect came from or why she suddenly seemed to find their childish repartee so enticing.

Elvis’ lips brushed over her neck, followed by a succession of kisses that started out soft and slow and then gradually became deeper. Bess fell down onto the white leather seat, her breaths loud and shallow as she unbuttoned his work coat, lifting her bottom to help Elvis as he pulled her nylons off. She laughed when they got tangled and he had to turn and look at what he was doing, swearing as he threw them to the ground.

 “Damn mosquito netting. Where were we?”

Bess cupped his cheek, bringing him back to her lips.

“Here.” She swallowed into his smug expression while his right hand moved up her thigh, teasing her over her panties before he smiled wider at the way she rolled her hips to welcome his touch. He dragged his knuckles delicately over her center and Bess felt a bulge growing against her knee when Elvis looked down where his hand was.

“Man oh man.”

He raised his eyebrow as his fingers slipped inside her and she responded with an upward thrust, turning her face into his left arm at the sensation. Elvis kissed her check, gliding his fingers further into her, slowly probing her delicately and lingering over her bundle of nerves, repeating the movements that provoked a response.

Bess tried to remember the last time a man had touched her. This was no impatient swiping on the way to quick sex. Ben had made the effort to please her, though he had always seemed preoccupied, like he was making a grocery list while he muddled along with his fingers. She had had to do a lot of work twisting and turning to get the angle right. Elvis was right there, absorbing every twitch, every gasp, every clench as she pivoted his fingers toward what she liked. No one had ever touched her like this and it felt so satisfying that Bess couldn’t stop herself from grabbing him as she moaned out. Her hands were on his back, through his hair, in his mouth while he watched with concentration, his lips opening and closing with a gasp as she moved her knee back and forth over his groin.

“You are so soft, Moo Moo.” He brought his fingers out momentarily and Bess’ jaw dropped as she watched him suck on his index and forefinger, covering them in his saliva and grinning as he brought his hand back to slide easily inside her. “Sweet, too, baby, sweetest girl I ever met.”

Bess blushed, deeper, harder, redder than ever, and buried her head into Elvis' forearm. It was almost too much, to feel Elvis’ finger rolling over her slick nub, slow and steady, like he was canoeing them intently down a lazy river, strumming her like a banjo. Each stroke brought her closer to home, and a warm tingling sensation hummed up to her throat and made her moan out a guttural melody just for him. His eyes never left hers, and his chest pushed harder and harder into her with each exhale. It was the most intimate, vulnerable and intense experience Bess had ever had. She felt him grind harder against her knee, breaking their eye contact to drop his forehead on to hers with a loud groan.

Their bodies shifted back and forth together and the car swelled with the sound of their savage breathing. The smell of aftershave, Chanel No. 5 talcum powder, tank grease and sweat filled Bess’ nostrils, and heightened the aching, sparking heat in her chest. She pulled Elvis to her, meeting his lips as he stroked her until the bow broke and waves of electricity vibrated through her body. She cried to heaven above and hell below, drowning out the sound of the music playing on the radio, the sound of the car seat heaving up and down, the sound of Elvis’ chuckles as he held her, looking down at her with wide puppy dog eyes full of satisfaction and appreciation. As if she had been the one pleasing him.

Bess realized how much she had satisfied him when she noticed a wet, gooey stain on his pants as she lay in Elvis’ arms, nuzzling her forehead against his chest. She palmed her hand over it, smiling up at him.

“Maybe I should keep an extra uniform in my car for you?”

He played with her hair, grinning into her eyes.

“Nah, it’ll dry. Sides, it’s dark, no one will know what we been up to.” He took a deep breath, another chortle escaped his lips. “S’nice a you to offer, though. Guess I know what I have to do to get you to be a nice lil girl for me.”

“Hush.” Bess hit him, but she couldn’t help but sigh affectionately. “Though, gee whiz, Elvis. I never felt like that before.”

“Aw, there she is, there’s a good lil Moo Moo.” He kissed her head. “Why, she’s the sweetest lil Moo cow in the whole wide world. Gotta take care a my Moo Moo, cuz she takes such good care me.”

All Bess could do was sink into him further, allowing his babyish voice to lull her into a calm, relaxed state. She started playing with the lining of his undershirt, asking him about their plans to be together over the weekend. 

In her more reserved moments, Bess stopped herself from prodding Elvis for future plans because she did not want to seem needy or anxious or too invested. She left it to him. She didn’t want to give him the power of knowing how much she liked him. This tryst was temporary, she knew how this worked: he would go on leave back to Memphis, and then, before she knew it he’d be off to Germany.

But when she was with him, in his embrace, all of her worries seemed to dissolve. Bess didn’t think about her mother’s troubles, her father’s expectations, how Ben had broken her heart or anything upsetting. Here, in the cozy afterglow of loving making, she felt completely at ease and her subconscious snuck out, seeking opportunities to be with him as much as possible. Her hand smoothed over his shirt as she looked up at him with a breezy, carefree grin.

“Want me to pick you up tomorrow?”

“Nah, honey, my friend has my new white Caddy, so I’ll be coming’ round to pick you up from now on.”

“What time d’you think you’ll come by?”

“Don know, ‘zactly, but I’ll call you. Reckon it’ll be after 5, most likely.”

 “I should write down my number.” She started to sit up, but Elvis held her tight and kissed her nose.

“Nah, Moo Moo, jus’ tell me, I’ll ‘member it.”

Bess squinted up incredulously, but soon he was repeating it back to her, tickling her and telling her to be a good girl and trust him.

“I got it, locked down up here, baby.” He pointed to his head, and Bess shrugged, sitting up and swaying to the sounds of the song “Devil or Angel.”

“Aw, I love this song.”

Elvis followed suit, joining her upright on the bench seat and grinning as he tucked in his shirt and straightened his tie as he sang along. Bess smiled inwardly at his silly, melodramatic expression, he was clearly trying to impress her. She grinned wider when she realized that they were on opposite sides of the seat from when they had first moved back there, and she smooshed into him with a light kiss. He returned it, and they started to paw at each other again, tongues meeting and gently exploring each other until Bess pushed off, trying to be sensible and move them out of the car.

 “You better go, Tupelo.”

Elvis followed her, kissing the knuckles over her hand as they said their goodnights against her car, hips pushing up against hips.

“Always takin’ such good care a me, Moo Moo. I jus’ know. God sent you to take care of me. Wish I could just stay with you always. I hate to leave.” He murmured, pouting. “I don know how I’m gonna make it through the night without you, baby. Gonna be dreamin’ ‘bout you.” His lip curled up at the left side. “And how sweet ya taste.”

Elvis dodged her had as she tried to hit his arm. “Tomorrow can’t come soon enough, Moo Moo. Mmhhmmm, better have that sweet lil honey pot all dressed up and ready for a party. Wanna show you off to my friends.”

Bess blushed and waved him away, though she couldn’t stop herself from rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet from excitement. This last week she had felt like a phoenix, rising from the ashes of last summer’s devastating heartbreak and all the self destructive behavior that had followed.

Being with Elvis was a restorative tonic, and she couldn’t wait to spend the night with him Saturday. It meant something that he invited her to meet his friends; it was an acknowledgment, a validation, a way of telling her that he didn’t just see her as someone to fool around with in a dark car. It meant that he really liked her. That she really was special to him.

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

Saturday, April 12, 1958

9:47 a.m.  The Schwartz Residence

The house smelled like spiced ginger. It was one of those days when Mama had risen at dawn and baked enough food to feed the entire base. There were loaves of ginger bread, banana bread, rugelach, oatmeal cookies and some sort of roast was slowly cooking in the oven. Their kitchen had always been the heart of Bess’ family, not only was it where she learned to cook at her mother’s apron strings, but it is also where Mama taught her to draw, read and knit. Papa had taught her and Kay German by only speaking German to them in the house until they were fluent. However, it was at the kitchen table with Mama where Bess perfected her German. This was where Mama had helped her with her German homework and essays. With all of her work, with all of her problems. 

Mama’s parents were second generation German Jews, and before she met Papa, Mama had played piano in Zayde’s Brooklyn vaudeville theatre, where all six kids in Mama’s family had eventually gone to work. Papa enjoyed regaling his daughters with the story of how he had met a dark, beautiful woman on the Coney Island midway who had captured his heart when she helped him buy tickets after no one understand his broken English. She had spoken to him in German, and it was the first time he’d felt welcomed and safe in America. Two weeks later he had asked her to marry him. Mama had thrown herself into domestic life after the wedding, and then into factory life during the war, always somehow managing to keep things taped together through military moves back and forth across the country.

Bess often wondered when Papa realized how different Mama was from other women, because most of the time, her mental condition was fairly obtuse and could be understood as harmless whimsy. For Bess, it was a mainstay of her childhood. 

Mama had always spoken so casually of the hidden meanings she saw in the world, the faeries and demons that spoke to her, that when Bess was little, she had assumed something was wrong with her and waited impatiently for her own visions. It was not until she was twelve, after Mama had dug up the whole back yard one night and chopped off all their electrical wires to stop the demons from tormenting her, that Papa took her and Kay aside and explained that Mama had to go live at a health farm for the summer and Aunt Rachel would be coming from New York to take care of them.

Thus began a long series of stays at different experimental sanitariums and institutions over the last ten years. The most recent had been in November, a month-long stay at a small resort in Eureka Springs Arkansas, and Mama had returned fatter, calmer and filled with zeal about the wonders of natural hot spring bathing. But Mama was still Mama, and the battle for good and evil was still playing out in front of her eyes through the words and whispers and visions that she alone experienced. Bess was grateful that, for whatever reason, the demons had been staying mostly at bay. The faeries, on the other hand, had been quite vocal.

Mama turned as Bess entered the kitchen, and brought her daughter some coffee while she caressed Bess’ cheek with her hand.

“Oh Bessie, you’ve been looking radiant lately. The faeries have been murmuring.” She trailed her fingers over the large curlers in Bess’ hair. “They tell me you have a new beau.”

Bess blushed, responding sheepishly. “No mama, I’m  - I’m - just going out tonight. With friends. Where’s Papa?”

“Oh he went fishing with some of the German studies instructors, they took three barrels of beer and a tent, so they might stay at the lake. “

Mama kissed Bess’ forehead and then sipped her own coffee.

“It is going to be a full moon tonight, Bessie. You are positively glowing, my girl. I think the moon goddess wants to have her way with you, you have to be careful. She is a tricky one, she plays with us mere mortals for amusement.”

Bess blushed, thinking of Elvis and her own hopes and desires for the night. A shiver of anticipation went through her body and she giggled, nervously.

“Hmmm, well, we’ll see, Mama, maybe I can outsmart her.”

Mama stood, following as Bess took her coffee and bread to the secretary’s desk in the hall, and winking at her daughter.

“No one can outsmart the mistress of the moon, Bess, she controls the oceans and with it, the waves within us. The water that drums in our ears and thrashes us forward. The current that pulls at our heart. And her power is strongest at the full moon, beware her riptide.”

Bess watched as her mother turned into the living room with a flourish and then filled the house with Rachmaninoff’s loud, romantic piano music. 

Bess couldn’t help going into her evaluative mindset and pondering whether Mama was having a good day, baking and playing the piano, or whether she was hurtling towards a manic episode. She looked at the clock, and decided she would have to wait and see, but she prepared herself to cancel the whole night if need be. Right now, she would go ahead as planned, and called her friend James to beg him for help finalizing her outfit.

“I need a man’s opinion, that’s why.”

“Bess, trust me, whatever dress you wear, Elvis’ only thought is going to be how quickly he can get it off."

“Jameson!” Bess spoke in a hushed murmur as she rocked her chair back against the wall. “I don’t even know what is going to happen, he is an odd duck when it comes to fooling around.” James was silent. “Great, so you’ll be here at 5?”

“Bess, I love you but I am not getting involved. Didn’t you say he’s picking you up at 5?”

“He said he would call after 5, and I’ve been thinking, you should pick me up and drop me off, then I’ll get a cab home or something. I don’t want my folks to know about Elvis -”

“Bess, the General probably already -”

“Just be here at 5, James. I’m going to get my nails done and pick up a few things. Wait, better make it 4:30, just in case - ok? Please? You know I never ask for anything.”

Bess looked at the nails on her right hand, turning them over, trying to banish James’ suggestion that her father probably already knew that she was spending time with Elvis Presley. Yes, he trained officers to gather intelligence, but Papa could be quite blind about their home life. She rocked back and forth on the chair, noticing that her mother’s piano serenade in the living room had moved from Russia to Brooklyn. She was playing Gershwin now. 

This is good sign, Bess thought, happy, lighthearted Gershwin was one of Mama’s favorites. Then Bess realized after a few bars that it was “The Man I Love,” and she pursed her lips at her mother’s teasing.

“But you always ask. For everything. ‘James, take me to the dance, James, let’s go out dancing in Austin, James deliver me to Elvis Presley’s motel room - ’ ”

“Stop, you know you love it. Otherwise you’d be bored out of your mind, as you refuse to have a love life of your own.”

“That’s what you think, Schwartz. I have a vast, secret love life that I keep from you.”

Bess grinned. “Good, you can tell me all about it when I see you at 4:30. Make that 4. And if you don’t show, I’ll inform the General that you stood me up!”

Smiling wider at her friend’s groans, Bess hopped up with purpose, thinking that it was time to wash off her facial mask and make a list of all the things she needed to do to get ready by four.

“It’s settled then. James, you’re a dream, see you at 4.”

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

Saturday, April 12, 1958

3:58 p.m.  The Schwartz Residence

It was Kay who opened the door when James arrived, smart and debonair in his officer’s uniform with his hair coiffed and parted perfectly. Bess bounced down the stairs, beaming wide at James’ high whistle as she twirled around for him.

“Gee Schwartz, I think you might need to drive tonight. That dress just kicked me in the head.”

Bess did a two step in her cocktail dress, trying not to notice the way her sister rolled her eyes as she shut the front door.

 “You don’t have to be nice, Captain, you can tell her she needs to wear something more colorful, more over the top, more like what Elvis wears in civilian life. I’ve been telling her all afternoon.”

James tilted his head towards Kay, “So I’m guessing the kid knows.”

Bess shrugged, “Yeah, oy. But thank god Papa took Colonel Zimmermann and some of the new teachers fishing. Mama’s out back painting, she’s been on one today. Baked up a storm, if you want something sweet.”

James shook his head, letting Bess lead the way upstairs. “Your mom is too smart, Bess. So is your pop. I’m happy to be your beard, but if they don’t already know you are dating Elvis Presley, they are gonna get wise sooner or later.”

Kay laughed, “Mama already knows something is up, Bess has been putting way more attention into her appearance this week and coming home late every night. Just today, she curled her hair, then decided to go to the salon and have her hair set anyway. And she tried on about 100 dresses, just so everything’s perfect.” Kay said, in a sing-song voice.

“I’m not dating Elvis, you guys. I’m just spending time with him. And, Kay, I think you are exaggerating. I was having my nails done at the beauty parlor anyway.” 

Bess held out her hands for James’ inspection. She felt a deep sense of satisfaction at the dark burgundy color, and she had liked it so much she matched her lipstick to it. There was something about a fresh nail lacquer that always made Bess feel more adult, more confident.

“Let me show you the whole get-up with these low heeled pumps on, though I have some other shoe options.” She slipped on her heels, and twirled around again, as James went to sit on her bed next to Kay. “There, now, James, as a man, what do you really think? Too simple? He said to dress up.”

James looked Bess up and down as Kay snickered, prompting a quick kick to her shin.

“No, it’s perfect Bess. With that neckline? And the way it crisscrosses in the middle, and your hair? You look like Ava Gardner. It’s not too simple, it’s sexy. Sexy as hell. But you need a necklace.”

James stood, and went to Bess’ vanity, pulling out her pearl necklace from her jewelry box, and beckoning her over. He fastened it around her neck from behind, then put in the matching earrings, carefully, before stepping back with a whistle to let Bess look at herself in the mirror.

“There now. You're a goddess. I dare him not to whisk you away and ravage you the moment he sees you. It’s wholesome and it’s sexy all at once.”

Bess smiled and took her friend’s hand, whispering a shy, blushing thank you. They sat up there, listening to records as Bess modeled a few other shoe options and asked whether she should wear gloves. Ultimately, all parties involved agreed gloves were too formal for a motel party.

It was 5:15 when they went back downstairs and settled in the kitchen, sampling some of the rugelach as they waited for Elvis’ call. 

By 6:15, they had moved to the living room and Papa’s bar, where Bess made Tom Collins for everyone, which now included Mama and Dickey, who had come by to take Kay out to a drive-in movie. 

At 7, Mama began to ask if James and Bess wanted dinner, she was slow cooking a roast for Sunday, but could fry up some cold meatloaf sandwiches.

“No thanks, Mama, we’re just waiting to hear from the friends we’re meeting.” Bess stumbled through a sorry excuse for a story about two friends from high school who had to work later than expected. James gave Bess a supportive look, and after her mother left the living room, reassured her that a number of things could have happened with the drill sergeant overseeing Elvis’ dismissal.

“He could be stuck on KP duty, maybe he got held back because the others played a prank on him. You know how unpredictable those battalion sergeants can be. Let’s relax and turn on the boob tube.”

Bess nodded, made another round of Tom Collins, and settled in to watch Art Linkletter's amateur comedy show, trying very hard not to think about how it was almost 8 p.m. 

At 9 James began his campaign to convince Bess something must have kept Elvis on base, and that they should get out of the house. Get burgers at Millie’s Diner or go for a drive out to the Waco Wet Dog. 

At 9:30, Bess caved, and ran upstairs to take off her pearls and change into a more casual, purple swing dress. While changing, she began to mull over a secondary plan that was forming in her head, and she carried the entire display case of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups she’d bought with her to James’ car.

“What’s with the candy?” James looked over his shoulder as he careened his car around towards downtown Killeen.

“It’s sort of a joke, I um, I ate all his peanut butter cups the other night. I- I thought it would be a gas if I showed up with an entire case.”

James looked over at Bess, and rubbed her shoulder. “And what, you think we should eat them instead?”

“Well, what if he couldn’t get to a phone? Or got too caught up with his friends or whatever? He was pretty insistent that he wanted to see me tonight. I was thinking...” Bess looked down with a sigh, then back up at James, her eyes dark with determination. “What about just driving by the Star Motel on the way home. What do you think, as a man, how would you feel if I just showed up?”

James could see Bess’ confidence waver, but he couldn’t bear to talk her down, not after everything he had watched he go through over the last year. So he banished his own misgivings and squeezed her hand. “Honey, any man upset to see you walk in would be crazy. But let’s get some grub first, ok?”

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

Saturday, April 12, 1958

11:05 p.m.  The Star Motel, on the outskirts of Killeen TX towards Waco

The air was cool now, and Bess’ mother had been right, it was a full moon that shone over them, illuminating the farms off in the distance on the road to Waco. The Star Motel was a two-storey building with rooms along the inside and outside that wrapped around a large pool. 

Bess sat in the car, stomach churning, suddenly unsure if this was a good idea. They had definitely spotted a new, white Cadillac packed in the back lot with a temporary license plate. Which was both promising and unsettling, because it meant Elvis was probably there but hadn't called her. Bess suddenly wished she hadn't found it, but she was also unable to just slide back and tell James to take her home now that she knew Elvis was probably here.

Adrenaline was coursing through her veins and the cocktails had dulled her inhibitions.There was a giddy, bubbly feeling at the top of her head that egged her on and told her that he had invited her, had been adamant about wanting to see her, “show her off,” telling her she was special to him, that he was crazy about her. 

Maybe it was the full moon after all. Whatever it was, every cell in Bess’ body compelled her curiosity and her desire. She had to know, and she needed to feel his touch once more; that voice and that face and those hands that took her away from her difficult, tiresome existence. 

Taking a deep breath, she felt almost like a force behind herself was propelling her out of the car, and she only hesitated at the sound of James’ voice.

“Bess, come out and let me know, ok? This place is always crawling with creeps, so if you don’t come out here and give me the old heave ho in the next 15 minutes, I’m going to come find you. I won’t care about locked doors.”

Bess nodded back into the car with a bright, broad smile, and then strode over the grass and into the side corridor of the motel, avoiding the office. 

Walking past the first set of rooms, she came to a breezeway and paused, leaning against the decorative, concrete screen in the middle to calm and prepare what she would say to Elvis. She was certain they were a few doors down, she could hear a group of male voices jamming and she perked up, clutching her box of chocolates closer to her bosom at the sound of Elvis’ low voice singing no more than twenty feet away. 

That was when she heard heels clicking down the breezeway, and turned to find a small, petite blonde in a pink dress walking towards her with an exaggerated flounce in her hips and an ice bucket resting at her waist. Bess' chest tightened when she recognized Anita Wood from the movie magazine photos. Magazine photos of Anita Wood out on dates around Memphis with her boyfriend Elvis Presley.

Anita flashed Bess a dazzling grin that displayed the whitest, straightest teeth Bess had ever seen. “I swear, I walked all over creation looking for that dag gum ice machine, and you know where it is? Where these rocket scientists thought to themselves, why this is the best place to put it? Up behind the cigarette machine, on the back of it. Completely outta sight. Can you believe that?”

“Um yeah, I mean no, ugh. Idiots, I bet it was cheaper to wire it back there, or something.”

Bess wiped the sides of her eyes, willing herself not to cry, not to linger on how this proved that she was just another girl to Elvis, and definitely not preferable to the gorgeous beauty queen in front of her. Anita’s face fell as she looked up at Bess.

“Oh honey, are you ok? Why, you know you’d just feel better if you just let it all out.” Anita pulled a pink handkerchief with lace trim from her bust, replete with a monogrammed A.W. “Here, now, you can cry with me here, ain’t no one but us chickens.”

“Is it that obvious I'm upset?” Bess tried to chuckle, watching Anita’s face change to a confused frown as she noticed the box of Reese’s.

“Hey - what’s with the candy? Are you meeting someone here?”

Bess shifted, working against those cocktails to think on her feet and also play dumb about the suspicion she saw in Anita’s eyes. “Oh, ha, no. These are for me. I, um, I live here in town with my folks, and I just checked in here because, well, I needed to get away for the night and drown my sorrows in chocolate, if you know what I mean. Just learned my fiancee married another girl he met in Germany. Men, huh? What are they good for?”

Anita stepped forward and rubbed Bess’ shoulder as more tears fell down her cheeks.

“Well, God made men for a reason, sometimes I think it was to test our womanly resolve. Oh honey, I cannot imagine what that would feel like, to have a man wrong you so. Ain’t no dirtier dog than a man who breaks that sacred promise. But I tell you what.” She took the box of Reese’s from Bess' arm. “You cannot sacrifice your figure over a man. Nu huh. No way, Jose. Why, that won’t do nothing to get back at him, it’ll only hurt you and your future prospects. My heart is telling me that I cannot stand by and let you go eat all this candy and feel sorry for yourself, honey. That is the devil whispering in your ear.”

Anita trotted over to the trash can and Bess groaned inwardly as she watched a woman dispose of Elvis’ chocolates for the second time that week. Though she conceded that Anita was right, she didn’t really want to go home and eat them all. Well, she did. But she knew she would regret it.

What could she do, offer them knowingly to Anita to take to her boyfriend? The thought made her smile, which Anita, of course, assumed was a reaction to her kind, Christian gesture. Still holding her ice bucket, Anita patted Bess on her shoulder.

“See, I can tell you’re feeling better already now that the temptation has been removed. We women have to stick together. You should take a nice long bath, it will do wonders, much more healing than candy. Whenever I get upset, I have a good cry, get it all out, then take a nice hot shower.” She winked at Bess, and Bess wondered if Anita did the same things in the shower that Bess did to make herself feel better. Maybe that was why God made showers?

Anita smiled wider as Bess wiped her eyes, and mustered a feeble grin, which encouraged her to continue dispensing advice.

“Yessirree, you’ll feel better once you wash that man right out of your hair and start over again. Pretty girl like you, why, if you lost five pounds, you’d have your pick of the litter.” Bess flinched when Anita pinched her waist playfully, and was lost for words as her heart jumped into her throat with embarrassment at how much thicker she was than the petite blonde. Insecurity clouded her head and she was almost unable to hear the rest of what Anita said.

“Just stay away from big boxes of candy, and other temptations Satan might throw at you. Then, I bet you dollars to doughnuts, that boy will regret his decision. The best revenge is to find someone better and shove it in his face. Make sure to take out a big ole wedding announcement in the paper That'll make you feel much better.” 

Anita left Bess with a wink and a parting squeeze to her arm, as Bess murmured a low thank you. She wiped her eyes and gathered her wits, then, when she was sure Anita was gone, she dug the box of chocolate out of the trashcan and tucked the rescued candy under her arm.

Straightening her dress as she sat down in James' car, Bess popped a Reese’s in her mouth and decided on how she would respond to her friend's questions.

“I ran into one of his girlfriends in the hallway.”

“Oh Bess, no, he didn’t! I’ve half a mind to go back and beat that hillbilly senseless.”

Bess shook her head, extending her arm out of the window and dropping Anita’s pink, embroidered handkerchief into a puddle of mud on the side of the road as they drove back to her house.

“Don’t, Elvis did me a favor. He reminded me why I don’t date soldiers.”

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

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[theintrovertedsculpter]

"are you sure this is a good idea? I thought you and your...partner, weren't on good terms."

Jefferson smoothed his hair in the window of a parked car, fussing over his appearance as he straightened his jacket. Checking to see if every aspect of his appearance was perfect, he reminded Avery of a peacock fluffing it's tail feathers.

"First of all," Jefferson began, checking his cufflinks and once again smoothing his perfectly starched shirt. Avery rolled her eyes, feeling the humid summer night cling to her, how could he stand to wear all those layers?

"He is not my "partner" Michael is my true love, my beloved star bound to me across time by fate."

"I thought you two hadn't seen each other in 80 years."

He waved a hand at this remark, dismissing it from the air,

"A mere blink in the face of eternity, poppet. We may have had a small fight, but I'm sure he has had enough time to calm down and remember why he loves me."

Avery crossed her arms, listening to the music spilling out from the ice house, the night was already well underway and she couldn't quite bring herself to believe this was a hotspot for paranormal mingling, let alone where the infamous "Michael" worked.

"so which is it?"

"what?" He asked, distracted once again by his own reflection.

"Is eighty years long enough for him to forgive you, or is it no time at all?"

His face froze for a moment before he flashed his dazzlingly white teeth at her, the smile never quite reaching his eyes.

"No more than a breath for us, but he never could stay mad at me for long."

Jefferson brushed past her, pushing through the doors and she wondered which one of them he was trying to convince.

Her question was quickly answered as she trailed after him, her instincts making her duck as a loud crack echoed through the bar. Her brain felt like it froze and restarted several times over as she saw Jefferson's head explode, all his effort and time perfecting his outfit immediately undone as his skull shattered apart like an egg thrown at a wall.

The silence of the bar rang loudly in her ears after the explosion, her eyes darted to a man standing behind the bar, he was holding an old pistol, the barrel still smoking as the acrid smell of gunpowder reached her nose. He didn't move, the gun pointing at the crushed watermelon remains of Jeffersons head. His gaze darted to hers for a split second and she felt her stomach drop, it was like being pinned by a very large predator, she could do nothing but hold her breath and hope she didn't take up too much of his notice.

"Did you just shoot me with a fucking FLINTLOCK?"

Jefferson's voice was shrill and indignant as he sat upright, his head whole and unbroken. Avery would have been inclined to believe it hadn't happened if it wasn't for the blood still splattered across her face and the ruined state of Jefferson hair and coat.

The man, who Avery could only assume was Michael, didn't deign to respond. Intent to add insult and further injury, he threw the gun, the blow immediately crushing Jefferson's nose.

Avery couldn't help but wince as the blood poured down around his hands and chin as he doubled over cupping at his face. The blood was soaking the fine silk shirt he had meticulously picked out for the occasion of meeting with his "beloved". She released a drawn out sigh, he was going to be insufferable after this, she just knew it.

[hypocratic]

Rifat leans in close during the drug administration. "You're enjoying this aren't you?"

Frederick is here in Rifat's cell at 9:30 in the morning, as he is every tedious day, because Rifat will not take his medication unless it is all but spoon fed to him by Frederick himself. Rifat suffers from paranoia and distrust of others. Severely so. But, as someone with schizotypal personality disorder (a formal diagnosis Frederick privately concluded far prior to Rifat's incarceration), his suspicious nature falls well within the purview of that populace. He exhibits each symptom equally: an eight factor juggle routine he has yet to cease or fumble. Too perfect, Frederick quietly, cynically entertains; that is an office thought. Right now, Frederick—a medical doctor—is disgracefully reduced to a nurse: administering medication to an inmate. Rifat trusts no one but Frederick to give him what he says he is giving him. Frederick follows their built up routine; he can leverage this dependence.

He shakes the small, white wax-paper cup in his doctorly-blue latex-gloved hand. The pills rattle within. He plucks one out. Lime green. He showcases the tablet, pinched between his thumb and index finger: "Risperidone." An antipsychotic. No larger than his silver cufflink that glints in the fluorescent overhead light. He drops it into Rifat's open palm who always swallows without water and without breaking eye contact. Rifat displays the flat pink of his tongue—gone—then licks the air suggestively, demonstratively (Frederick's eyes Atlas his heavy brow). Half yellow, half gray. "Lithium." A mood stabilizer. Plop. Lastly, once a week, the injection.

Frederick picks up the tiny vial on the metal tray and holds it close to his face, verifying all information is correct: patient name, volume, dose amount, expiration date. Next, he twists his fingers, rotating the vial to peer between the empty space of its wrapped-around label; he inspects the clear liquid for any presence of contamination, quickly but proficiently: particles, discoloration, cloudiness, leaks. He tears the syringe from its packaging and twists the capped needle on. He removes the protective cap from the top of the vial and flicks it—accurately—into the trashcan several feet away; he does the same with the thin needle cap: he has lost any pride in these successes, as they are now daily, expected occurrences. Competency is the greatest risk factor for boredom. Fine. The favored part is what follows.

He wipes the top of the vial with an alcohol wipe. While that wetness evaporates into the air, Frederick draws point five milliliters of air into the needle. He punctures the foil top of the vial with the needle and injects the air. He turns the vial upside-down with the needle still inside and siphons out Rifat's dose: double the typical person's tolerance. The full amount could—in layman's terms—explode Frederick's heart. Rifat is quite the beast.

You're enjoying this, aren't you?

As Frederick carefully assesses the current syringe amount, he glance-glares at him: "Do not antagonize a man holding a needle." Slightly off. Karmic: Frederick squirts the small, excess amount at Rifat's chest. The needle is popped off. Disposed of. He unwraps the intravenous catheter needle—the connector that same calming, doctorly-blue (so like the sky its hue has not instilled a conditioned fear in his patients)—and slots it onto the syringe. He motions for Rifat's arm who provides it. Frederick cleans the skin below the crease of Rifat's elbow joint with a sanitizing pad. His thumb strokes over the area, feeling for a buoyant vein at the surface that bounces under his touch. When he finds one, he aligns the readied needle and injects the liquid at a textbook angle of forty-five degrees. "Ketamine."

Frederick does not leave the cell. Rifat was right. He enjoys this. He enjoys watching Rifat's consciousness—glimmer to dimmer—sink from his eyes. Moments before nothing, greenware sarcasm (softly spoken, not fiery nor hard): "Sweet dreams."

Rifat will hear him in the stars.

[hedgiwithapen]

MAWS AU - the Kryptonite sphere does not get brought to Thanksgiving and the ship doesn't activate. All the drama is interpersonal :)

(obviously: set during the Hearts of the Fathers, spoilers ahoy) The kitchen smelled wonderful, the roasting turkey, the  hot honeybutter rolls, James's yams with marshmallows, potatoes with enough herbs for all of scarborough fair.  Martha had prided herself on a  cozy kitchen, a welcoming home. 

"What do you mean, an enemy?" Martha Kent interrupted her husband's good natured advice to their son. Her Clark did not call people enemies.  Oh, they'd taught him well, he tried to see the best in people like Jonathan, but he also knew to believe people when they showed him who they were. When he'd come home in second grade with blood on his shirt sleeve from a fight, he'd been honest about it-- bullies. When he'd lost a chess match in the finals to a cheater,  Clark had used words like 'opponent.' 

"Um," Clark said. Ma thought about what she'd read in the article, about that Mr. Ivo and his attack on Metropolis. 

"Clark. Who's the enemy?"

"I..."

"Ma, really, you don't--"

"I don't what?" she asked. "Clark. What happened?" she reached up to put a hand on his cheek, tilting his face down so she could see him. His eyes had a haunted look in them. Someone had scared her baby. 

"I didn't want to worry you," he said. "General Lane..."

"He's not the nicest man," Ma started to say, out of a sense of hospitality. Lois's father was, after all, a guest. "Clark. Is this just that he's made Lois feel bad? Tell me the truth."

"No," Clark said. "I...I didn't know he was her dad. He--"

"What did he do?" Ma said, a chill like the worst of winter icing her words. 

"He caught me," Clark said, looking down. Not at her. At his wrists, like he expected something other than skin and shirtsleeves and Jonathan's best cufflinks to be there. "He said I was responsible, all those people who died...that I'm an invader." The words spilled out of her baby's mouth, the same way they had when he'd talked about needing to quit the football team, like his pain wasn't worth anything. 

"Oh," Ma said, quietly. "Oh, Clark. Oh, don't you worry, honey. You stay right here. I'll take care of this."

"Martha," Jonathan said warningly, knowing enough about his wife that the turkey was no longer the priority. 

Ma ignored him, reaching up on her tiptoes to take down her grandmother's cast iron skillet. It had always served her family well, no matter what purpose it was needed for.. "Jon, you stay with Clark. I'm not having that man eat at our table."

"Ma, no!" Clark protested. The kitchen door started to open.

"Clark. You may have all those powers, but I am your mother. That man tried to kill you." Ma insisted.

"Hey, I'm just grabbing the--what." Jimmy stared. "Uh. Mrs. Kent?"

"James," she said, smiling. " You can take the yams out in a minute, dear. I need to settle something with our intruder."

"Indrude--ma, no!" Clark followed her, his long strides a match for three of hers, but she still reached the living room first.

"Get out of my house," Ma said to the General, interrupting whatever silent, awkward conversation had been happening between him and Lois. 

"Excuse me?" he said, standing, automatically shifting his feet. Ma narrowed her eyes. She knew a defensive stance when she saw one.

"Lois, honey, you can stay. But he's not welcome."

"What's going on?" Lois asked. "Clark?" The look on his face caught her breath. "Clark?"

"The General," Clark said, hollowly. "Lois, please tell me you didn't know."

"Know wha--"Lois looked green as she registered the Important Capitals. "Oh, oh my god. Dad. Tell me you didn't."

"Didn't what? Lois, what is this?" The General looked almost bewildered. Ma wasn't sure if it made her angrier that he might be pretending not to know what he'd done, or if he was really so blind that it didn't matter. She was angry all the same. “Tell me you didn’t kidnap and try to murder my boyfriend!” Lois exploded. Ma felt a rush of kinship with the girl. She could stay as long as she liked.

"You're the one who kidnapped Superman? And attacked Cadmus?" Jimmy finally pieced it together. 

"How do you know about any of that?" The General asked, eyes still on the threat.

Ma gripped the skillet by the handle, forcing his attention back to her, taking two deliberate steps to place herself between her son and the couch where a monster in uniform -metaphorical uniform, anyways, though not metaphorically a monster-  stood. "General, It’s best you leave now. If you come near any of my children again, so help me, the pigs down at the Anderson's get mighty hungry in winter. Now git."

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for asking my fiancee to never see her family again?

Okay I know it sounds bad from the title, but hear me out.

I [23 M] got engaged to my beautiful fiancee [23 F], who we’ll call L, and considered her the love of my life. We have a lot in common, such as our intelligence and us both being vegetarian. I proposed to her after she met my parents, and we went to America to meet her family.

Things went the opposite of what I expected. Upon driving to her parents’ house, her father [54 M], who we’ll call H, tried showing off the British Union Jack flag to give me a sense of hospitality (I am from England). To my horror, the flag was on fire! H and L’s brother B [25 M] pulled the flag down, stomped on it, and threw compost on it, to which H handed it to me.

I thought that would be the worst of it, but things got worse. As L and I stayed in the bedroom H built himself, the floor broke underneath me, and I fell into the compost heap outside. Afterwards, we had dinner, and the entire time, L’s entire family acted like buffoons (with the exception of L’s mother) as they ate with their mouths open, and generally annoyed me. When H and B took me to this dirty pub (which they call bars there). H showed me these cufflinks that he asked me to wear as part of his family tradition, only to reveal these ugly pig cufflinks. H and B then took me to break into a pornographic warehouse, which went disastrous as the fire alarm went off, and got me a head gash from hiding in the dumpster.

On the day of L and mine’s wedding, L approached me, and noticed I wasn’t wearing the pig cufflink H had tried to give me. I couldn’t understand why she would expect me to wear those ugly things in front of my family and friends. I then decided to express to her that I never wanted to see her family again after moving to England, with perhaps the exception of her mother when the children come. I tried to explain to her just how ridiculous her family was, and I complimented her by telling her she was like a flower who grew out of a pot of dirt. She exploded on me, and insisted she still loved her family, and ran away from me.

I just don’t understand what I said and did wrong? Surely someone as intelligent as her must realize how absurd it is to expect me to see them again! AITA?

[lua-miyuki]

Dark Office | ZhongChi

Modern AU

TW: NSFW, Dark Zhongli, toxic relationship

Ajax is an employee of a large company and his manager is Mr. Zhongli, a handsome, respectable man who attracts attention wherever he goes for his beauty, intelligence and elegance. His charisma is magnetic and attracted the young man from the moment he joined the team. The glances he gave him over the desk were discreet - or so he thought, until Mr. Zhongli suddenly raised his head and plunged his singular golden gaze into his. Ajax felt as if time had stopped. Later that day, his manager cornered him in the archive room. With the shelf at his back, his entire horizon was blocked by the older man, who raised his chin with an inquisitive finger.

"I get the impression that your admiration for me goes beyond professionalism," he whispered in his deep voice.

"It's not just an impression, Mr. Zhongli."

His body tingled as Zhongli leaned over to slide an hour against his ear. In the evening, Ajax hurried down the stairs to the underground parking lot before slipping into his manager's car. His lips were immediately on his and the young man was devoured in the car. This was the beginning of their sexual relationship.

Zhongli was a demanding man in bed. Demanding and authoritarian. Ajax, though full of self-confidence, found himself melting in the bed, fucked stupid against the mattress.

At work, they let nothing of their relationship show. But Ajax often nibbled on the end of his pencil, thinking that the seriousness and authoritarianism of his manager at work was reflected in the evening when he pushed him onto the bed and took him until the morning, sheets soiled and pillow soaked with tears.

It was another one of those nights. Ajax lay naked on the bed, his body scarred by Zhongli's hands and teeth, his cheeks wet with tears. He felt like he was floating, his lower back pulsing with a sweet pain reminiscent of their earlier fuck. The horizon lightened through the window and Zhongli emerged from the bathroom, his glasses on his nose, adjusting his cufflinks.

"Ajax, I think it's best if we stop."

The fall was sudden and painful. He blinked as he straightened on his elbows.

"Huh?"

"It was nice and fun while it lasted, but it's over now," Zhongli said without glancing at him.

Ajax swallowed his saliva with difficulty, feeling himself trembling.

"But why?"

His voice was far more pitiful than he wanted it to be. Zhongli finally looked up at him and smiled sympathetically.

"You're a handsome young man, but it ends there. You don't have the stamina to keep up, and your inexperience was adorable at first but it's beginning to bore me. And our relationship is rubbing off on your work. I made an exception with you but I hate mixing sex and work. And I refuse to let it affect my career. You can enjoy the hotel room a little longer, I've already paid."

And he left him alone, mouth agape and bleary on the bed.

Seeing Zhongli at work again was excruciating. He had kept trying to call him on his mobile, sending lots of messages before receiving just one telling him that Zhongli would be blocking his number from now on. Over his desk, Ajax glared at him. Angry looks, the looks of beaten puppies. But the young man was just hitting a wall of ice.

His frustration and pain exploded one evening. It was the end of the week and the whole team was gathered for dinner. Alcohol was flowing freely, adding salt to the wounds of Ajax, who kept glancing in the direction of his manager. Always perfectly calm. Always perfectly controlled. He downed his glass in one gulp to the cheers of his table.

"Wow, newbie, you've got quite a run tonight!"

"I'm not a newbie anymore, I've been on the team for almost a year."

"You're still the last one in, so you're still a newbie. I'm sure manager Zhongli agrees with me!"

He stiffens, gritting his teeth.

"Oh, did you hear that? Team 2's girl reportedly got a promotion after sucking off her manager!"

"Oh no, surely not?"

"If you want to move up the ladder, you know what you have to do! On your knees under the desk!"

"That won't work," Ajax interjected, noisily setting his glass down on the table. "No matter how well you suck Mr. Zhongli's cock, he'll never mix business with sex. Good-bye promotion."

"Tonight you're up against the manager! It's true he didn't miss the mistake you made today."

"It's not just today he didn't miss me," he crooned, grabbing a new bottle.

A firm hand came to rest on his wrist.

"I think this young man has had quite enough to drink already. Let's call it a night," Zhongli said in his deep, pleasant voice, a smile stretching his lips. The girls at the table suddenly began to blush and gabbled incomprehensible words. Ajax's teeth crunched together and he pulled a little harder on the bottle.

"I don't feel like it! Or are you going to forbid me that too?"

His glare silenced the table and Zhongli turned his piercing eyes on him. The young man pouted, then grinned.

"Now that I think about it, it's really not fair that I didn't get a promotion! If you'd asked me, I'd have wrecked my knees under your desk in a heartbeat! I mean, I did it on that rug the other day! I had burns all over my skin! That and the fucking bite marks you left me everywhere and I always had to be careful to hide!"

Zhongli widened his eyes and Ajax rose suddenly, rolling the glasses on the table.

"Oh well that’s true, why hide who you really are to the whole team? They also have the right to know how you have several times stuck *reaaaaaally* well your hard and fat dick in my ass! Or how you jumped on me the first time I got in your car!"

"Ajax has drunk enough, it’s time to stop for tonight," whistled Zhongli in a hard voice while glaring at him.

"Huh, why not? I may not have enough stamina yet but I think with your precious teachings, I’m not as inexperienced as I used to be!"

He staggered and caught up on Zhongli who pushed him dry. Ajax then contorted himself forward and vomited on Zhongli’s spotless shoes.

Zhongli’s gaze was forever etched in his memory.

Written on November 6th, 2023.

You can support me through my Ko-Fi page ✨

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

More Than A Suit

The shadowlord had noticed Kai seemed less tense when they weren’t at their usual haunt, so he’d taken to finding new places for them to infest.

His current favourite was a hidden speakeasy tucked behind the crumbling shell of an old bookstore — candles flickering in low sconces, warm light pooling across velvet seats and polished wood. No space for a dancefloor, thank all the stars, but roomy enough they didn’t feel trapped.

It felt… like a fox den. Cozy. Safe. Secret.

"You know," Kai said, giving him a once-over that felt like a personal affront, "we wouldn’t draw so many eyes if you didn’t show up dressed like you’re about to fire someone.”

"No, we get looks because of you,” Katsuka said dryly, gesturing at Kai’s shirt — if it could be called that. It clung to every muscle like it had opinions.

“Shameless,” he added.

Kai snorted and tossed back his whiskey in one swift motion. “You jealous? Or just projecting? Wait — are you one of those freaks with a closet full of identical black suits?”

“I have other clothes,” Katsuka snapped, adjusting his lapel. “I just… prefer monochrome. It’s efficient.”

“It’s boring,” Kai shot back.

Katsuka took a slow, deliberate sip of wine and stared at him over the rim. What did this man want from him? Every time it was like this.

Truth be told, the suit was easier to maintain with his illusions. Less moving parts. Black and white was always a safe space - the more black the easier it became. Given his complex weave of illusions, sometimes he just preferred the simple solution.

It wasn't that he didn't have capacity. His illusions came like second nature to him now. In fact sometimes he masked himself as a female to outsiders so they wouldn't stare quite as much when they were together - always as the redhead but Kai would never know that.

Katsuka could feel it — the pressure to perform, to push back, to not let him win. And like an idiot, he took the bait. Again.

“Fine,” Katsuka huffed, sitting up straighter. “You want colour? You’ll get colour.”

Kai leaned back with the smug posture of someone about to witness a trainwreck he’d personally derailed. Katsuka ignored him, fingers trailing slowly along the edge of his collar.

He touched the collar of his crisp white shirt, fingers trailing slowly down his chest—and as they moved, the fabric shimmered. Transformed. The stark lines of his suit melted into a rich purple silk shirt, fitted and tucked neatly into relaxed black slacks. He lingered a moment longer, then wove a subtle paisley pattern into the fabric, just for extra flair.

Golden fox cufflinks snapped into place with a final flick of his wrists.

“There. Happy now?” he muttered, arching a brow in challenge.

Kai didn’t answer immediately. He was watching. Closely.

The grin softened. Something unreadable flickered behind those blood-red eyes.

"A bit of colour looks good on you, Kitty Kat," he murmured, leaning in—

—and yanked open the collar of his shirt.

Katsuka yelped, flailing as Kai peered uninvited down his chest like a man checking a wine label. A blush exploded up his neck.

“You do have freckles,” Kai said, voice annoyingly smug. “Cute.”

“How dare you!” Katsuka sputtered, clutching the front of his shirt closed like a maiden in a stage play. “Boundaries, you degenerate!”

Katsuka tried to settle the blush he knew was still on his face - red and blotchy - as he realised that Kai had seen him without illusions. He never masked what people weren't meant to see.

Kai grinned, utterly unfazed. “You’re fun when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered."

Katsuka made a sound that might have been a growl or a death threat — unclear, really — and glared down into his wine glass like it had betrayed him.

“Drink,” Kai said, topping off his glass with a smirk. “Before you spontaneously combust.”

Katsuka grumbled but didn’t leave. Didn’t storm off. He stayed where he was, stewing in warmth and irritation and the knowledge that he’d walked straight into another one of Kai’s traps. Again.

And Kai, of course, knew he would stay.

He always did.

[fordcrownvictoria]

Billy May: The Brass-Kissed Rascal of American Sound

If you’ve ever sipped a martini under a ceiling fan while the needle dances over a Sinatra record, you’ve probably heard Billy May—even if you didn’t know his name. Swaggering through the American music scene like a big-band cowboy with a trumpet for a sidearm, Billy May was not just an arranger or composer; he was a sonic prankster, a whip-smart technician, and the secret sauce behind some of the most iconic sounds of the 20th century.

Born in 1916 in Pittsburgh, Billy May grew up inhaling the golden fumes of the jazz age. He cut his teeth as a trumpeter in the Charlie Barnet Orchestra, where he first made waves with his arrangement of Cherokee, a sizzling, horn-heavy number that put both Barnet and May on the jazz map. But the trumpet was just his front-facing talent. Behind the scenes, Billy was scribbling down wild, electrified arrangements that would later catch the eye—and ear—of big names who needed their sound sharper, brassier, and more alive.

The Collaborator: Swing with a Twist

Billy May didn’t just work with the stars—he supercharged them. His collaborations read like a Grammy Hall of Fame guest list: Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, Bobby Darin, Peggy Lee. But these weren’t just gigs. May’s arrangements helped define the very persona of these artists. With Sinatra, he co-invented the “swingin’ bachelor” sound—think Come Fly with Me and Come Dance with Me—brassy, buoyant, and rhythmically irreverent.

He took Nat King Cole’s velvet tone and wrapped it in plush orchestrations like Just One of Those Things, blending elegance with zany instrumental accents (a May trademark). He gave Dean Martin that lazy, lounge-lizard lope, and with Bobby Darin’s Oh! Look at Me Now, he proved that he could take a rock-turned-crooner and make him sound like he’d always worn cufflinks.

He didn’t limit himself to vocalists, either. May’s film and television scores ranged from the slapstick (he scored The Green Hornet and contributed to The Mod Squad) to the grand (The Great American Pastime) and the bizarre (Naked City). He even wrote music for The Muppet Show, which might be the most May-like of all: technically brilliant, slightly unhinged, and irresistibly charming.

Brass Bones and Sonic Architecture: A Composer’s Playground

At first blush, a Billy May arrangement may sound like a swing party wearing a lampshade on its head. But underneath that bravado lies a deeply intelligent, architecturally precise musical structure. May was no random joker—he was a musical engineer who designed every shout, every swoop, every flutter with surgical precision.

Form and Phrasing: May gravitated toward 32-bar AABA forms, a staple of Tin Pan Alley songwriting, but he rarely let them lie flat. Instead, he used orchestral hits and punctuation to reframe sections, often making the "B" bridge explode in contrast. His introductions (the “pickup architecture”) were nearly always cinematic: brass fanfares or “fall-offs” that teased tonality and groove before the main melody kicked in.

He employed tight modular phrasing, dividing arrangements into 4- and 8-bar blocks with internal tension and release arcs. Each phrase often started with a syncopated motif—frequently in brass—and was then mirrored or answered in reeds or rhythm section, creating a conversational fabric within the ensemble.

Harmonic Language: Though rooted in swing-era jazz harmony, May flirted with advanced chromaticism. He loved secondary dominants, deceptive cadences, and parallel modulations. For example, in Come Fly With Me, he subtly shifts tonic centers to give a sense of upward motion—harmonically “flying,” if you will.

His voicing choices were especially progressive. He would stack chords in extended tertian harmony—9ths, 11ths, and 13ths—but often voice them with close intervals in the low brass for a snarling, compact sound. He was not afraid of tone clusters and bitonality in transitional sections, particularly in comedic or cartoony interludes.

Instrumentation and Orchestration: Billy May’s orchestration is where he truly played god. He often orchestrated in “choirs”—brass, reeds, strings, rhythm—with each section behaving like a character actor. His brass writing was iconic: plunger-muted trumpets, bass trombone in the basement growling like a tuba, and trumpet shakes that made the air vibrate. He exploited register spread masterfully, with piccolos and lead trumpets floating above baritone saxes and bowed basses.

May’s "slurping saxes" were one of his trademarks. He often scored saxophone solis with rapid chromatic slides and scoops, passing melodic lines across alto to tenor to baritone in ascending or descending chromatic fragments. It sounded like the saxes were laughing.

Woodwinds weren’t just for padding either. He employed flutes and clarinets for comic relief, often using them in jabbing, staccato figures or octave displacements that interrupted the flow with a wink.

Rhythm and Time Feel: Rhythmically, May was never square. He favored laid-back swing feels with drums and bass slightly behind the beat, giving his uptempo numbers a kind of looseness that still felt tight. He frequently layered triplets over straight eights, making rhythms bubble and swirl. Syncopation was key—horn stabs fell off the beat, then resolved precisely in time with the vocalist.

He was particularly fond of "false cadences"—moments where a line seems to resolve harmonically and rhythmically, only to be subverted by a slapstick brass hit or sudden key change. These were more than gags—they were rhythmic punctuation, keeping the ear alert and amused.

Counterpoint and Interplay: His internal counterpoint was dazzling. Behind a simple melody, there might be a dancing clarinet obbligato in thirds, a walking trombone line that echoed the bass, and offbeat piano punches. He often used mirror counterpoint—having two instruments approach each other melodically from opposite ends of the register, intersecting on a punch chord or unison figure.

This wasn't just busy orchestration—it was spatial design. May arranged as if building a sonic city, where every street had its rhythm and every building its resonance.

Legacy: The Big Swingin’ Goodbye

Billy May passed away in 2004, but you’ll still hear his fingerprints in everything from retro lounge revivals to TV bumper music that tries (and often fails) to swing as hard as he could. While others took themselves too seriously or not seriously enough, May danced that perfect line. He believed music should entertain, but never be cheap. It could be playful, but never careless.

He made the music jump, jive, and occasionally hiccup with glee—and never once apologized for his exuberance. His scores had personality: they chuckled, they strutted, they whispered sweet nothings in your ear and then slapped you with a trombone.

In an era when arrangements were supposed to play second fiddle to the singer, May made sure the music sang too. He was the ghost conductor of the American songbook—always in the wings, grinning, with a trumpet mute in one hand and a glint of mischief in his eye.

So raise your glass, cue up Big Band Bash, and let the brass blow wild. Billy May isn’t just a name in the liner notes—he’s the reason those notes dance.

[starberryshuu]

What is Luca Trying to do?

Valorant Protocol HQ – The Firing Range

Yoru didn’t stop walking until he reached the training hall, where he immediately grabbed a gun and started shooting.

His bullets were precise, each shot snapping through the air with more aggression than usual.

He was pissed.

Not because of Luca. No, no. He didn’t care about Luca. Not at all.

It wasn’t like he had spent months enjoying the fact that Julie was oblivious to all the guys around her. Wasn’t like he liked that she ran away from him, only for him to chase after her like an idiot. Wasn’t like he—

Ding.

A bullet barely missed the center of the target.

Yoru cursed under his breath.

He hated this.

He hated the way his brain kept replaying Iso’s words. Julie’s panicking because she described Luca as her type before she even met him.

Of course she had a type. Of course it was that bastard.

He was everything she said she liked—tall, stupidly pretty, annoying, and worse, he knew it. He had no shame in chasing after her.

Yoru scowled and reloaded. Tch. Let her do whatever she wanted. It wasn’t like he cared.

...Except he did.

And that pissed him off even more.

Valorant Protocol HQ – The Lounge

Meanwhile, Julie was suffering.

Luca had returned, all smiles and zero shame, plopping himself onto the couch beside her like they were best friends.

"Relax, bella," he said smoothly, stretching his arm over the backrest, dangerously close to her shoulder. "You look like a cornered rabbit."

Julie was a cornered rabbit.

She didn’t do this. She didn’t do people who actively flirted. She did shy, slow-burn, oh-are-we-flirting? type of things. Not this.

"You’re very jumpy," Luca mused, watching her literally curl into herself.

"I—uh—" Julie stammered, gripping her sweater sleeves.

"She’s always like that," Iso cut in from across the table, sipping his tea, looking extremely entertained. "Shy thing. You’ll scare her off if you keep that up."

Luca raised a brow. "Ah? But I like a challenge."

Julie made a sound between a squeak and a dying cat.

From the corner of the room, another presence had been silently observing.

Chamber, seated with one leg crossed over the other, polished a bullet between his fingers and smiled.

It wasn’t a nice smile.

"Oh?" he mused, gaze flicking to Julie, who was currently stuck between wanting to run away and not wanting to be rude.

"Do tell, mon ami," Chamber continued, voice silky. "What exactly is so challenging about her?"

Luca grinned. "She’s cute."

Julie choked on air.

Chamber’s smile did not falter. But his fingers tightened ever so slightly around the bullet.

Iso smirked into his cup. Yoru was going to explode when he heard this.

Valorant Protocol HQ – The Lounge

Julie was frozen.

Absolutely frozen.

Did he just—Did Luca just—

Say that out loud?

Right in front of Chamber? And Iso? And basically everyone in the lounge?!

Her brain short-circuited. Her hands clutched the sleeves of her sweater tighter.

"C-Cute?!" she squeaked, voice about three octaves higher than usual.

Luca grinned, completely unbothered. "Yes, bella," he confirmed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Very cute."

Julie felt like imploding.

Iso, still sipping his tea, was now openly smirking. This was fun.

Meanwhile, Chamber… Chamber was watching Luca like he was a very interesting puzzle piece.

"I must say," Chamber hummed, adjusting his cufflinks, "your directness is… bold."

Luca just shrugged, flashing his signature charming grin. "Why waste time?" He turned back to Julie. "No one’s ever told you that before?"

Julie wanted to say yes. That yes, people had technically called her cute before. But never so bluntly. Never so… intensely.

And certainly not while leaning this close, with an arm casually draped over the back of the couch.

She needed an escape.

She looked to Iso. Help.

But Iso just raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

She looked at Chamber. Help?

Chamber only smiled. "Désolé, ma chérie, but I am also curious how you will respond to such a… confession."

Julie nearly died on the spot.

She was about to start considering the pros and cons of just jumping out a window when—

BANG.

A door slammed open from across the room.

All heads turned.

Yoru stood at the entrance, scowling.

His sharp blue eyes locked onto the scene before him. Luca—too close. Julie—too flustered. Chamber—too amused. Iso—too entertained.

His glare sharpened.

Luca, sensing the shift in atmosphere, looked up and smirked. "Ah," he greeted, completely unfazed. "The lone wolf joins us."

Yoru ignored him. His eyes were only on Julie.

And Julie, still looking like a terrified hamster, immediately went rigid.

She knew that look.

That was his I’m about to cause problems face.

Her stomach dropped.

Before she could stop him, Yoru stalked over.

And then, to everyone’s shock—

He grabbed her wrist.

"Oi," he grumbled, voice low. "We’re leaving."

Julie blinked. "Wha—?!"

"Now."

She barely had time to register what was happening before she was being dragged away, stumbling after him.

Luca raised a brow, watching them go. Then, he turned to Chamber and Iso.

"...Did I touch a nerve?"

Iso chuckled. "Oh, definitely."

Chamber simply smiled, tossing the bullet between his fingers. "Très intéressant…"

Valorant Protocol HQ – Hallway

Julie was still trying to process what just happened.

Yoru was dragging her.

Like. Literally dragging her down the hallway.

Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that she couldn’t just wiggle free.

"W-Wait!" she stammered, trying to keep up. "What—Where—Why—"

Yoru stopped.

Julie nearly crashed into him.

He turned around, scowling hard.

"What the hell was that?" he snapped.

Julie blinked. "Huh?"

"*Back there.**" His eyes narrowed. "With Luca."

Julie blinked again.

"…What about it?"

His eye twitched. "You—you just let him say all that?!"

"Say… what?"

"Cute? Calling you bella like you’re some romance novel character? Being all over you like—like—*" Yoru’s hands clenched. "Like that."

Julie fidgeted, confused. "I mean… isn’t it just… cultural?"

Yoru stared.

"…Cultural?"

She nodded. "Italians are just… like that?*"

Yoru’s scowl deepened. "No, they’re not."

"But—"

"No."

Julie shrank under his glare. "I-It’s not like I encouraged him or anything…"

"You didn’t stop him either."

Julie went silent.

Yoru exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Tch." He turned away, muttering. "Stupid girl…"

Julie pouted. "I heard that."

"*Good.**" He side-eyed her. "You need to hear it."

She huffed. "You’re overreacting."

"Am I?" He scoffed. "Tch. That guy… thinks he can just—"

He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

Julie frowned. "Why do you care?"

Yoru stiffened.

For a split second, something flashed in his expression.

Then, he looked away. "*I don’t.**"

Julie squinted. "Then why are you—"

"Shut up."

"Wha—Hey!"

Yoru ripped open the nearest supply closet, pulled Julie inside, and shut the door.

Darkness.

Silence.

Julie’s brain crashed.

"…Are we in a closet?" she whispered.

"Tch. Obviously."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because what?"

He was silent for a moment.

Then, in a lower voice—

"Because I don’t want to see him flirting with you anymore."

Julie’s breath caught.

Her heart did a weird, stupid thing.

"…Why?" she asked, barely audible.

Yoru didn’t answer immediately.

Then, just as softly—

"You really are stupid, huh?"

Julie blinked.

And blushed.

Valorant Protocol HQ – The Closet of Bad Decisions

Julie could feel how small the space was.

Could feel Yoru standing too close, his breath just barely ghosting against her forehead in the dark.

Her brain was buffering.

"You really are stupid, huh?" he had just said.

She heard it.

She just… didn’t understand it.

"What does that mean?" she whispered.

Yoru exhaled sharply, frustrated. "Forget it."

Julie frowned. "You’re the one who dragged me in here!"

"And I regret it already."

"Then why did you—"

"Tch."

Julie yelped as he suddenly moved.

She felt his arm brush past her, reaching for the door handle.

For a split second, she thought he was going to just leave her there—

Then.

"Locked."

Silence.

More silence.

Julie blinked. "…What?"

Yoru rattled the handle. "Are you kidding me?!"

Julie reached out, tried it too—

Click. Clack.

Nothing.

The door would not budge.

Julie slowly turned to him. "You locked us in a closet?"

Yoru was glaring at the door like he could teleport through it. "I didn’t lock us in."

"Then how did—"

"How the hell should I know?!"

Julie sighed. "Great."

She felt Yoru shift beside her, rubbing his face with an exasperated groan. "This is the worst."

Julie crossed her arms. "Maybe you should’ve thought about that before shoving me in here."

"Tch."

"I mean, really. What was the plan? Drag me in here, say cryptic things, then leave?"

Yoru huffed. "Yeah. That was the plan."

Julie squinted. "That’s stupid."

"You’re stupid."

"You’re—"

Footsteps.

Both of them froze.

The distinct, confident stride of a man approaching.

Then, a knock on the door.

"Ciao, bella! You in there?"

Julie blanched.

Yoru went rigid.

"Luca?" Julie called, bewildered.

"Si! I was looking for you. But then I see Yoru dragging you away—"

Yoru gritted his teeth.

Luca hummed. "And now you are… in a closet together?"

Silence.

Then—

"Ohoho~ Interesting."

Julie felt the way Yoru’s body tensed.

Before he could say something violent, she cut in—

"It’s not what it looks like!"

Luca chuckled. "Mmm, but what does it look like, cara?"

Julie sputtered. "Nothing! It looks like nothing!"

"Ah~ So, it is something."

"NO!"

Yoru groaned in pure suffering.

"Just open the damn door," he snapped.

"Hmm…"

Luca didn’t open the door.

Julie could practically hear him smirking. "Do you need a moment?"

"LUCA."

"Alright, alright~"

A pause.

Then—

"Oh, dear."

Julie frowned. "What?"

"Ah… Well…*" Luca cleared his throat. "About the door…"

Yoru’s eye twitched. "Luca. Open it."

"Si… about that… I think it is actually stuck."

Silence.

Then—

"WHAT?"

Valorant Protocol HQ – The Closet of Poor Life Choices

Julie felt her stomach drop. "What do you mean stuck?"

"Ah, you know," Luca said from the other side of the door. "Immovable. Jammed. Not opening. A door that does not door, if you will."

Yoru breathed in slowly. "You’re kidding me."

"No, no, I would never joke about such things," Luca assured. "You see, I did try to open it, but—"

Clank.

Julie and Yoru jumped as Luca gave the handle a firm tug—only for it to remain stubbornly unmoved.

"—It appears we have a situation."

"You mean you have a situation," Yoru deadpanned. "You locked us in, didn’t you?"

"Mamma mia, you wound me," Luca gasped, absolutely not wounded. "I would never do such a thing on purpose. But… if I had to guess… perhaps the old lock mechanism finally gave out?"

Julie bit her lip. "That sounds very specific…"

"Well…" Luca chuckled. "Let’s just say… it is not the first time I have seen this happen."

Julie blinked. "Wait—you knew the door was faulty?"

"Ehh, I heard rumors~"

Yoru hissed in irritation. "And you still let us stay in here?!"

"I did not let you, my friend. I simply… allowed fate to take its course."

"I will end you."

"Ah, ah! No need for such threats, amico."

"Open the damn door."

"Si, si, I am working on it! These things take time."

Julie pressed a hand to her forehead. "So, we’re just stuck here?"

"Only for a little while!" Luca assured cheerfully. "I will go find something to pry it open—"

"Don’t you dare leave," Yoru growled.

"…Ah."

"LUCA."

"Alright, alright! I stay, I stay. I would never abandon you two in such a… ah, intimate setting."

"It’s not—" Julie stopped herself, inhaling deeply through her nose. "Can you just get Brimstone?"

"Mmm, I could, but…" Luca hummed. "That would be… how do you say… humiliating?"

"Just get him," Yoru snapped.

"You are no fun, Yoru."

"I will kill you."

"Yes, yes, I am going! Don’t go anywhere~"

Footsteps fading down the hall.

Silence.

Julie sighed heavily. "Well. This is fun."

Yoru ran a hand through his hair, aggressively. "I hate that guy."

Julie hesitated. "…You don’t think he actually locked us in here on purpose, right?"

Yoru’s eye twitched. "Oh, he absolutely did."

Julie gulped. "Oh."*

Julie’s breath started coming in short, quick bursts. The walls felt closer than before, the dim light barely reaching the corners of the tiny storage room. Her chest tightened as she tugged at the door handle—once, twice, three times—each failed attempt making the panic crawl further up her throat.

"Oh no… oh no no no no—"

"Oi."

She barely registered Yoru’s voice. Her hands shook as she pressed against the door, fingers curling into fists. "We’re stuck. We’re really stuck. The air—oh God, what if it runs out—"

"Julie—"

"—And what if it’s days before they find us? What if we—oh my god what if there’s no signal—" She frantically patted down her pockets, her mind spinning. "Luca—Luca wouldn’t really leave us, right? Right?!"

Yoru swore under his breath. "Julie."

"I can’t—I can’t breathe—I think I’m gonna—"

A hand suddenly grabbed hers, firm and warm. "Breathe."

Her eyes snapped up, met by Yoru’s sharp, intense gaze. "You’re fine." His grip tightened just slightly, grounding. "We’re fine."*

Julie’s breath hitched.

Yoru’s voice lowered, steady, as if he were anchoring her to reality. "You’re panicking. Snap out of it."

"But—"

"Look at me." He didn’t let go. "Inhale."*

Julie shuddered, trying to follow his lead as he exaggerated a deep breath.

"Exhale."*

She let it out slowly.

"Good. Again."*

She obeyed, her body trembling slightly as she tried to focus on the rhythm of his breathing instead of the walls pressing in on her.

After a few more rounds, the dizziness faded.

Yoru finally let go of her hand, stuffing his in his pocket as if nothing happened. "There. Better?"

Julie nodded weakly, swallowing hard. "…Sorry."*

"Tch." He rolled his eyes. "Nothing to be sorry for. Just don’t pass out on me."*

Julie managed a shaky chuckle. "I—I'll try."*

Outside the door, Luca’s unreasonably amused voice suddenly echoed down the hall. "Good news! I have returned with reinforcements~"

From beyond, they heard Brimstone’s very unamused grunt. "Luca. Why the hell did you call me for this?"

"Well… you see…”

Julie exhaled. "Oh my god just open the door."*

There was a loud clunk as the lock finally disengaged, and the door swung open. A rush of cool air flooded in, and Julie nearly sagged in relief.

Julie barely had time to process her relief before she was met with the grinning face of Luca, leaning dramatically against the doorframe like he had just rescued a princess from a tower.

"Ah, dolcezza, you’re safe at last!" he declared, arms outstretched like he was about to sweep her into a celebratory embrace.

Julie, still mentally recovering from her near meltdown, just stared at him, wide-eyed.

Before Luca could act on his questionable instincts, Yoru stepped out first—forcefully bumping into him in the process. "Move."*

Luca stumbled back slightly, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Oof, easy, my friend. No need to be so aggressive—"

"I am not your friend."*

Julie finally stepped out after Yoru, blinking up at Brimstone, who was standing behind Luca with his usual gruff expression. She gave him a sheepish nod. "Uh… thank you for—uhm—coming to get us?"

Brimstone sighed, rubbing his temples. "I don’t even know why I got called here for a damn stuck door. Could’ve handled this yourself, Luca."*

Luca placed a hand over his heart. "And deny you the joy of a heroic rescue? I could never."*

Yoru, already past his patience, let out a sharp scoff. "Heroic? You locked us in there, dumbass."*

Julie’s head snapped up. "Wait—WHAT?!"

Luca blinked. "Oh? You didn’t realize?" He let out a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his head. "Oops. My bad."*

Julie’s soul left her body for a moment. "Luca. I thought I was going to die in there."*

Luca visibly winced at the betrayed look on her face. "*Ah… in my defense, I truly did not mean to leave you there for so long, *cara mia.**"

"ANY time would have been too long—!"*

"But you survived!" He grinned, tilting his head. "And see? You had Yoru to keep you company—what a bonding experience, no?"

Julie didn’t even know how to respond to that.

Yoru, meanwhile, looked one second away from punching him. "I swear to god—"

"Alright, enough."* Brimstone cut in, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You two, go cool off. And Luca? You’re on cleaning duty for the next week."*

Luca let out a dramatic sigh. "Ah, cruel fate."*

Julie, still trying to emotionally recover, turned to flee while she still had the chance. "I—I need water—"

But before she could escape, Luca suddenly caught her hand, making her freeze.

"Wait, dolcezza."* His voice softened just a bit, eyes twinkling. "Allow me to make it up to you. Dinner? My treat?"

Julie’s brain short-circuited.

Behind her, Yoru visibly stiffened.

From the side, Brimstone groaned in exhaustion. "Oh, for fuck’s sake—"

Julie’s brain was a jumbled mess. The lingering panic from being stuck, the sudden realization that Luca was responsible, and now—this?!

Luca was still holding her hand, his grin charming and unshaken, as if he hadn't just admitted to trapping them. "Dinner, dolcezza? I promise it will be worth your time."

Julie fidgeted, eyes darting around like she was looking for an escape route. "Uh—I—"

Before she could form a proper sentence, a hand suddenly yanked her back.

"No."* Yoru’s voice was flat, his grip on Julie’s wrist firm.

Luca raised an eyebrow, amused. "No?"

"No." Yoru repeated, pulling Julie behind him slightly, as if shielding her from Luca’s magnetic nonsense.

Julie squeaked at the sudden movement, feeling caught between whatever this was.

Luca, completely unbothered, smirked. "I wasn’t asking you, Yoru."* He leaned slightly, making direct eye contact with Julie. "*I was asking her.**"

Julie felt the weight of their stares, the tension so thick she could choke on it.

"I—uh—I—" she tried to form a coherent response, but her brain was still stuck on why is Yoru holding onto me like this?

"She’s busy."* Yoru cut in again, his tone completely unchanging.

Julie snapped her head up at him. "I—I am?"

Yoru glared at her like she had personally betrayed him. "Yes."*

Julie blinked rapidly. "…Since when?"

"Since now."*

Julie let out a confused noise. "But I don’t—"

"You are."*

"Oh. Okay."* Julie shut up, too overwhelmed to argue.

Luca tilted his head, clearly entertained by the interaction. "Ah, I see how it is."* He let out a mock sigh, placing a hand over his chest. "You wound me, dolcezza."*

Julie flinched. "I—I didn’t mean to—"

"But worry not," Luca continued, his smirk returning. "I am a patient man. I can wait."*

Julie froze at the way he said that. WAIT FOR WHAT?!

Yoru clicked his tongue, gritting his teeth. "Tch."* He grabbed Julie’s wrist again and dragged her away without another word.

Julie let out a startled yelp. "W-Wait—?!"

"Shut up and walk."*

She had no choice but to follow, feeling Yoru’s grip tighten every time she slowed down.

Luca, left standing there, chuckled to himself.

"Interesting."*

Julie’s heart wasn’t slowing down. The lingering panic from being stuck in the closet with Luca was still fresh, and now the realization that he did it on purpose was sending her thoughts spiraling.

Luca, completely unapologetic, still had her hand in his, his charming smile unwavering. "Dinner, dolcezza? I promise it will be worth your time."

Julie could feel the heat creeping up her neck. She wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment, panic, or sheer confusion. Probably all three.

"Uh—I—"

Before she could even attempt to form a proper sentence, a hand suddenly yanked her away.

"No."*

Yoru’s voice was sharp, his grip on her wrist firm.

Julie let out a tiny squeak at the sudden movement.

Luca raised an eyebrow, amused but unfazed. "No?"

"No."* Yoru repeated, this time stepping slightly in front of Julie, his stance like he was physically blocking her from Luca.

Luca’s smirk only widened as he tilted his head slightly. "Interesting."*

Julie blinked rapidly, brain still trying to catch up to what was happening. Why was Yoru acting like this?!

"I wasn’t asking you, Yoru."* Luca’s tone remained casual, but his gaze flickered between them with keen interest. "I was asking her."* He leaned slightly, making direct eye contact with Julie. "So?"

Julie could feel Yoru tense at that.

"I—uh—" she started, but was immediately cut off.

"She’s busy."* Yoru’s tone was final.

Julie turned her head up to stare at him. "I—I am?"

Yoru glared at her like she had just committed a crime. "Yes."*

Julie blinked rapidly. "…Since when?"

"Since now."*

"But I don’t remem—"

"You are."* Yoru’s grip on her wrist tightened slightly, his expression daring her to question it further.

Julie felt too overwhelmed to argue. "Oh. Okay."*

Luca let out a mock sigh, placing a hand over his heart. "Ah, I see how it is."* He shook his head, dramatically exhaling. "You wound me, dolcezza."*

Julie flinched. "I—I didn’t mean to—"

"But worry not," Luca continued, his smirk returning, "I am a patient man. I can wait."*

Julie froze.

Wait for what?!

Yoru clicked his tongue, his jaw ticking as he gritted his teeth. "Tch."* Then, without another word, he grabbed Julie’s wrist tighter and dragged her away.

"W-Wait—?!" Julie yelped, struggling to keep up as Yoru practically hauled her down the hall.

"Shut up and walk."*

Julie had no choice but to follow, feeling his grip tighten every time she even hesitated.

As they disappeared down the corridor, Luca remained where he was, watching them go with sparkling amusement.

"Well then," he murmured to himself, a smirk tugging at his lips. "That was fun."*

[ask-the-attorneys]

*Meanwhile, in a prison cell, Ian Mercer begins to change his looks. Replacing his suit and tie with a long-sleeved plain, open shirt that has small, emblem of the cult he was in as cufflinks, an orange belt with green ropes, and pink striped pants with white patterns. he drapes his feathered coat on his shoulders instead of leaving his arms in the sleeves, and finally puts a pair of sunglasses on himself. He takes his hat and throws it at the wall, with the hat exploding and destroying the wall, making it easy for him to escape the prison. He gets out and walks to the abandoned cult location, where him and Mitchell would perform rituals and sacrifices, and sits on the throne Mitchell used to sit on, smiling sadistically.*

Mercer: (Mitchell may be gone now, but that doesn’t mean the cult will die with him. I will take the reign whether he likes it or not, and I swear on my life I’ll make Elizabeth, Coda, the man or women who murdered Mitchell, and anyone else who stands in the way of it, suffer for what they did. Justice will come, and whoever wins this battle will become Justice. All I need now is a spark to light this revolution.)



[Coda]

...

(Even after Mitchell's death... I still feel like I won't be able to escape that god damned cult...!)