#dimple is the second most sane if you can believe it

[grimalkinmessor]

i am the anon that is watching mp100 bc of you and. i love all of these insane characters. is everyone in this show bonkers or is it just the majority (im on episode 6)

Oh no yeah most of them are absolutely fucking nuts :D Reigen is usually the one holding the braincell, if that tells you anything. I think the only sane person in the show is Tome, and even then.

Have fun with the Kidnapping Arc!! ✨

[superhero--imagines]

A/N: I liked this request so much, I’m making it into a (short) series. Maybe three/four parts. This is mostly going to be a comedy, so feel free to leave any critiques you have in the comments! If you want to be tagged for the series just lmk!

You met Nightwing first. You were a hostage during a bank robbery that had gone bad. Not that you were worried, you were sure any second now a superhero would come bursting through that door to save the day.

This is the third time this week you’ve been inconvenienced by a villain. You pull out your textbook. All these villains are really starting to get in the way of your study schedule.

If you’re going to be stuck here for a while, you might as well catch up on studying for your test. You can’t have read more than ten pages when Nightwing comes bursting down from the ceiling.

Hooray, at long last your hero has arrived.

You’re about to pack up your things and get ready to leave when you notice someone’s holding a book out to you.It’s Nightwing in all his glory, scanning the cover of you book.

He looks younger than you had thought, in fact you can even see a few dots of acne on the sides of his face. He’s so close you can smell his aftershave too.

“Gotham university? Cool! I go th-“ suddenly his mouth clamors shut. “I-I mean, it’s really good to see more woman getting a good education and developing themselves” it’s a weird compliment, especially considering women in this city tend to be more educated than men considering the Wayne Foundation’s work. But you don’t want to make a big deal out of it.

“Thanks” You take your book back and head on your way. It’s only later that night when you’re about to wind down for the night finishing the chapter you started during the bank robbery, that you notice Nightwing autographed the cover

“What does he expect me to do? Tear of the cover and frame it?” You shake your head, but you can’t help but laugh. What a funny man.

You meet Dick Grayson shortly after. Well, meet is the wrong word. You’d say it was more like Dick Grayson met you.

You always knew of him, everyone did. He’s the school’s golden boy after all. All dimpled smiles, and shiny baby blue eyes, he had a legion of women trailing after him everywhere he went.

A golden boy who, for some reason chose to sit next to you in the 10 a.m lecture course, abandoning his usual spot surrounded by his fan girls.

You usually sit in the middle, not too close, and not to far. An inconspicuous place, for a person who doesn’t want to attract too much attention.

“Woah is that Nightwing‘s autograph?” The golden boy’s grinning as he looks at your text book. You can feel the eyes bore into you. “How did you get it?”

“I was a hostage in a bank robbery” the words leave your mouth in a monotone. It’s only after you’ve said it that you realize you have most of the classes attention now.

Right, inconspicuous.

“Are you okay? That must have been pretty rough.” Another classmate asks, her names Cassie or Cassandra or something. Almond shaped eyes bore into you as you shrug.

“Stuff like that happens all the time in Gotham, it isn’t that big of a deal”

Everyone in class thinks you’re super cool after that.

“Hey (Y/N), you wanna join our study group?” It’s a few of the girls from your class, Cassandra the girl from earlier, and a blonde name Stephanie. You know her name because she’s always getting called on by the professor for not paying attention.

You’ve seen them hanging out together before, and you found yourself a little jealous of their friendship. Maybe the three of you can be friends like that too.

“Sure”

The night air is warm, it’s hard to believe it will be fall in a few more weeks.

“This humidity is crazy” Dick says rubbing his neck.

It’s even harder to believe the golden boy is walking next to you too.

When you showed up at the apartment in the nicer part of campus, you weren’t expecting to see Dick open the door. You should have realized, of course Dick’s friends with the coolest girls on your class. And of course they host their study group out of his apartment. Being Bruce Wayne’s adopted son certainly comes with it perks. His apartment was so fancy, it had a chandelier in the foyer.

Still it was kinda fun. Though honestly calling it a “study group” was going too far. It was basically ten minutes of studying and two hours of chatting. Then all of a sudden Stephanie and Cassandra wanted snacks and alcohol. Frowning as they rummaged through Dick’s kitchen only to find cereal and milk.

And that’s how you ended up here, walking side by side with the golden boy himself. You’re walking on the outskirts of campus in the nicer part of town, heading towards the convenience store.

You’re not really sure why he had to come along, probably because it isn’t safe to walk alone so late at night.

“So you met Nightwing huh?” Dick says to break the awkward silence. You can’t help but raise an eyebrow. He’s weirdly obsessed with that hero.

“Yeah, why are you a fan?” You ask, you don’t miss the slight blush that forms on his face.

“Kinda yeah, what was he like?” His eyes are bright as he looks at you, the blush only creeping onto his face further. You think back, it was a brief encounter, you didn’t really think anything of it.

“He has acne” You can tell by the look on Dick’s face that wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“Y-yeah and what’s wrong with that? It must be from stress, and it must be hard keeping a good diet when you’re fighting crime all the time.” Dick’s flustered. He’s getting awfully defensive for a complete stranger.

Suddenly it hits you like a lightening bolt. The golden boy had a crush on Nightwing. You totally get it, all those muscles in that skin tight suit, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little turned on yourself just thinking about it. You steal another glance of his blushing face. If anyone has a chance with Nightwing it’s Dick. Who wouldn’t be weak to that smile and charm? You totally ship it.

You place a hand on his shoulder, baby blue eyes meet your own. You’re looking at him with such serious eyes, he wonders if you’re going to tell him something reassuring about acne or how Nightwing is an an amazing hero.

“I support you.” You tell him with a thumbs up.

Richard has no idea what you’re talking about, but he doesn’t want to embarrass you.

Then all at once it hits him, like a lightening bolt. (The sane lightening bolt that struck you a few minutes prior) He must have given away that he’s Nightwing! You’re really smart, he’s noticed you’re name on the dean’s list almost every semester.

But how’d you figure it out?

His hand flutters to the side of his face, fingertips brushing over the few pimples that popped up last week. You must have realized who he was since the acne spot matched the place it was on Nightwing!

He stares at the thumbs up you gave him. this must be you showing support for his vigilante activities!

He feels his eyes water slightly as he nods. He’s always known you were a gentle and kind soul. But he can’t believe you’re supportive as well, he feels himself falling even further in love with you.

“Would you mind keeping it a secret?, it’s good to know I have a friend like you to support me but not everyone does, yknow?” You nod, he’s Bruce Wayne’s adopted son. It makes sense those old-money geezers have narrow minded views on love. They probably want him to be with a nice girl from a wealthy family.

It must have been so painful for him growing up, hiding who he really was. Wishing he could just be loved the way he is, but knowing deep down that there were parts of him those people would never accept. Your heart aches for him.

“Don’t worry, just follow your dreams, I’ll keep your secret!” There’s fire in your eyes, and Dick brushes away the tears that have formed in the corner of your eyes.

The two of you board the miscommunication train without another thought, walking side by side with completely different interpretations of the conversation you just shared.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom when you get back, after heaving two large bags of snacks onto the dining room table.

Stephanie looks at Dick expectantly when she hears the bathroom door shut.

“So how’d it go? Did you guys get closer?” She practically bouncing as a smile spreads across Dick’s face.

“You know, I think we did!” He’s practically beaming, his grin so wide it almost consumes his face. Stephanie lets out a squeal and Dick laughs.

Well you two are closer now, but not for the reason he thinks.

You’re washing your hands, taking in your reflection. You’re not really sure why, but you have this feeling that school’s going to get a lot more interesting now.

[subarubi]

Last Dance

Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: It was a broken deal from the start, just one dance and Bucky Barnes will leave you. 

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: 18+. Angst. This is sad. I’m sad, sorry bout it. Fluff. Light smut. I think I wrote ‘ass’ once. 

--

He’s on a date with a sweet dame at the soda fountain when he first sees you looking like an absolute vision. Scowl and all. And when you smack the boy leaning over you from behind, he’s certain you must be some angel fell from heaven. An angry one sure, but an angel still. With downy feathers and doused in golden light. His heart, big and red and beating strong, trembles at the sight. He’s felt flutters in his stomach before and let out uncontrollable smiles when pretty lips press kisses to his cheek, but never has his heart stuttered like that.

Tip to tail, Bucky Barnes trembles, tingles as you walk towards him with fire in your eyes and dark lead drawing your lips into a frown.

Him! You’re walking towards him, kitten heels pounding into the checkered floor and Bucky’s mouth falls slack mid-flirt. His date protests, face twisted sour, but he can’t bring himself to do more than stutter over an apology. Jeez, he sounds like Steve, jaw falling open and offering her nothing but a strangled gurgle.

Ten feet feels still too far as you tie your coat closed tight, spitting venom over your shoulder at the disgruntled man with a red handprint across his cheek that trails after you.

In front of him, right there before him you stand a heavenly storm and he can’t help the breathless “Hi...” that escapes his lips.

You fix Bucky with a strange look, narrowed eyes flitting across the handsome planes of his dazed face. It doesn’t matter how you’re looking at him though, at least not to Bucky. No, all that matters is that you’re looking at him, damn the residual anger still dragging your brow down. He feels fuzzy all over, lights fading into twinkling stars and chatter softening into a low hum like all the cheesy pictures Steve sees. 

What feels like an eternity to the Brooklyn boy only really lasts about fifteen seconds before you’re glossing over him and focusing instead on his date, Rita. “Can we get outta here, Reets? I think I’ve had my fill of drugstore cowboys,” you ask, curiously side-eyeing her date that seems to have a few screws loose. 

Rita sighs, lifting her hand from where she’d placed it on Bucky’s bicep, “But-”

“I can walk you home!”

Bucky cringes as the both of you stare at him following his outburst, a little too loud and a touch too eager. He can feel Rita glaring daggers into him and while Bucky does feel guilty for being a complete jerk, he can’t help himself to stop staring at you with that hazy look in his baby blues.

Your friend coughs loudly, interrupting the drawn out eye contact as you scrutinize this strange man she had chosen to spend the night with. You’re almost thankful for it, the reprieve from those deep pools that seem to shine with your reflection in them. 

“Ya know what, you two-”

“Bucky,” he supplies with a lazy smile stretching across his pink lips, even if you didn’t really ask. Your face scrunches up and really, he has never seen a woman so beautiful. 

“Right... Reets, you and Bucky enjoy your night. I’ll find my way home just fine,” you smile tightly, already making leave. Anything to get away from the starry-eyed man who didn’t seem to concern himself with anything else but you-- not even his date, your friend.

The swinging door and the soft ting of the shop bell accompanies the fleeting image of your skirt flaring behind you and Bucky’s suddenly cold. You’ve taken all warmth from him, any semblance of the burning giddiness that’s seemed to overpower him in the short time since he first saw you. Steve teased him before of a similar feeling. Those infatuations that burnt too bright, too fast and then, in the blink of an eye fizzle out pathetically. 

This doesn’t feel like that. This feels like if he lets you go without getting your name and some hope of seeing you again, he might never be able to breathe again. 

Really, what is happening to him? 

“Listen, Rita...” he sheepishly mumbles, gathering his own coat.

Rita glares at him with enough force to level Brooklyn, eyes ablaze in disbelief, “Bucky Barnes, I swear if you leave me right now...”

Bucky straightens, his whole body buzzing with the need to run after you. His eyes may be glued to your figure floating past the shop windows, but he has at least enough in him to guiltily offer, “I am so so sorry. Will you get home alright?”

“Will I-” Rita’s rising volume starts to draw eyes, “Are you serious? You’re going after her? My friend?!”

“I really am sorry,” he fumbles in his pocket for some cash, slapping it down on the counter. Barely glancing at the shop owner Bucky asks, “Make sure she gets home alright, Tommy?” 

His feet start moving on their own volition, worn brown soles headed for the door before he even has the chance to hear a reply. He knows Tommy is a good man and that Rita will be fine. But him? Well, doused in the cool November air and whirling around left and right trying to find you, Bucky can feel the tightness in his face, a deep frown threatening to settle over him. 

Bucky hears you first, clicking heels-- those robin’s egg blue Mary Janes with the daisy eyelets that he’s surprised he even noticed-- mixed in somewhere between an errant car horn and distant music. You’re a flurry of wild hair, tawny peacoat waving in the wind as you chase down a yellow cab. His lips pull into a grin as it leaves you in the dust, cursing colorfully under your breath. 

“Hey!” Bucky shouts to get your attention.

“Oh,” your lips fall slack at the sight of him briskly walking to close the distance between you. There’s cute little lines on your scrunched up nose that Bucky just wants to kiss away. “Everything alright? Is Rita okay?”

Bucky nods eagerly, unable to calm that wide smile that makes his cheeks ache or his racing heart that unconsciously sends his chest into a soft heave, “She’s fine, jus’ wanna make sure you get home alright. ‘Specially after that handsy jerk back there.”

It might’ve been cute, a nice gesture that would’ve soothed over the harsh sting left by some other man earlier in the night. It could’ve made you smile and set butterflies loose in your stomach and all of the other feelings that your girlfriends talked about. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a date right now?”

You expect a lightbulb to flick on over his head, for him to head right back into the shop at the reminder, to break out of whatever odd stupor had kept him from rational thought. But it never comes, he just nods softly and sways on his feet, hands stuffed into his pockets looking relaxed and very much unbothered by your question.

“Well, Billy, don’t suppose it’s proper date etiquette to leave your girl to walk home her friend, is it?”

He tries not to let the misnomer hurt too bad, settles instead for a brief grimace to relieve the pang in his heart. Bucky kicks himself for not properly introducing himself before. Maybe if you hadn’t been so absolutely disarming, he would’ve been able to offer more than a quiet whisper of his name. Maybe then it would’ve stuck and he would’ve gotten yours in return. 

“It’s Bucky. Bucky Barnes. And if it’s all the same to you, Angel, can’t we just pretend I’m just walking my girl home?” 

You snort, honest-to-god snort and it only endears you to him more. He thinks at this point he’s half in love with you and any more he might just propose on the sidewalk. It’s crazy, he realizes. But his mother always said sane is boring. 

“Are you thick in the head or just a plain jerk, Bucky Barnes?”

“Huh?” Bucky’s eyes bug out of his head.

You roll your eyes and that’s it for him. His knees scream at him to bend down on one of them and beg you to be his forever. “You do realize Rita’s my friend, right? The girl you left to do whatever it is you’re doing right now?”

He’d thought he was flirting, being cute, the right side of cheeky. Apparently not. Bucky clears his throat, smile falling just a bit into something softer, shy if you’d believe it, “I ain’t ever met a dame like you, Angel. What’s your name? Please, I gotta know.”

Quiet, less full-on than before, you can appreciate how handsome he is. That bashful blush across rose petal lips, stirs you up inside. You vaguely remember Rita gushing about meeting him the 'most beautiful man across all five boroughs’ and laughing at her hyperbolic tendencies. Dark chestnut quaff, chiseled jaw with a dimple at his chin, frosted blue irises-- ‘most beautiful’ may not be something you can say for certain, but he is a downright dish. Too bad he’s apparently a perfect mix of thick in the head and jerk. 

“What’ll it take to get you to leave me alone, fat head?”

Truthfully, Bucky will go if you really want him to. He’s not so arrogant to overstay his welcome with women who want nothing to do with him. He won’t try and change their mind about him because normally, they’re right. 

“A dance?” He can’t help himself. 

His heart, the big and red and beating strong one, feels like it blooms flowers out of his chest when you seem to actually ponder the idea. You've lost a lot of your initial fire, eyes cast downwards, brows pulled together in thought, hands fiddling with a button on your coat. Another flash of you that Bucky just catches a glimpse of that makes him feel like a little boy. 

“So if I dance with you, you’ll never talk to me again?”

“One dance and I’ll disappear, if that’s what you want,” Bucky reluctantly replies. He’s pretty sure the one dance is gonna make him want a million, but he’ll honor your wishes. 

You spare a glance up at him, and god dammit he looks like a puppy. A puppy you’ve kicked and you just want to wrap him up in your arms and tell him you’re sorry for whatever it is you’ve done and- what?

“You’ll keep your hands chaste?”

“Scouts honor.”

“Right here?”

“Right here,” Bucky smiles, the soft one that you like a lot more than the too big one you saw him flash Rita earlier in the night. Rita! You’d almost forgotten that the next morning Rita will have that sour look on her face and be cursing his name. And you’re supposed to tell her just how much of a jerk he is and how she deserves better than men like him. 

“But there’s no music...”

“Sure there is, Angel.” 

Bucky gestures to the shop behind you as he already sways gently to the faint sounds of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet from the windows emanating warm light that paints everything rose. 

“You’ll stop calling me Angel?”

“But you are.”

The words catch in your throat and you can only manage a flustered “um” in response. You’ve not exactly shown Bucky Barnes your best side tonight. He’s witnessed you slap a man and storm out of the soda fountain dramatically with the ugliest angry face you could muster. You’ve called him the wrong name and then fat head and you’ve rather rudely told him to ‘bug off’ in no uncertain terms. And you’re an angel for it? He really is crazy.

You ignore it, shaking your head and holding a hand out to notarize the agreement. 

“Okay, deal.”

It’s a broken deal from the start. Bucky knew it, you knew it. 

As you sway back and forth in your apartment, bodies desperately clinging to one another, some part of Bucky, the unselfish part of his love that only wants to see you happy, wishes you’d never said yes. That you left him in the rear window of a taxi or even gave him a good wallop for pestering you so much because you’re breaking his heart-- because he’s breaking yours. 

“Angel, I-”

“Can we just dance, Buck? Please, just let me hold you.”

Your tears are warm and wet in the hollow of his neck, eyelashes drawing small streaks of mascara over his pulse. Every time your trembling lips brush over his throat, peppering it with soft kisses like bolts trying to anchor him to you and Brooklyn, Bucky feels like his heart-- the one that trembles just for you-- just might shatter. 

One of the fingers clutching tight balls of his fresh green uniform, he’d hoped to be wrapped in a gold band some day. He imagined a matching one of his own, gleaming proudly in the sun for all to see that he is yours and you, his. He tells you all of this because he thinks it might make you feel better. Give you hope and something special to plan for when he gets back. Steve will have to hold on to the rings, of course, because Bucky can’t be trusted to not lose anything important. 

He bites his tongue thinking that the sentiment might include even you. 

You’ll get married at the courthouse because once he’s back home, he won’t want to spend another night not being your husband. It’ll have to be in secret because his and your Ma’s will murder you both for not having it in a house of god. That’s okay, though, because Steve will be there with the rings and Rita, who never fails to shoot him scathing glares, can reluctantly hold your flowers. It’ll be perfect. He can’t wait. 

“Bucky, please...” you sob, not really sure what you’re asking for. 

Please let’s just dance. Please hold me tight and never let go. Kiss me, touch me, give me something, everything. Please stop making promises you can’t keep. Please stay.

His answer is to softly cup your jaw and brush his thumb over your chin tenderly. To duck down and press his lips to yours lightly, sweet and slow with a saltiness that you can recognize as tears. Yours, his, the world’s. 

It’s quiet, only the static of a finished record that still twirls around the gramophone and your soft sniffles filling the dark room. You’re still swaying as Bucky holds you tighter to him, the hand over your jaw slipping into the back of your hair, the other gliding from hip to the small of your back.  

He hasn’t stopped touching you since he got his orders. At dinner he kept your left hand tightly grasped in his across the table, wouldn’t let go, even when you needed it. At the Stark Expo, he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and littered your face with kisses when he could, sometimes drifting a hand on the curve of your ass. He wanted to go dancing, to get to hold you close for a couple more hours and see you smile-- touch up the image of it etched in memory so that he won’t forget on the nights he’s surely going to need it. 

You end up at home instead, not really dancing like he’d wanted, but better still. Just wrapped around each other with pale moonlight lighting the high points of your faces, the rest in shadows. There’s some semblance of dancing. Your hands began on the tops of his shoulders and his respectably on your hips. 

On the bed, Bucky’s shivering weight pressing you into the mattress, your shaking hands curl around his back and dimple the hot expanse of skin there. He’s whispering all those hopes and dreams into your skin, marking it as a promise with a kiss and lave from his warm tongue. Bucky’s sweet on you, he’s made sure all of Brooklyn knows it, so he’s always sweet with you. You feel grotesque, eyes puffy with snot dripping from your nose, but he calls you the most beautiful things, stares at you like you’re an angel. 

He marvels quietly at the sight of you beneath him, skirt rucked up and the top half of your dress pulled down so his lips could find familiar ardent trails. Bucky’s fingers trek the path from your bobbing throat that’s still half sobbing down the center of your chest, curving around you to slot themselves between your ribs. He’s unusually sloth-like in every movement, eyes lazily tracing your familiar curves, hands palming your flesh that vibrates with need unhurriedly, drinking up all of the soft sounds of pleasure that spill from your lips. You know what he’s doing and you can’t keep the tears at bay when he meets your eyes again. He’s committing every part of you to memory, looking at you like it’s the last time. 

Bucky thinks perhaps the worst and best thing he’s ever done was dare to look at you long enough to fall in love. 

He’s crying too when he finally takes you, muttering ‘I love you’ so many times that it starts to sound like ‘I’m sorry’. Punctuating every thrust with a desperate kiss that makes him love you more and more and himself less and less. He never deserved you and you loved him anyway and now he’s off to war unable to fight the deep upset at the idea of you at home waiting for him. Wondering if he might die before he ever gets the chance to do the decent thing and marry you, make an honest woman out of the love of his life. 

“Bucky, I-” you choke out, legs locked around his undulating hips, feet pressed into the backs of his thighs.

He smiles the soft one you love so much, but it wavers as he balances himself on one trembling arm, bringing the other up to brush damp hair from your face and hushes you soothingly as he picks up pace. 

Bucky ruts into you with his forehead pressed against yours, eyes locked so close and all you can see is blue and a reflection of yourself that is more beautiful than you see in the mirror. 

This is how Bucky sees you and your heart burns at the realization. 

You moan in the small distance between your lips, as you feel it bubbling up inside; all that Bucky has always tried so desperately to show you, he’s pushing into the warmest parts of you and begging you to understand. Love and adoration and something so strong you don’t think there’s even a word for. It mounts in your tensed gut, cresting with a hard thrust that has you wailing and clutching him so tightly you think you’ve melted into him. You’re sure of it. He’s taking every part of you with him. 

After he’s finished simultaneously filling you with all of his love and ripping your heart out of your chest, there’s not much else to say. No more tears, no more declarations of love and apology. Just this emptiness as the two of you lay a tangled mess of numb limbs, waiting for the sun to come up and take him off to war. 

Bucky kisses your forehead softly, and manages to push a whisper out of his throat raw from sobbing and crying out your name, “I’ll come back to you or I’ll die trying.” 

[theluckyyyoneee]

Guise

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (ft. Namjoon)

Genre: Angst/Fluff(in later parts)

Word Count: 2.4+k

part 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 |

SoulmateAU! Where he hides his soulmate tattoo from everyone, especially you.

Twirling your mechanical pencil around between your middle and pointer finger of your right hand, you zoned off into the great distance, eyeing the chipping paint on the walls as you felt utterly drained and exhausted, in all physical, mental and emotional senses. 

The life of a rushed college student trying to find the right balance between studying and self care and also incorporating enough of a social life to remain sane was seemingly impossible, and you were terrible at time management as you proved to yourself time and time again. Especially when finals were approaching at a fearful rate and you felt like you hadn’t prepared nearly as much as needed to ace the exams.

Huffing as you collapsed onto the desk in front of you, you heard the throaty chuckle besides you as you peered at Namjoon through your lashes and a few strands of wild hair that crept on your cheeks. “Take a nap, I’ll wake you up in thirty minutes. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.” He sweetly offered, his dimples popping through as he eye smiled at you through his own fatigue.

Propping your head on your hand with your elbow resting on the table, you couldn’t help but observe the deadly handsome and gentle man next to you. 

He was such a good guy, you mused as you watched his profile, his own tattoo placed behind his right ear that would eventually bond him with his ‘soulmate’, a being who the universe had decided all on their own that would complete and make the other person happy. You wondered what kind of person his soulmate was. 

Namjoon and you were so close, you two had bonded over each other’s respective clumsiness and forgetfulness in your freshman year of college, yet you found it a bit odd how you didn’t really know his stance on the whole soulmate thing. He never talked about the physically minuscule mark on his body that would have an enormous role in his life. Always presented a stoic, almost indifferent expression when he laid eyes upon the numerous couples along campus, never had expressed any longing towards a significant other either. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

He childishly snickered a little and gazed down at you with that attractive little smirk (authors note: omg imagine if he rlly looked at u like that id be dead) he did when he was about to tell a predictable joke. “You just did.” You mouthed the words along with him and rolled your eyes at him, a smile finding your lips anyway. He nodded at you and waited expectantly and suddenly you found yourself the tiniest bit shy.

Briefly pondering what would have happened if the two of you somehow shared the same tattoo, if somehow the two of you were each other soulmates. Would he had hid it if he noticed it before you did like Yoongi? No, you reasoned, he wasn’t that kind of person. He preferred to confront situations head on. Maybe you wouldn’t have hated the idea so much if you had a soulmate like Namjoon.

Instead the universe deemed your ‘perfect other half that will definitely complete you’ as an egotistic, douchebag named Min Yoongi.

“What do you feel about the whole soulmate thing?” Your voice was as small as a mouse and you saw his face drop a bit from his peaceful expression, making you tilt your head in confusion. His jaw tightened and his overall presence and posture suddenly became very rigid.

Clearing his throat, he turned his attention back to his studies as he answered with stiff casualness, “I don’t really have an opinion on it. I’ll worry about it when it happens.”

You could tell that he seemed very uncomfortable with the topic and you wanted to apologize for ruining the light atmosphere. It all of a sudden felt thick with tension between the two of you and you had no idea why.

So you hummed as nonchalantly as you could and turned away, “Ah, I see...” reminding and praying that you remembered to try and get Namjoon to open up a bit when he was ready.

But for now you turned away to your own notes and thought of your own predicament you were dealing with.

Keeping your lips sealed after what happened in that cursed classroom a few weeks ago, you had told no one and determined that it was just a bad nightmare, an irrational and delusional nightmare you wanted to forget ever having. 

Namjoon was Yoongi’s friend... kind of. Well, you knew that they at least tolerated each other. 

Should you just tell Namjoon what had occurred and ask for advice about what to do next?

No, let’s not make him even more uncomfortable, you sighed and laid your head back on the desk and allowed your dreary eyelids to shut as you recalled what happened that dreaded afternoon. 

You really did not want to believe it.

Even if it turned out to be true, you wanted to run away even if it was cowardly but before you even knew what the hell you were doing, you were taking large strides to Yoongi’s frozen figure in the seat, both gasping at the shock and warm sensation you felt from finally making physical contact for the first time. 

You had heard people talking about it, how the two persons involved felt electrified and so connected to each other and their bond. And although you couldn’t really argue with that statement, you didn’t feel particularly too connected to him at that moment. You guessed the emotions were consequences of the particular revelation.

Yes, his skin was smooth and warm to the touch, and an insane part of you had the idea to run your fingers down his wrist to meet his own in an intertwined embrace. Until the more rational side, your preferred and more dominant side, clued in the jagged and broken pieces as best as it could and suddenly everything made sense, heart thundering in your chest as you broke down your late epiphany as best as you could.

Throwing his arm down harshly, you couldn’t get the image of your tattoo out of your head-the one slightly bigger than an inch-the one you somehow shared with the man in front of you. Only now were you able to decipher the strange intricate lines-it had been both of your initials in some abstract handwriting.

Looking back at it now, you felt like such an idiot to not see the MYG that was so blatantly and obviously there, mocking you, forever etched on your skin, not at all welcomed there.

Releasing a shaky exhale as you tried your hardest to remain calm, you stared at Min Yoongi, that damned loon that somehow thought it a good idea to keep such an important detail to himself, had still not moved from his frozen stature and had dark, wide unblinking eyes stare frightened back at you. 

“You’re my soulmate?” As soon as the words escaped your lips, it felt all wrong. “How long have you known?” 

How long had you known him for?

Why was it him?

Imitating a fish, his mouth opened and shut numerous times before uttering, “Since the day we met.”

The memory burned fresh in your brain. You had been completely and immediately enamored with him at the first glance of him, and had the vaguest feeling that your feelings were mutual. When he had suddenly grew even paler than he already was and his lovely eyes widened to their maximum extent, you wanted to ask what the matter was, your soulmate tattoo subconsciously in full view.

Until he gazed at you like you had just cursed him out with your finest curse, most disgusting insults. It had oddly felt like he took part of your soul with him when he disappeared that day. 

It had seemed he was avoiding you every time he caught a glimpse of you, there was no chance in hell you were going to get to know him better if you couldn’t even get closer than twenty feet of him. One second you were making eye contact with him, then the next he was pressed against some girl all the while keeping gazes with you, not understanding why your stomach would knot in jealousy and loneliness, when normally you were not like this at all.

“You...” He had known all this time. Of course, why would he suddenly start to wear all those hoodies and sweaters in this scorching heat, with beads of sweat clinging to his temple? How he always seemed to claw at his sleeves whenever you were near? How the gorgeous girls he had flirted with in front of you filled with such insecurities just from looking from afar?

Min Yoongi was your soulmate?

What a joke.

“You knew this whole time?” You stupidly had finally spit the whole phrase out into the open air, the silence deafening as the two of you faced each other, each heart thundering in your chests. 

Yoongi had finally risen from his fixed posture at the desk and stood up, taking a tentative step forward before stumbling back a few shaky steps.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” You hated that you sounded so pathetic, so desperate even to yourself. 

It wasn’t as if you had even wanted to meet your soulmate, the fact that he hid it from you probably meant that he didn’t want you, right? So you should be happy you weren’t tied to someone who was going to tie you to him, but why did the thought of him possibly not wanting you break your heart into pieces?

Maybe there was such a thing as a soulmate bond after all, if your whole being was being torn like this, this much.

His demeanor seemed to change in an instant, and he had lost all past vulnerability and uncertainty. Jaw clenched and eyes narrowed on you he spat out, “You think this makes sense?” He gestured between the two of you quickly, trying to keep his voice low in case any other students were lingering out in the halls, although unlikely, and you could sense his shame from where you were standing. “Us? That you’re my soulmate?”

It was like the roles had reversed and now you were the frozen one, an ache formed deep in your stomach as you registered his words. But they were the ones you had wanted to say to him a few minutes ago, so why were you feeling this way?

“I’ll tell it to you straight,” he continued, not giving you a moment to collect yourself. “I don’t want people finding out you’re my soulmate. It’s embarrassing, and since you never bothered to hide it, I have to.” He bent down and grasped his discarded hoodie from the ground and shook it in your direction. “Do you know how fucking bothersome is it to always have to wear this twenty four seven? In this weather? Huh?”

You didn’t bother answering, feeling yourself get worked up over his words had you breaking out of your moment of dejection and nodded, exhaling harshly. Right, you could overcome this. But first you had to show him that you weren’t just going to stay silent and weak when he was insulting you.

Embarrassing? He was embarrassed of you? He should have just told you when he had first found out, that way things wouldn’t have been this twisted. The two of you could have coolly and casually gone your separate ways, but for some reason you felt betrayed. 

“Look, we have nothing in common, and to be honest, this whole soulmate shit is really fucking unfair.” It seemed he was becoming a bit drained, like his newfound energy had dissipated as fast as it had come. 

“I wouldn’t say we have nothing in common,” you trailed off, meeting his glare with one of your own, though his faltered a bit at your unexpected words, looking at you the tiniest bit puzzled. A bitter smile gracing your lips, you raised your eyebrows a bit as you continued, gaining a bit of satisfaction at the look of surprise on Yoongi’s face. “It’s not like I want you, either.”

“Y/N wake up.” You were being shook gently back and forth by Namjoon, his dimpled smile being the first sight you see when you open your eyes. He chuckled under his breathe as you sluggishly lift your weary body up, and groaning in pain as you feel one your ribs were pressing on the edge of the table, an ache forming and stabbing every time you moved. Sitting up, you noticed a very familiar light cardigan draped around your shoulders, and you gaze starstruck and touched up at Namjoon, silently thanking him for covering you, knowing you always got cold when you slept. 

He ruffled your hair affectionately in answer as you attempted to rub the remaining sleepiness from your eyes and fix your appearance so it was more presentable, handing the cardigan back to him. “You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to wake you,” he smiled apologetically. “but the library is closing soon, and I’d feel better if you slept in your own bed instead of this stiff chair.”

It was only then you noticed the lack of people around and you felt heat crawl up your neck and cheeks, wondering why if you had slept so long why you felt even more exhausted than before. “Thanks, and sorry for making you study by yourself...” you trailed off, standing up and slinging your bag on your shoulder as the two of you slowly made your way out of the library, nodding politely to the librarian behind the wide oak desk.

“No worries, but I do expect some coffee from you tomorrow, just saying.” It had gotten a bit dark and there was a bit of a breeze and you froze as Namjoon suddenly draped the cardigan over your shoulders once again. Your fingers met when you both fixed the collar and it made you grip the fabric tighter around yourself when he quickly pulled away, clearing his throat and avoiding your gaze. 

You agreed to his proposition as casually as you could and stumbled a little when you made eye contact with the one and only Min Yoongi, who was also just seemed to leaving for the day, his strong gaze alternating between you and Namjoon, and the cardigan around your shoulders.

wow i have not written this much in a really long time so i’m actually pretty proud of myself lol. lmk what u guys thought down in the comments or messages! as always thanks to everyone who is reading and to everyone who left those supportive comments they really made my day and i appreciate all of you!!<3

T O    B E    C O N T I N U E D .  .  .

tag list: @hoodiebangtan​ @xanny91​ @babeejeon​ @chocolatemilk1221 @fuckthatfeeling​ @cremextart​ @secretlypg95​ @littlegryffindorsavage​ @paracii​ @tragicrosemoons​ @sunshinein17​ @xxluckydreamsxx​ @skzleaf​ @lidda​ @thesugatoyourtae​ @marycarabell​ @pawschimchim​ 

[space-blue]

The Last Ingredient

A little bell peels in the air somewhere, comes muffled to our ears and makes me smile. It is proof that time still flows, that soon we'll return indoors, where breathing through your nose doesn't trigger a gagging reflex.

"Rachar, do you think the weather was a selling point when they decided to build our prison here?" I ask, panting.

"Totally. I can see the ad, 'atmosphere of the 6th circle of Hell, hot, humid, and thick as pudding.'"

I stare up at the ever shifting pattern of lush and exotic leaves, criss-crossing above our heads in a breeze we can see but never quite feel. Rachar, halfway through his thirty years sentence, jest as he might, is much more acclimatised than I ever wish to become.

"Don't you need my help for gathering more ingredients, Ira? I quite enjoy the rush of danger from those errands."

"No. No more errands," I say, "I only need one last ingredient, and..." I make a fluttering motion with my hand, mimic myself flying away. Free. "Soon now."

This news makes my friend stir and sit up. After three years of secretly brewing this potion, he must have thought me all talk.

"What is it, this last ingredient?"

I make a face up at him, peering into the eyes smouldering behind his own little jungle of tangled hair.

"It's something I'm not sure I can get."

"For real? But you've been so keen on escaping this whole time... Well, maybe it's for the best. Considered what they'd do to you if they catch you. I kinda like you, you know. I'd rather not see that done to you. No one gets out of here unless their time is up."

I don't know if it's respect or pity I feel surging in me when he speaks like this, him who won't rebel, won't try to escape. Who sits day after day in this green hell of a place, knowing there will be endless tomorrows made of the same infernal heat, the same corrosive dullness, the same absence of freedom. Making it out doesn't even matter. Trying is my only way to remain sane. I can't relate to his defeatism and meek acceptance. Not that it's easy to ever relate to Rachar, who was done in for running the biggest, most lethal cartel of drugs for were-animals Europe had ever seen, and killing, in his werebear form, five of the special-ops werewolves that were sent to arrest him. A sleek piece of remorseless trash, though a decent fellow one-on-one.

"Ira, you're growling."

"Sorry, mind wandered."

Rachar laughs, pats my hair with a hand monstrous enough to crush my skull in a squeeze. "Think of the future. When you finish brewing that potion of yours and pull a Shawshank over the eyes of Erikson and the crew."

"Don't go talking so loud, naming names and mentioning potions!" I sit up, unnerved. "The break is almost over."

"Ease up Ira, I'd know if anyone were around. I wouldn't let them lock you down with the bloodies either."

"Aye, like you could help it if they decided to."

Which is not the real problem. To determine the strength of new inmate magi, the prison's surgeons test the glands that secrete magica, always found in the armpits and throat. That test labelled me as a mere C-class magus, hardly a trouble to handle here. In comparison, A-class magi, like blood witches, are near impossible to catch alive. Meaning the handful of them we have in the basement make my werebear-druglord friend look like a philanthropist. They're kept with their hands in wet casts so they can't sharpen spelling tools, their teeth in moulds to keep them from biting themselves bloody. Not enviable. But people like me, with a little known organ tucked away behind the stomach, who can brew potions in their own bodies–potion being the romantic name for a magical bile–are extremely rare, and impossible to safely detain. A-class treatment wouldn't cut it. So long as I'm fed, I can always brew something annoying or even lethal to my handlers. S-class, maybe? As in Straight-to-firing-squad-class.

"Surely Erikson wouldn't let them take you away. The man is fond of you."

"Brewers are thought extinct since the mid 20th century. They'd probably dissect me, Rachar. Officers would not care for my being some guardian's pet prisoner."

"Eurk–well, I won't talk so... What's that last ingredient anyway?" His hand flies up before I can answer. "Speaking of the Devil," he mutters.

"Rachar, Ira, you two deaf? Didn't hear the second bell?"

The Devil indeed.

"Ah, Erikson. We were busy exchanging news, so much has happened since yesterday after all."

"You crazies shouldn't even be allowed to meet."

"Crazy? Nonsense, I'm a lamb."

"And I'm perfectly conscious of my actions."

"That just makes you a horrible person, Rachar."

Back in the cool bliss of air-con, I nod to him, a discrete salute I mean as an adieu, his looks are worried, but he tips me an invisible hat before turning away. So long, crazy friend. Up the stairs now, and following Erikson. Like every evening, my aisle is a mess of supernatural creatures and their supernatural gaolers, but I only have eyes for mine.

Erikson. I watch his blond head, his shoulders shifting under his miraculously crisp white shirt–what spell does the man use to keep them dry, I still wonder. By habit, I match his steps. Hateful habit, that makes my face relax, almost smile for him when he looks my way. Too long he's been my mindful captor. The man answering my calls, opening my door. The hand feeding me, the hand swiping me little things, when no one watches. He's a decent guy under the rough persona one needs to work in this jail, and I'm neck deep in Stockholm syndrome.

Erickson, for three years blind to my careful plotting. I hid it all from him, always playing the nice, reasonable lass, caught up in troubles bigger than her. Not the weirdo woman bargaining favours at every turn to obtain samples of hair, skin, blood, fabrics, spices... Stealing food, making some rot, pre-digesting others for the desired effects. Anything that might contain the ingredients my gut craves to continue its infernal distillation. Behind his broad back I've licked the walls of my cell, scratching my tongue over the lead paint till I nearly poisoned myself. It's an organic, messy trade. For three years I've brewed this concoction. Haltingly, with no known recipe, brought forth by my instinct and my need to escape, disappear, melt through walls–any will do so long as I get far away. Where Erikson won't be tearing at my mind, brushing my heart with the very fingers that turn the key in the lock of my cage.

"Ira, you're growling."

"Funny, that's the second time I've been told today." I pace down my little cell and back up to him.

"What is making you so tense?" he asks, leaning against the bars to talk with me.

Erikson. My last ingredient.

"Some internal turmoil over something I need but struggle to obtain."

"That's the point of jails."

"Aye, but smuggling doesn't usually get a magus in jail."

"You were smuggling human flesh!"

I shrug, give him a sad grin. "How would I have known? It was spelled."

He smiles back at me, a show of dimples. "Save it for the judges. Your appeal won't be delayed forever."

Erikson, who believes me when I lie. I step closer, curl my fingers around the cold steel bars. Looking up at him, I whisper, "will you miss me, when I'm gone?"

He frowns. Is it hatred, or love, festering in my pounding chest, that makes me flush and quiver as I wait for his answer?

"I'd like that; missing you. If it means you're acquitted."

The idea of missing him makes my mind trip over itself.

"I think I'd miss you too," I surprise myself saying, "but I don't think I'd like that at all."

I dive in the grey pools of his eyes, so close, like full moons pulling at the tides of my emotions. Erikson murmurs my name like a warning, but doesn't move. I'm on the tip of my toes and my fingers rubbing against the wondrous white shirt and the warm flesh behind it. His breath smells like mints and beer and magica. His lips are hot, firm but hesitant, like a cliched first kiss. His fingers are trailing my jaws, scorching my skin.

In one strong bite his blood comes gushing into my mouth. He cries, rending my heart–part free woman, part betrayer. I swallow my feelings along with coppery blood. There is a burning sensation in my guts as the last ingredient creates a chain reaction. The world dissipates in clouds of matter around me. Erikson's hands reach out but pass right through me. Through my victorious smile and my farewell nod like through a gentle wind.

I'm immaterial.

I'm free.

~~ August 2016 – Theme : Potion and elixirs

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

“Move. I dare you.” PROMPT YES YES YES YES YES YES PLS DO THAT ONE FIRST

Halloween Masterlist - DT special

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~           ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

𝓢𝓔𝓡𝓘𝓐𝓛    𝓚𝓘𝓛𝓛𝓔𝓡  ~  G𝓡𝓐𝓨𝓢𝓞𝓝 𝓓𝓞𝓛𝓐𝓝

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four

This whole damn series is a WARNING so don’t read if you’re not good with anything serial killer related.

Part six - finale

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~           ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

She could feel the icy cold tip of the blade slowly trailing up the side of her left thigh, sending chills up and down her spine as she held his merciless gaze. The wicked glint in his eyes matched the one in his smirk, forcing her heart to beat so fast he could hear it without a strain. And he loved it. He loved every minute of this sweet torture he had forced on her, but can you really say it was forced if she turned up on her own free will?

He thought her to be pure, an angel touched by the heavens, the good in darkness that surrounded the world, but he wasn’t so sure anymore. Good girls don’t meet their serial killer boyfriends on their own free will. Good girls don’t stand there and let their serial killer boyfriends do as they please with their body and their mind. Good girls would call the police. If she was a good girl, he’d have been arrested by now. Thus, the only conclusion he had was that his Y/N wasn’t the good girl he believed she is, meaning she had deceived him all along and he wanted retribution.

“Move.” He spoke lowly, tilting his head to the left, examining the way her lips part as he pierced the veil of silence. “I dare you.” He raised his eyebrow, his smirk growing into a grin, holding in a chuckle he wished to release with every beat of her very audible heart.

“No.” She stated calmly, knowing she’d meet her end that night. But she refused to let him snuff out her light before she got answers. So, she lifts her chin up defiantly, narrowing her eyes at him, ignoring the flames flickering in his.

“Not until you tell me why you’re doing this. Or why you haven’t killed me yet.” She knows it’s a gamble, too big of a chance to lose in this game he’s been playing with her, but she promised herself she won’t die until he tells her the truth. He had no reason to lie any longer and if he did, even a relative truth was better than the lie he sold her.

Grayson pressed the tip of his knife into her thigh, noticing her left eye twitch with the pain, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even gasp as he drew blood. Sure, it’s a flesh wound, but most girls would scream by now, but this girl….his girl refused to give him the satisfaction, drawing a snarl to his lips.

“Because I like the feeling of a body growing limp and cold in my arms. I enjoy the way they scream and the way they stop, their hearts finishing its tune under the palm of my hand. But most of all, I love the control it gives me, the fear I strike into the cowards who can’t fucking move when they see a little blood - as if they don’t know how good it feels to have it flow across your skin - slowly turning colder the further is goes.” Grayson smiles. Perhaps ’smile’ wasn’t the right word for it - the top row of teeth was showing, and there was a faint curve to the lips and a slight dimple in the right corner, but there was no crease below the eyes, no movement of the cheeks. It felt like a grimace, not a grin.

Her breathing grew faster as he continued, swallowing thickly as she faced reality that her once prince charming is truly the angel of death and not the touch of heaven she believed him to be. That wing shaped earring he wore deceived her right from the start and the smile on his face right now ripped her apart.

“There’s more to it.” She demands, her voice oddly calm still, only pissing him off. Every word she says pushes him closer to the edge and it’s only a matter of time until he breaks. They both know it.

Grayson wanted this to be a game for the long run, but even he knew that was a lie. There was a bigger reason to it.

“I’ve always had the urges. And when I first saw you, I knew I wanted you to be my first…first victim. But then I realized it could be something else. A game.” Grayson stepped closer, using his body to push her into stepping back and closer to the bed.

“The girls I killed were all practice. Ethan had caught me on the second kill, only then joining me. But I was the instigator. And I wanted to see how far we could go, before and after revealing ourselves to you.” He stepped closer once more, making her move again.

“And you loved me either way. The pure, good girl next door loved me - a serial killer who planned to kill her from the very first time he laid eyes on her. And he enjoyed knowing that. I loved knowing you love me - giving me immense pleasure. And I planned to torture you this way until you stopped loving me, but you can’t, can you?” Grayson smirked, but in reality, the conversation made his heart jump as well. He knew he was mixing lies with the truth, trying to convince her without revealing his weakness…and his weakness is her.

She was the last shred of his humanity, the boy he used to be, who he clings to. She was the past, the present and the future. In her, he could see a life unfold - a life where the persona he wanted to uphold would remain - one where he’d be the charismatic, appreciated, manipulative humanitarian until he has all he wants in the world - like all sociopaths do. But his brother didn’t have that wish, for Ethan only wanted to kill until he’s killed and the restlessness would lead them off the deep end either way, so he gave up that wish of his - the one where he’d be the perfect man in the eyes of the world - the one with Y/N.

And yes, she loves him and it gives him a perverse sense of pleasure and while he wanted to wait to kill her, he couldn’t do that anymore. With her, he was just a boy. With her, there was hope of being who he wanted to be which would betray his twin. With her alive, he’d gravitate toward her until it all ends. And he couldn’t do it anymore. With her, he’s a boy, but he needed to be a man. So he had to kill the boy and let the man be born - he had to kill her.

“You never loved me, did you?” She whispered, going against all sane reason once she cupped his cheeks in a moment of weakness, pressing herself closer to him, her trembling lips brushing his.

“I don’t know if I know what love is.” He admitted, lifting the knife up, setting the tip of his blade on a forty-five degree angle under her left-side rib cage, preparing to break his pattern of killing, unable to cut her throat as he did with the others. He loved that neck of hers far too much - his beautiful swan.

So he would push the blade in as fast as possible and end this torture, just as Henry did with Trish. It would be a quick death and he’d hold her in his arms until she took her very last breath, letting go of all she represented for him. He’d look into her eyes and see the shock, betrayal and the love fade until her pupils are wide and fixed, no longer swimming in a galaxy of her own as death claimed her.

And just as he’s about to do it, he pressed his lips onto hers one last time, saying goodbye without uttering the words, unaware of the world around him.

Which is exactly why he nearly jumped out of his skin as the door busted down from behind them and the room quickly filled with a SWAT team. Y/N was taken from his arms with great force, pulling her away from his embrace as they pushed him down on his knees.

“I’m compliant!” He shouted, stopping them from shooting him. They’ve pushed him all the way to the ground, his cheek laying on one of the rose petals left on the carpet, searching for Y/N desperately.

“Grayson Dolan, you are under arrest for murder. Anything you say…” The officers started with their usual blabber, but he couldn’t pay attention. He knew if he was caught, so was his brother who remained in front of the door of this apartment as he was the lookout. He also knew that if he was caught, it meant Y/N didn’t listen to his request of coming alone. He knew that if she had done that, it mean that she wasn’t just a girl who agreed to meet her serial killer boyfriend willingly. It meant she was the good girl he believed her to be.

She was still his good girl and despite her being why he’s in handcuffs right now, he knew she was still on his hook. And the thought made him smile - widely, especially when he finally caught her eye as they forced him to stand and walk out, winking at her.

“We’ll see each other again, babe.”

A/N - The Trish and Henry reference is from Harper’s Island, a mini series I highly suggest you watch if you like this fic.

Tags: @dolanstwintuesday @peacedolantwins @xalayx @godlydolans @heyits-claire @dolandolll @ethanhes

[pinnithin-writes]

Good Jokes

Chapter 15

Before they departed, Darnold was nice enough to let the team take a few things from his lab. At least, Tommy hoped it was out of wanting to be helpful rather than wanting them to leave faster. Gordon had shot Benrey point blank right in front of him, after all. Hilarious and relatively benign to the rest of them, but Tommy didn’t miss the flicker alarm in the chemist’s eyes.

The crates shoved in the corner were left behind when the cybernetics department folded, according to Darnold. While they pawed through the containers’ contents, they discussed the situation with him. He was aware of something wrong going on outside, but as soon as he’d gotten wind of an experiment gone awry, he’d done the smart thing and barricaded himself in his office. He’d even rigged the explosives up top, himself. Darnold had worked here long enough to know that when things went bad at Black Mesa, they went bad.

“If you come with us, you’re gonna have to kill like, twenty people. Probably more,” Gordon had reasoned, which made the chemist throw up a wall of sarcasm about two feet thick.

“Well, killing can’t be that hard, right?” he’d said, nervously, and that was when their hustle out the door began.

Bubby and Coomer both found new weapons within the crates. When Bubby experimentally pulled the trigger, Tommy felt the snap of his form leaving the plane like a rubber band breaking. As Tommy blinked, orienting himself to the space around him settling into the change, Bubby blinked right back in, snapping Tommy again. He winced. Maybe they shouldn’t use that gun too often.

Bubby agreed, looking a little shell-shocked from his journey. He stowed his weapon while Dr. Coomer extracted a firearm with a barrel as long as a man from the crate.

“Gordon I found it!” he shrilled excitedly. “The big one!”

Tommy didn’t know why Coomer needed such a gargantuan gun when he had two perfectly good ones attached to either shoulder. He himself was perfectly content with his rifle, surefire and reliable, and his eyes passed over the other weapons in the crate with disinterest. The soda cans were disappointingly void, as well. He was about to withdraw emptyhanded when a cheerful splash of color caught his eye. Tommy cleared away some of the junk to reveal the most wonderful hat he’d ever seen.

Holy shit, this was a stupidly good find. He straightened, cap in hand, and flicked the propellor. Delightful. What an ironic clash of themes. How would Tommy look, charging dirty and bloodied through Black Mesa, rifle in hand, with this thing on?

He guessed he was about to find out. He placed the cap on his head. God, it fit so well, too. Tommy fought his smile down as he loitered beside the container, watching Gordon conversing animatedly with Coomer.

The man looked the best Tommy had ever seen him. Excluding their first time meeting in the break room, a lifetime ago. He was clear-eyed and alert, his voice strong and full, gesturing with a renewed energy as he spoke. The gut-wrenching worry Tommy felt every time he laid eyes on Gordon had been replaced by a gentle warmth. He looked good. Tired, but healthy.

Gordon caught him staring, and a half second later he caught the hat on his head, too. Eyes alight, he joined him beside the crate, grinning and showing off those dimples Tommy was so fond of.

“That-” Gordon reached up to flick the propellor, sending it spinning crazily. “Nice,” he said.

Placing a splayed hand under his own chin, elongating his neck and tilting his head like a model, Tommy arched his eyebrows dramatically at Gordon. “Is it befitting?”

Gordon’s smile widened as he held in a laugh. “Yeah. I think it’s perfect, actually. I feel like you’ve been wearing that the whole time and I haven’t noticed.”

Tommy dropped his pose, smiling in return. Gordon still hadn’t moved away from him after messing with his cap, standing just a little too close to be professional. At this distance, Tommy could see a healthy pink in his cheeks, and a spray of freckles across his face he hadn’t noticed before. A stray curl fell into his eyes. Cute. His glasses were still fucking shattered, though, splitting his eyes into dozens of little panes as he peered out from behind them.

Gordon must’ve thought Tommy was waiting for him to say something. Tommy let him - he probably didn’t need to know how fixated he was on the way his face looked this close up. “That’s awesome, man,” he murmured, scratching the side of his jaw and taking a half step back.

Cute, Tommy thought again. Good to know he wasn’t the only one nervous about this little dance they were doing now. It was strange, like a detour around where they had previously been hurtling. Saving Gordon’s life had broken down any barriers between them, but now that he was back on his feet, the closeness would mean something different. Here I am, next to you. Not because I have to be, but because I want to.

Tommy didn’t know how deep Gordon’s wanting went, if it ran straight through his blood and seeped into his bones like Tommy’s did. He wondered if Gordon could see how badly Tommy ached when he looked at him. He felt transparent, like his desire was visible under his skin, like it would come pouring out if he opened his mouth. Tommy dropped his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable in his vulnerability.

As they geared up to leave, Gordon called across the room to their host. “You comin’ with, Darnold?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “This sounds like good fun with good buddies.”

Was he coming? He hadn’t armed himself. Tommy shot him a brows-raised look in question and Darnold gave a wary nod in response. He definitely didn’t strike him as a violent type, but maybe he thought riding the crazy train was the only way out of here. Sympathizing, Tommy rummaged in the nearby crate and handed Darnold a shotgun.

He bailed on them after the first hail of bullets. Nobody blamed him. After witnessing the deaths of three men in rapid succession, most sane people wouldn’t willingly choose to push on. Tommy raised a hand in a farewell wave to the chemist as he took the lift out of the lab. He could only hope the wake of destruction the science team left behind would ensure a safe exit.

“No, take me with you, bro,” Benrey called up the chute, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“You can’t go,” Gordon huffed, turning to leave. “You’re coming with us, because that’s what you’ve-”

“Hey, you're the one who keeps killing people,” Benrey snapped.

Gordon wheeled and fired the minigun at the entity with full force. “I wish I could kill you!” he bellowed.

Benrey’s face looked like it was shredded with buckshot by the time Gordon lowered his arm. Tommy ducked out of the lab before anyone could catch him laughing.

---

There was a new energy to the team as they left the bunker. With Gordon reclaiming his place at the front of the pack, the group took out both soldier and monster alike with a record-breaking swiftness. Gordon in particular was fed up, channeling his frustration into gunfire as he ripped holes through their adversaries. There was a violent fire in his eyes that wasn’t there before, and Tommy hoped that in his anger he didn’t forget that he was still mortal.

Everything about the way he carried himself suggested otherwise.

Up the ramp, around the bend, move, move, move. They kept pushing, crowding in between two buildings and drawing the eye of a sniper. As everyone scurried for cover, Bubby took advantage of his lab-grown reflexes and hucked a grenade into the loft. The party all flinched in the flashbang that followed.

“They’re trying to cut us off from our supply of Powerade, Mr. Freeman,” Tommy said, less to add anything useful to the situation and more to see if the guy’s hearing had been damaged.

If it was, Gordon didn’t show any sign of it as he fixed Tommy with a wide-eyed, adrenaline fueled look, just on the edge of wild. “That’s horrible,” he told him, “but we’re not gonna be here anymore because we’re gonna leave and we’re gonna kill all the aliens and we’re gonna go home .”

The quaver that shook his voice made Tommy’s heart ache. Gordon wanted to go home so badly. Underneath all the rage and spite that was forcing him onward, there was only raw desperation. Home. We’re gonna go home. Tommy locked eyes with him, nodding small and quiet as if he could guarantee the future.

Gordon let out a breath. “I hope,” he said.

They encounter a radio in the adjacent building, monitored by a few soldiers that were quickly dispatched. Tommy watched as the other scientists crowded around the device, arguing amongst themselves until Gordon took the lead with a loud, “Alright, here, I’m just gonna spew some bullshit, alright?”

His soldier impersonation was so bad Tommy had to leave the room with a hand over his mouth. He didn’t catch what was transmitted over the frequency, but he overheard Gordon, Bubby and Dr. Coomer discussing it later while they were upstairs. Tommy silently reloaded his weapons with slow, methodical hands as he listened.

“Now, if there’s anything I remember from my time studying military communication,” Coomer said thoughtfully, “I do believe this means they’re planning a full on assault. Bombs and everything. They’re going to wipe out the entire facility. Clean it up, so to speak.”

“Where does ‘bathroom’ fall into that?” Gordon asked, and a hollow point slipped out of Tommy’s fingers as a snicker shook through him. “What part of that - what part of the code is ‘bathroom?’”

“The bathroom,” Bubby said unhelpfully.

“There are many bathrooms at Black Mesa, Gordon,” Tommy spoke up, smirking until he realized the man’s first name had come rolling out instead of his last.

Gordon’s name tasted good in his mouth. He needed to be careful of how often he used it. Another bullet clattered to the floor and he swore softly.

Tommy fell into his thoughts as they scaled the buildings in the yard. If Black Mesa was getting shelled, that meant the powers that be were going to cover up everything that happened here. Destroy the evidence. Obliterate it entirely. How soon, though? Tommy could bend reality enough to get himself out of there, but his companions were a different story. Perhaps he could solicit help from his father, but he needed time for that, and that was a currency Tommy was running low on.

If they bombed the facility, that didn’t just mean the research would go away. His room back in the living quarters would be wiped out, too. It wasn’t the only place he had to live, sure, but it was a small home he had made for himself. Crafted with his own two hands out of the knick-knacks he’d collected and the posters he’d tacked up on the wall. With his luck, aliens had already wrecked the place and there was a peeper puppy snoozing on Sunkist’s bed in the corner this very moment.

He wondered how Sunkist was doing. Tommy hadn’t heard from him in a while. The dog was immortal – he wasn’t worried about his safety – but he was probably pretty confused about his routine getting thrown off. Once they fixed this Resonance Cascade disaster he’d have to go looking for him.

Standing there, baking in the sun and his thoughts on the hot rooftop, Tommy almost missed the fact that Gordon was speaking to him.

“You good, Tommy?” he asked. “Hangin’ in there?”

He lifted his head out of his preoccupation and met his eyes. Gordon was hanging back, giving Tommy a look of concern, while the rest of the group crossed the caved-in gap in the roof.

A sudden, unfamiliar feeling gave Tommy pause, and he had to take a moment to sort through what it meant. Yes, he could push past the discomfort and the heaviness in his limbs, shrugging into the fatigue like an old worn out coat, but he was… exhausted. Drained mentally and physically, wrung out by the week’s events and his own thoughts. Tommy hadn’t really given it much consideration before now, but apparently Gordon had noticed.

“Yeah,” he answered, haltingly. “I’m worried about…”

A lot. There was a lot to worry about right now. His brain kept getting snagged on the aerial assault Coomer had warned them about, and the people left inside the facility, dying with no one to help them. How many people worked at Black Mesa? How many called the place home? Gordon didn’t, Tommy was certain; he had just moved here. The box in his locker wasn’t even fully unpacked yet. Tommy knew because the man’s locker was located right next to his.

A small, childish part of him wanted to scream about how unfair this all was. He liked working at Black Mesa, he enjoyed his research. Was it sketchy at times? Sure, but it held his attention like no other, and it allowed him to test his own understanding of reality with an accessibility other scientists in the field would kill for.

It had been a little lonely for the most part, but the new guy’s locker had been put next to Tommy’s, and he had been looking forward to cultivating a slow… something with Gordon. Build the relationship piece by piece out of conversation between shifts and passing jokes in the break room and kissing him outside his apartment door. Now, well, it was going to be trickier to hold his hand when one of them was a gun.

Both of them had been cheated out of normalcy, and it was infuriatingly unfair. Tommy felt horrible that this was what he was focusing on instead of the catastrophe that was crushing reality in its fist, but the thoughts kept coming, wave after wave, and he was far too exhausted to fight them all down anymore.

Gordon’s eyes were still on him, careful and patient. Right, Tommy was telling him what he was worried about.

What was he worried about? How did he sum something like that up?

“The drinks,” he said, because they were the only words he could pull from the tangle in his head.

Gordon’s brows drew in, uncomprehending. “What, like, the drinks exploding?”

“Yeah,” Tommy went on, “What about all the bathrooms and the vending machines and the Powerade and the potions department?”

He knew his elaboration was far from illuminating, but it was the best he could do right now. Black Mesa was about to be a smoking crater in the desert landscape. He was worried about that, mixed feelings and all.

Gordon wasn’t following, but he tried, and for that Tommy was grateful. “Those things don’t hold an intrinsic value like life does,” he said. “Like, I think the value of life has been morally lost across,” he paused, glancing at where Benrey stood on the other side of the roof, “most of you.”

Tommy sighed heavily through his nose and didn’t respond. He was right. They needed to look after themselves, after each other, and make it out of here alive. Home. Home. We’re gonna go home.

And if there wasn’t a home to go back to, they’d just have to make one.

---

Tommy’s thoughts followed him through Black Mesa, while they downed a helicopter, while they slunk through air ducts, while they sheltered in a garage. He was zoned out, paying only enough attention to make sure nobody outright died, wondering what happened to people who were as desensitized to gunfire as he had become.

The grenade, however, caught his attention. It also caught his body with some shrapnel. Tommy’s reflexes were slow in his exhaustion, and he was a millisecond too late to deflect the high velocity cast iron embedding itself in his shoulder.

Ah, fuck. Ow.

Crowded like sardines as they were in this narrow pipe, Tommy could only crawl forward after Gordon, who charged ahead to take out the soldier responsible for the explosion. His HEV suit had absorbed the brunt of it, Tommy guessed, and Benrey had likely become incorporeal for a thin moment to allow the remaining shrapnel to pass through him. Which left Tommy to take a painful patterning of metal in his arm. Wincing, he reached the end of the pipe and began to clamber out.

Benrey slammed the hatch in his face, sending him reeling backward. He sucked in a breath through his teeth as his injury was jostled. Really? He sighed and tried again. The hatch nearly took off his fingers as Benrey smashed it shut once more.

Gordon’s words were muffled behind the steel panel, but he could still hear him yelling at Benrey. “Don’t put Tommy back in there! Stop. Stop. No. Let Tom - what are you doing to Tommy?”

The distress in his voice was touchingly genuine for something so minor. Tommy opened the hatch, shut it, and opened it again cheekily, deflating Benrey and reassuring Gordon all at once. The extra effort only aggravated the shrapnel in his shoulder a little, causing it to gush more blood down his arm. Worth it.

“Tommy, what are you doing?” Gordon asked, his eyes following him as he exited the tunnel. His gaze stuck on the metal embedded in him and his eyebrows shot up. “Are you okay?”

Tommy looked down at himself and grimaced. Yeah, that’ll leave a scar. He could heal it over relatively quickly, but the shrapnel was already in there and the damage had been done. Bubby, Benrey, and Dr. Coomer, distracted by a distant noise down the hall, moved on to investigate, feet pounding on the slatted steel.

Remaining stationary where he leaned against the wall, Tommy tried to give Gordon a comforting smile, but the pain made it tight-lipped and strained. “I’m not used to those kindsa doors,” he said.

Gordon was unconvinced. “Are - you are the most covered in blood I’ve ever seen you,” he murmured, passing him a once-over. “There was that time back when we were like, way back in like, Data Research.”

He was probably right, Tommy reasoned. His lab coat was permanently stained a rust color at this point, and he could feel a sheen of something wet across his face, taste the iron tang of blood on his mouth. He flicked his gaze down and noticed Gordon’s hand halfway raised, frozen in midair once Gordon realized it was his right hand. The-hand-that-wasn’t-a-hand. Tommy angled his chin away and wiped his face with the sleeve of his lab coat to spare him.

“You look horrible,” Gordon remarked awkwardly, dropping his arm back to his side.

“Ye - Powerade doesn’t get blood off your skin,” Tommy said to fill the silence. “It - it doesn’t bind with it.”

“That sucks,” Gordon responded. Tommy didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on his injured shoulder. “How - d - how does it work like that?” he intoned softly, talking to himself now as he stared at the spreading stain of red. “Hemeo… phobic.”

What? That wasn’t necessarily correct, but Gordon was looking a little too preoccupied for Tommy to warrant correcting him. Plus, it was nice. His concern for him was nice. It spread warmth through Tommy’s chest and distracted him from the pain in his arm. He nodded down the hall indicatively. They should get going.

Much to Gordon’s ire, there were more pipes to go through. His voice was uncharacteristically subdued as he participated in the conversation passing up and down the line. Was he still worried? Perhaps it was the claustrophobic closeness of the tunnel they were in. Tommy nudged him lightly in the small of his back.

“We’re like peach tea goin’ through a silly straw,” he commented, and some of the tension left Gordon as a laugh tumbled out of him.

The pipe emptied out into some kind of storage room, which didn’t seem to Tommy like a very practical place for a pipe to go, logistics wise. He proceeded to scan the shelves for anything useful while the others cleared the room of soldiers. These looked like miscellaneous supplies, a place to store things that nobody knew where to put. Dr. Coomer called from around the corner as Tommy began pawing through the cubbies.

“Look, Gordon, a medical kit! We can use this to restore lost HP.”

“Tommy, you need this,” Gordon said immediately, grabbing the sleeve of his lab coat and pulling him away from the supplies. “Don’t lie to me. I know you do.”

Before Tommy could open his mouth to respond, or even process the fact that Gordon was forcibly dragging him to a med station, Benrey shouldered past the both of them and emptied the contents of the kit onto the floor.

“Benrey!” Gordon growled in exasperation while the entity kicked a roll of once-sterile bandages across the floor. “Benrey, you can't die, what good do-”

“Look, Gordon, a medical station.” Coomer interrupted. “Unfortunately, it has been drained.”

While Gordon seethed and Benrey gloated, Tommy retreated from the alcove where the kit was located and leaned against the opposite wall to assess his wounds. Might as well take care of this while they were here. Gritting his teeth, he worked the larger pieces out of his flesh with his fingers, gradually relaxing as the wounds began healing over before his eyes. The smaller shards he’d have to leave in until he had a pair of tweezers. He tipped his head back against the wall and sighed heavily. He felt dead on his feet.

Benrey drifted in Tommy’s direction, leering over the embarrassment of a demigod taking damage. Tommy stared back at him, eyes half-lidded and weary. Sure, render the med kit unusable, you fucking child. Not like Tommy really needed it, anyway. The persistent pain was more of an inconvenience than anything. But Gordon - oh, Gordon was coming over here, stalking after Benrey with rage on his face.

Rage on his behalf. Tommy’s. Angry that he couldn’t find some relief from the med station he’d tugged him so gently toward. That unfamiliar feeling turned inside him again, soft and foreign.

He was being cared about. That was it. Gordon was caring about him - had been caring about him this whole time. Every stupid joke and reassuring touch and glance across the room. Even surrounded by monsters, facing down a slow death by infection. Since day one of this god-abandoned nightmare, and in this very moment as he chewed out their mutual enemy.

Tommy let out a soft exhale at how long it took him to realize. Even Benrey had noticed it before he had.

“Hey, man,” Gordon snarled at the entity. He cuffed him over the head with the minigun, sending him sprawling. “Fuck you.”

Benrey was hurled much further than any of them anticipated, skidding across the steel floor and splitting his palms open on impact. Tommy and Gordon exchanged an impressed glance.

“Damn, this thing really packs a wallop!” Gordon exclaimed excitedly while Benrey groaned and staggered to his feet. “Just blew you across the room! Hey, let’s try that again.”

Tommy laughed while Gordon began knocking Benrey back and forth against the storage shelves, which only made the remaining shrapnel in his shoulder leak out more blood. It hurt, but he didnt care. Even through the exhaustion, he felt indescribably lightweight, warmth and delight flooding his ribcage.

Benrey eventually found his footing and blasted Gordon with an ear-piercing wave of sound. Gordon stumbled back, clapping his good hand over one ear and burying the other against his shoulder. Tommy winced, too. An awful sound, more agitated than Tommy had heard out of the entity in years. He didn’t sympathize. Benrey had been poking the bear all week and this assault was warranted.

“I’m gonna stop, okay?” Gordon shouted as he cringed away from the sound. “I’m gonna stop. Just stop - stop with the balls, I hate it!”

Benrey rolled his shoulders and prowled away, leaving Gordon quaking against the wall as the thin sapphire lines of residual noise floated around him. Tommy offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet. His grip was warm and solid, a stark contrast to a day ago when the man was barely hanging on.

Here I am. Caring about you. Not because I have to, but because I want to. He was hesitant to let go of Gordon’s hand.

“Tommy what does it mean?” Gordon asked, dropping his hand to launch a glare at the entity. “He shot blue.”

“That’s a lotta blue,” Tommy remarked as he looked around, trying to hide his alarm.

Benrey’s little color code of emotions was something Tommy could interpret, but rarely addressed, choosing to translate through obnoxious, singsong rhymes when asked because he knew it pissed the entity off. He had only seen this much blue once before, the first time Benrey had killed him, eight years ago. The feeling of burning to death still lingered in his memory today. Tommy shuddered to think of what this creature had planned for Gordon.

From across the room, Benrey bared his razor teeth in a sharpened promise.

“It means I hate you.”

Chapter 14 <-----> Chapter 16

[d-noona]

BARTERED BRIDE

Chapter 1: Acquisition

Kim Namjoon is a ruthless financier used to buying and selling stocks, shares and priceless artifacts. But now Namjoon has his eye on a very different acquisition - Park Han Byeol. Left destitute by her father's recent death, Han Byeol walks into Namjoon's bank looking to extend her overdraft. As Han Byeol needs money and Namjoon needs a wife, he proposes the perfect deal: he'll rescue her financially if she agrees to marry him. But in this marriage of convenience can Han Byeol ever be anything more than just a bartered bride?

Expecting him to be a middle-aged toad, Han Byeol was surprised when the man who rose from behind the large orderly desk was a tall, dark, middle twenties, very handsome, with dimples on top. Man was he handsome.

“Miss Park, please sit down.” He gestured to the chair on the outer side of the desk and waited until she was settle before resuming his own sit. She knew nothing about him, except that his name was Kim Namjoon and he occupied a large office on the highest floor of a prestigious office block in the City. This area of Seoul was one of the world’s great markets. Judging by his discreetly luxurious surroundings, this man was one of the market’s moguls. To Han Byeol, until very recently, money has been something she spent with careless extravagance on clothes for herself, presents for others and anything else she wanted. Now the supply she had dried up. That was why she was here in the formidable presence of this well-built, 5’11 tall, whose physique didn’t match her mental image of a top-level financier. All she knew about him was that Mr. Lee, her late father’s lawyer, had said that Kim Namjoon wished to see her and might be able to help her and her mother out of their predicament.

Predicament being the understatement of the year, Han Byeol thought wryly, leaning back in the comfortable leather chair and automatically crossing her legs, remembering a moment too late that this was a no-no in the books of advice on how to impress interviewers. The movement caused Mr. Kim to shift the focus of his cold brown gaze from her face to her shapely knees and then to her ankles. Han Byeol accustomed to men admiring her legs furtively or openly according to temperament. Kim Namjoon belonged to the latter group, but whether his frank appraisal was appreciative, critical of indifferent it was impossible to tell. He had the most deadpan expression she had ever come across. It made her nervous.

And Han Byeol wasn’t used to being nervous. She didn’t like it. The appraisal didn’t last long, perhaps not more than three seconds. Leaning forward, his forearms resting on the edge of his desk and his long-fingered hands loosely clasped, he returned his gaze to her face. “You’re in trouble I hear.”

Lacking any regional of social accent, his voice gave no clue to his background. Self-assured and brisk, it was a voice she could imagine giving decisive orders people would jump to obey. Had she met him in surroundings not indicative of his occupation, and had been asked to guess it, she would have assumed that he held a senior rank in one of the special units of crack fighting men called to the world’s trouble spots when drastic action was the only solution. He had an air of contained physical power. A man of action rather than a desk-bound number-cruncher. “Yes,” she agreed, “We are. Since my father’s death, my mother and I have discovered that instead of being comfortably off were extremely hard up – virtually penniless.”

“Not penniless,” he said dryly. “The watch you’re wearing would pay the grocery bills of an average family for several months.” She looked down at her Cartier watch her parents had given her for her eighteenth birthday “I won’t be wearing this much longer, but I don’t mind that. I can cope with the change in our circumstances. It’s my mother I’m worried about. She’s not young. She’s never worked. She –“ He interrupted her. “Nor have you, I understand. The press described you as a playgirl”

“The press put labels on everyone…not always accurate. It’s true I’ve never had a job. There was no point. My father was rich…so we thought. I wasn’t brainy enough to train for one of the professions. I don’t have any special bent. The most useful thing I could do was to help keep other people employed, not take a routine job someone else needed” as Han Byeol attempts to explain her situation. “You do not have to explain your butterfly existence to me Miss Park, but without any work-experience, you’re not going to find it easy to start supporting yourself, particularly not at the level you’re accustomed to.”

“Presumably you didn’t ask me here to tell what I already know,” she replied, with a flash of irritation. There was something about his manner that put her back up. He hadn’t smiled when he greeted her. Beyond standing up when she was shown in by his secretary, he hadn’t done anything to put her at ease. “Why did you send for me?” she asked quirking at eyebrow at the man.

Rising, he picked up a file lying on top of his desk. He walked round to hand it to her.  “Have a look through that.” He strolled away to a window looking out on a vista of rooftops. He stood with his hands behind him, the right hand clasping the left wrist. The file held plastic pockets containing illustrations taken from magazines and the glossier kind of catalog. Mostly they showed pieces of sculpture, paintings and other objects d’art. There were also several photographs of horses, an aerial view of an island off Scotland and a picture of a small French Chateau. Half turning from the window, he said “They're all things that caught my eye over the last few years. Some of them are mine now I’m in the fortunate position of being able to indulge my acquisitive impulses…as I expected you did before your father died.”

Shaking her head “Not on this scale,” said Han Byeol. She couldn’t see where the conversation was heading, as she glanced at him, Kim Namjoon returned to his desk, resting one long hard thigh along the edge of its polished surface and folding his arms across his chest. “There’s one picture in there that you’ll recognize. Carry on looking.”

Intrigued, she obeyed, turning the pages more rapidly than before. Suddenly, with in drawn breath of surprise and puzzlement, she stopped. She hadn’t expected to see a photograph of herself. It had been taken at a party of socialites. She was wearing a figure hugging dress of black crushed velvet and showing a lot of sun-tanned cleavage, having recently returned from a winter holiday in the Caribbean. “What am I doing here?” she demanded, baffled. “You, I hope, are going to be my next major acquisition, Ms. Park.” For the first time a hint of amusement showed in the hard steely-brown eyes and flickered at the corners of his wide, chiseled mouth.

Inconsequentially, it struck her that his mouth was at variance with the rest of his features. It was the mouth of a sensualist in the face of a man who otherwise gave the impression of being self-disciplined. But it was the meaning of his extraordinary statement, rather than the contradiction between his mouth and his eyes that preoccupied her at the moment. “What do you mean?” she said warily.

“I need a wife. You need financial support. Do you understand the word fortuitous?” says Namjoon. “Of course I do,” she retorted, her long lashed – brown eyes sparkling with annoyance at the implied aspersion of her intelligence. It was true she had been considered a dunce by most of her teachers and had never done well in examinations, but that was because she hadn’t been interested in the things they wanted her to learn…grammar, math, physics and incredibly tedious bits of history, all of them taught in a way guaranteed to send the normal teenagers – particularly the sort of restless, hyperactive teenager she had been…into well…boredom. She said, “It means happening by chance…especially by a lucky chance. But I can’t see anything lucky about my father dying of massive coronary in his middle fifties, with his business on the rocks and his wife destitute,” she added coolly. Matching her coldness, he said “In my experience, most people make their own luck. Your father’s lifestyle wasn’t conductive to a long healthy life. As a business man, he took too many risks for a man with responsibilities.”

“Did you have dealings with him?” she asked. She knew nothing about her father’s business life. Since her late teens he had spent little time with his family. It was years since he and her mother had shared a bedroom. Han Byeol knew there had been other women. “Not directly. But after seeing that picture, I made a point of finding out more about you. I was on the point of making a contract when your father died and I put the matter on hold. In the light of subsequent events, I’ve adapted my original plan to deal with things more expeditiously. If my information is correct, you have no relationships with men in train at the present time?”

“How did you find that out?” she said baffled. He said coolly, “I had you investigated…a reasonable precaution in the circumstances. Marriage is a very important contract. When people are buying a house, they have searches made by surveyors and lawyers. I had you checked out, very discreetly, by a private detective. You may want to run a similar check on me. For the time being my secretary has prepared a file which will give you most information you need.”

Retrieving the file she was holding, he placed another slimmer folder on the edge of the desk in front of her. “I can’t believe I’m even hearing this, I thought this was a merchant bank…not marriage bureau.” Han Byeol’s eyes were both perplexed and angry. He didn’t look like a crazy person. In his expensive suit and diagonally striped tie, perhaps the emblem of one of those old boys’ networks which still wielded so much influence, he looked eminently sane and sensible. But he must be out of his head to believe he could buy a wife as casually and easily as everything else in the file he was putting away in a drawer. “It’s a bank and I am its chairman,” he said calmly. Han Byeol cocked her head to the side “You wouldn’t be much longer if your shareholders heard what you’re suggesting. They’d think you were out of your mind. You can’t buy a wife.”

“It isn’t the usual method of acquiring one,” he agreed, going back to his chair. “But these are unusual circumstances. I have neither the time nor inclination to follow traditional course. You are in urgent need of someone to straighten out the financial shambles you find yourself in. if you agree to marry me, your mother won’t have to move and you won’t have to worry about her future. I’ll take care of that. Think it over, Han Byeol, when you’ve had time to assess it. I think you’ll agree it’s an eminently sensible plan.” For some reason his use of her first name detonated the anger which had been building inside her. It was rare for Han Byeol to lose control of her temper. But she did now. Jumping up, she said fiercely “I don’t need to think it over. Nor would any sane person. I’m furious you’ve made me come here, thinking I’d hear something useful! This trip to Seoul has been a complete waste of time. I’ve damned good mind to write to you board of directors and tell them they’ve got a nutcase in control.” Without waiting for his reaction, she marched to the big double doors of solid mahogany and yanked one of them open. Glowering at the startled secretary at his desk in the outer sanctum, she slammed in resoundingly behind her and returned to the private lift which brought her up to this rarefied level of the building

[yangholic]

Peephole | Five

word count: 1,515

warnings: lowkey sexual tension, swearing

a/n: enjoy this quick update! i may not be able to write for a few days because my finals are this week and i have a huge thesis due, so enjoy this early gift~

Life often imitated art, at least that’s what you believed as you perused the local gallery. Houses in the middle of oceans, staircases made of 88 ivory and ebony keys, disembodied heads, all painted in muted colors, highlighting the dismal world of Surrealism. You viewed the world similarly to the likes of Breton, Magritte, and Dalí: strange and beyond rational explanation. Perhaps that was the reason why you were with Jimin in the first place, how you overlooked his murderous side. In your mind, none of it was real, just bizarre fantasies and delusions.

Gazing around the small venue, you scanned the crowd for Jimin. He was sat on a bench, wistfully staring at a painting, unmoving, unblinking— and Gods, did he look beautiful. While you looked and felt fragmented, like a Surrealist Exquisite Corpse, Jimin appeared as if he could have delicately crafted from the hands of Pre-Raphaelites. Every ounce of him held poise, from the soles of his feet to his rosy, cherubic cheeks. Seemingly captivated by his ethereal beauty, you joined him on the bench, studying the painting that enthralled him. An optical illusion of a skull, its bony structure comprised of various weapons. Knives, guns, hammers, brass knuckles, instruments of violence, torturing devices. Any other sane person would look at the painting, mumble ‘aha!’ as they contemplated the meaning before moving on, but Jimin was utterly transfixed, borderline obsessed with the painting.

You kept your voice low, barely above a whisper, “Jimin?” Although his gaze was still fixed beyond him, towards the painting, he replied with a noncommittal hum. His response, or lack thereof, bothered you, so you pressed him again. “Jimin?”

“Hmm? What is it, jagiya?”

“Why?”

Apparently, your gentle nagging was enough to recapture his attention, his mahogany eyes now focusing on you. Ringed fingers curled around your cheeks, affectionately cradling your face in his hands. “Why do I call you jagiya? Because you’re my girlfriend and I really li–”  

“That’s not what I mean. Why do you do it,” you mumbled, eyes downcast. “How can you do it?” It pained you to ask about his heinous side, especially knowing just how quickly Lee Jimin could end your life. But in all honesty, after witnessing his remorseless brutality without the protective barrier of your peephole, you craved to dig deeper into is psyche. After a scarce few seconds, as if he were testing himself and his patience, Jimin relinquished his hold on your face, his hands dropping to his lap. “You know,” he said, focus returning to the macabre skull, “I think I should be the one asking you, Y/N. Why are you alive?” You blinked, caught off guard by his rebuttal, hoping you had just misunderstood. “Wh-What?”

“It’s difficult to answer the question ‘Why do you kill?’ just as it is to answer the question, ‘Why are you alive?’ It’s simple: to live is to kill.” Flabbergasted by Jimin’s response, you found yourself speechless. His attitude had not changed, he was still the lively, warm Jimin, whose voice was full of mirth. But the words which he spoke were detached from his persona— full of indifference. “Human nature is inherently violent,” Jimin began, hands laced together in his lap idly, “But whether we act upon that or not is up to us. Like a praying mantis who decapitates her mate after sex, I target those who I see as weak— vulnerable. And I just do it, like it’s a natural instinct. There’s no reason why I have these impulses, other than I just do. But unlike those weaklings who might kill in self-defense or for self-preservation, I don’t feel any remorse.” Jimin pauses, drawing in a shaky breath as a small tent forms in his slacks. “Only complete serendipity. Like as if I were on cloud nine.” Unclasping his left hand, he carded through his hair to relieve the itching, murderous, delicious tension that riled him up. “Plus,” Jimin paused, “My rule is that I only kill those that deserve it. Criminals, rapists, scum of the Earth.”

“So that woman from earlier–”

“She was embezzling money from Hoseok, the studio owner, and I just happened to catch her red-handed,” Jimin explained, laughing at his own morbid joke. Instantly, you perked up, now more intrigued. “So you’re basically a vigilante then?”

With a scoff, Jimin shook his head, “You’re too naïve, Y/N. I’m not a good person, not in the slightest.” Cocking an eyebrow, you waited for clarification, while Jimin returned his focus to the painting on the wall. “I kill lowlifes because it makes it less suspicious. If I were to take an innocent woman off the street and mutilate her beyond identification, all of Seoul would be on the lookout for a serial killer. But if I end the life of a convict who had previously assaulted three women, no one would bat a fucking eye.”

Without warning, Jimin abruptly stood and stretched, a sliver of his abdomen peeking out from under his dress shirt. “Let’s go check out the next exhibit,” he said, offering you a hand while changing conversational topics expertly. You silently accepted both alternatives, mindlessly trailing behind the blonde as he led you to a less populated section of the quaint museum, one that mainly focused on sculptures and pottery. It baffled you— how could someone as considerate and wholesome as Lee Jimin find satisfaction in plunging a blade into another human being? You struggled to wrap your head around his philosophical justification behind his murderous tendencies. Jimin made killing seem simple, easy, understandable, which made him all the more frightening.

“Jimin, I just,” you faltered, unsure of how to proceed, “I don’t really get why it is that you kill, but you should really stop.” The dancer’s eyebrows furrowed in irritation, visibly annoyed by your declaration. “I just… Don’t want you to get caught by the police.” Jimin immediately called your bluff, a coy smile twitching at the corner of his lips. With a breathy laugh, Jimin strode past you and towards a sculpture, it’s weathered marble now a dull, aged yellow. Back turned to you, he spoke without a care for confidentiality, “What is better: a virgin who kills, or a bastard that doesn’t?” Your eyes widened in shock, the small room suddenly feeling like a sweltering desert as heat traveled to your face. Swallowing thickly, you attempted to ward off the blush that tinted your cheeks, “I-I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

The blonde turned around, umber eyes sparkling with raw, unbridled lust. “I’m a virgin, you know,” he giggled while winking flirtatiously, only flustering you further. “I was always waiting for the right person, the one who would accept me. All of me.”

•·················•·················•

Being in a relationship with Lee Jimin taught you a lot of things. For one, he mainly preferred sour foods and had a distaste for mangoes. You also learned that he wore contacts due to poor eyesight, but only donned his thick-framed glasses for night-time reading. Most importantly, Jimin never verbalized when he was bringing home the next kill— he simply sent you a text message with a time. Those texts were his own way of asking you to accept him.

Accept him as a boyfriend.

A lover.

A murderer.

When you watched Jimin from your side of the peephole, it was as if you were watching a movie starring the blonde bombshell next door. You paid little mind to the blood and gore, each occurrence leaving you more desensitized than the next. And after each session, Jimin would come over and make you dinner, chatting idly about your day or his latest choreography. Every night after he would retire to his neighboring room, you would lie awake and curse your initial impulse to look through the peephole. You were a pervert, and this was your punishment.

Fatigued, as usual, you began your morning routine, or lack thereof. While the daytime consisted of you browsing the internet and participating in paid surveys as a form of income, it was sporadic at best. Most of the time, you would stare at the ceiling in a stupor, waiting for the inevitable arrival of Lee Jimin. Today, though, deviated from its usual lackadaisical schedule. The ringing of your doorbell drew your attention away from your cellphone’s screen, the arrival of an uninvited guest urging you to rise from your sheets. Sliding into house slippers, you trudged across the room and into the threshold, unlocking the deadbolt, but not the security chain. Peeking through the sliver of open door, you were surprised to see a well-dressed man sporting a brown blazer and charcoal turtleneck, his black hair coiffed into a lazy pompadour.  He was scribbling something into a small notebook, the pen furiously scratching against the tiny sheet of paper. Noticing your presence, the man flashed a dimpled smile and introduced himself before procuring a badge that was concealed behind his lapel.

“Good morning, Miss Y/N. My name is Detective Kim Namjoon, from the Seoul metropolitan police. May I ask you a few questions concerning your next-door neighbor Lee Jimin?”

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[reignsrkive]

Part 37 “We can all share then”

Silience. {Park Jimin x Mia Thomas (presented as Mia but can also be y/n)-BTS Social Media AU}

As soon as you and Jia heard the doorbell, you jumped from your seats from the couch, a blanket wrapped around each of you and ran to the door to open it. You revealed two boys, one of them leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed in front of his chest and his usual dazzling smug smile framing his pearly whites perfectly. A single dimple was carved against his cheek and his eyes squinted slightly as he smiled. His eyes bored into yours for a second too long until you bit your lip and his grin grew even larger. His familiar scent had already engulfed your senses somehow from the moment you opened the door, it was if it traveled towards you even if it wasn’t too strong.

The other boy, both of them with dark black hair, stood behind Jimin, his head on his friend’s shoulder and a wide smile spread across his lips and features. Whenever Hoseok smiled, you couldn’t help but break a smile as well. You admired the way Jia’s eyes lit up as soon as she saw him for a moment and smiled at the two being already so fond of one another.

All of this happened in mere seconds, but it was long enough to keep you fascinated by small details like these. “We were promised cuddles from seven handsome guys, not two and lots of ice cream but I see none of that” You teased them.

“You just called me handsome” Jimin’s smile turned into a smirk.

“I suddenly want no ice cream,” You said, your eyebrow raised at the smug boy standing in front of you so confidently after all that has happened between the two of you.

“Yah, well what are we going to do with all of this now?!” The five boys you loved equally walked in the picture from the hallway where they seemed to be hiding and Jin shot you a teasing frown as him and Namjoon held the grocery bags higher for you and Jia to see how much they have bought. You should have expected this kind of reaction when you asked for ice cream. You’re not one to go around and ask for things, you have always been the kind of person to do everything on your own. Ever since you moved in with Jimin he has been whining that you do too much work around the apartment, so hearing you actually need something was his chance to do something for you.

Your eyes traveled to your brother as he held two grocery bags, looking at you apologetically. You broke a smile at him, knowing he has softened up and has probably made up his mind about what he’s feeling. He still doesn’t know you know what happened, but seeing him standing so close to Jin is a positive image to you.

You then saw Jungkook and Taehyung giving you and Jia the puppy eyes to let them in and then Yoongi, with a smug smile on his lips that only you knew what meant. You smirked back and rolled your eyes at his already provocative state and laughed as soon as Taehyung was the first to step in and take you in for a big hug.

This night is going to be eventful, you thought.

All of the boys came in and soon enough you all gathered around in the living room, the movie you were watching still playing on the screen. “So no crying?” Jimin asked as he sat next to you, looking at the screen to try and understand what movie you were watching.

“No crying” You laughed. “At least not from me. Now Jia on the other hand… She’s been taking it rough” You teased your friend as she hugged Hoseok with a frown on her face.

“Hey, everyone cries watching The Notebook” She defended herself. “You’re the first person I meet that won’t shed a single tear”

“Yah, Mia! That’s a good one, how do you not get emotional?” Jin asked you, fascinated.

“I’ve watched it a hundred times. I only cried the first time. I’m not someone to cry during movies” You shrugged. “It’s not real anyway”

“Have you watched Hatchiko?” Taehyung asked you with wide eyes.

“That is another story. You cannot show me a dog with such a story and expect me to be emotionless!” I said.

“I would believe you are the actual devil if you told us you didn’t cry during that one” Jimin smirked, nudging you on the shoulder with his own.

You rolled your eyes at him and started contemplating with everyone what you should watch. Surprisingly enough, you got mostly everyone to agree to watch a Horror movie. Most of the boys were scared but you loved the thrill and couldn’t wait for their reactions. You put on the new Jigsaw movie which seemed calmer than others to you and selected your ice cream from the variety of flavors that were presented in front of you. You eyed the cherry cheesecake flavor, but you knew you would regret eating all of it at the end. “Who wants to share?”

“I do,” Yoongi said, standing up from his seat and making Taehyung move so that he could sit. So here you were, in-between Yoongi and Jimin, both of them eyeing you.

“I can share too,” Jimin said.

“We can all share then,” You said.

“Fulfilling your fantasy? This is a good start, although he still hasn’t agreed for a threesome” Yoongi whispered at you and you almost choked at your first bite of the ice cream.

“Shut up” You laughed. “Why are you so eager on doing that anyway? Fantasies are called fantasies for a reason”

“But what if this particular fantasy is possible?” Yoongi wiggled his eyebrows at you, keeping his tone low and quiet so as not to be heard. You cautiously stole a glance of Jimin scooping a bit of ice cream with his spoon from the tub you were holding and a small smile tugged at your lips as you saw him eat, all curled up in his blanket.

Your smile dropped down when you turned to answer Yoongi. “Don’t be silly. I don’t get why you’re so down. That’s suspicious”

“Oh shush” He rolled your eyes at you.

“So you said you needed cuddles, ice cream, and a movie and you’re going to ignore that I am giving you all of it to talk to grumpy grandpa?” Jimin nudged your shoulder.

“You asshole” Yoongi laughed at the nickname.

“What? That’s all you are. Okay and a good rapper, producer, and songwriter but doesn’t matter” Jimin said.

You laughed at Jimin’s failure of insulting Yoongi and took a spoonful of ice cream yourself. As you raised your spoon closer to your mouth, Jimin bumped his finger with the spoon, causing it to fall on your nose and leave you with ice cream all over it. “You little-”

“Hey! No cursing in this Christian household. Jungkook, cover your ears you’re a sane baby” Taehyung said from the other side of the couch, causing everyone to chuckle.

“I’m not a baby!” Jungkook whined.

“And definitely not sane” Hoseok teased him with a smug smile.

Jungkook rolled his eyes at his friend and you decided to join the fun. “Oh, I forgot. You’re a man-child. Guys, he’s a man-child, don’t disrespect him like that!”

“Next practice, you’re going down” Jungkook threatened you and you stuck your tongue out to him.

You stood up from the couch and looked around before you did so. “Anybody wants anything to drink? I’m going to the kitchen to clean up”

“I’ll take it on my own” Yoongi stood up from the couch and gave you an ‘innocent’ lazy smile, but you knew something was coming.

“Can I have some water?” Jin asked you.

“On it Seokjinssi” You smiled at him and walked inside the kitchen, Yoongi following you.

You took a paper towel, dampening it in order to clean up the ice cream from your nose and opened the cabinet to get a glass for Jin. You opened the fridge and as soon as you closed it, you found Yoongi behind it, making you flinch. “What?”

“So,” Yoongi said. “I’m not going to sugarcoat anything and we don’t have much time before they- meaning Jimin and Namjoon- get suspicious so I’m going to cut straight to the chase. Kiss. Jimin. What’s up with that?”

You let out a groan and placed the glass of water on the kitchen counter in frustration. “There’s nothing to say about it, I told you. Why does it matter anyway?”

“Because we can’t be doing what we’re going to do if you feel something towards Jimin, Mia. That would be selfish of me, you know that” He said. “The last thing I want is to get into a fight with two of my best friends”

“Are you insane? A kiss cannot make me fall for someone. Kisses can be superficial. I was drunk and felt as if that would make me think of Jackson less, that’s all” You said. In all honesty, you didn’t know how to feel about the kiss. It was such an impulsive action that it even surprised you when you did it. What nobody can know though is that you weren’t actually drunk and neither was Jimin. It was a lie both of you had kept so as to ignore what happened and justify it as an action without meaning.

“I never said a kiss could do so. But it’s just all the flirting combined. If you ever stepped in my shoes and took a look at you and Jimin from my eyes or anyone else’s eyes, you would see that there is more to this love-hate relationship you have. Are you sure there is nothing else between you? You have to think about it before we do anything” He said, his gaze steady on yours.

“Yoongi” You sighed. “Why should I feel anything? I agreed to have a different relationship with you which does not require other emotions, so why would the kiss change my feelings? Shouldn’t sex change them too then?”

“Jimin is different,” He said.

“Different how?”

“He caught your eye from the first time you met. Knowing you, he made an impression that stayed and you’re just trying to ignore it” He said, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

He was damn right but you didn’t have to let him know. You took the glass of water and looked up at him. “We’ll all be fine” You stepped to the side and walked back out of the kitchen, giving Jin his glass of water. Before you could sit back down on the couch on your own, an arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you down, collapsing on another body as it held you close. “Your cuddle buddy has been waiting way too much and the ice cream is melting,” He said, his lips next to your ear, his breath fanning your skin.

“My cuddle buddy? I didn’t agree to any of that” You said, giggling.

“You asked for cuddles, I’m giving you cuddles,” He said.

“Maybe I meant I needed Tae cuddles or Jungkook cuddles!” You protested. Jungkook wiggled his eyebrows at you and you rolled your eyes. “Nevermind, no Jungkook, ever,” You said.

“Just shut it and be my cuddle buddy,” He said, resting his head on your shoulder. You could feel his breathing and you were so aware of how close his lips were to your neck, that for a single second you wanted him to take the chance and do it. You just stayed there, cuddling with no more protests, enjoying both Jimin’s and Yoongi’s warmth as soon as he came back from the kitchen.

Surprisingly enough, the seven boys and Jia weren’t that scared of the film and even started arguing which horror movie to see next. Apparently, they felt brave enough to see anything, but you knew they would be screaming only to the trailers of the movies they recommended to one another. Your eyes caught Namjoon as he stood up and walked out to the balcony, taking a seat on a chair and you decided to grab your chance and talk to him.

You stood up from the couch but Jimin was quick enough to grab your wrist and stop you. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back. I need a moment with Joonie” You said.

He nodded, a small understanding smile on his lips as he let go of your wrist gently. You cautiously passed everyone arguing over which movie to watch next and walked out in the balcony, leaving the door slightly open. You sat down to the empty chair on the other side of the circular table you and Jimin had bought to sit outside on days like these. Namjoon diverted his stare from the city to you and gave you a small smile. “Hey,” You said gently.

“Hi”

“Everything okay?” You asked, keeping your tone gentle. You don’t want to get into a fight with your brother over something so simple. To you, this is nothing to look negatively at.

“Just needed some fresh air,” He said. “I already know where this is going to go, so I’m trying to prepare myself”

“Jin?” You asked him, sure that the two of them have spoken at least about the fact that you know his secret- their secret.

“Jin” He nodded with a sigh. “Every answer lately seems to be Jin”

“I’ll take that as something good, then?” You asked, trying to ease the subject in.

“I don’t know? I’ve never been through this Mia Bear. It’s usually you who goes through love trouble, not me” He said with a teasing smile that immediately transferred to your face as well, seeing that he is keeping the atmosphere light.

“Hey, maybe it was about time you fell in love. It can’t always be me that realizes these stupid feelings” You teased him.

“I never said I fell in love though, we just kissed,” He said.

“Three times” You pointed out.

“I- One of them was a joke!” He defended himself.

“If you didn’t like it, you wouldn’t have let it happen again. And from what Jin told me, you were the one to kiss him last” You said, trying to state each fact you knew by now.

“I- Is this right though, Mia? For fuck’s sake, Jin is one of my best friends and my bandmate. I’m not even- I’ve never thought this way. I never thought I would feel like this and I don’t know how to do it. When you came out to me as pansexual, you were so calm about it and I don’t get how you didn’t get one bit nervous” He said.

“Because I had come to terms with myself and after years it was about time I confessed who I really am. I didn’t care what others would think because it is what made me happy. I didn’t want to lie to myself anymore and keep secrets from the people I love, Joon. Keeping secrets can be toxic, especially secrets like these. You can’t hide that you are attracted to the same gender too forever. What if you find somebody you love? What are you supposed to do then if you’re not out? You just need to come to terms with yourself. It was hard, but I knew you would accept me and so we will” You told him, reaching out to take his hands.

“What will everybody else say? What will I do then?” He asked.

“Who, Joonie? You and I both know our parents and our friends wants us to be happy no matter who we love. Your managers are the coolest people on earth, you and Jin won’t be the only homosexual people in the industry. What are you most afraid of? The fans?” You asked him, furrowing your eyebrows in confusion as you tried to understand him.

“What if I disappoint them? I’m finally finding myself, I don’t want to disappoint anyone and lose their trust” He shook his head and let out a shaky breath.

“Your fans will be the number one supporter, trust me. Why would they be disappointed if you are happy with how your life is? They love you, all of you and if anybody comes for you I will fight them myself” You said, smiling gently.

“You really are the best at advice, aren’t you? I’m sorry for being so distant and cold. I should have told you the moment I felt like this. I shouldn’t have doubted you, I was scared you wouldn’t talk to me because of how much of an asshole I have been to you” He said.

“Are you kidding me? You have helped me so much, you’re my brother. I couldn’t stay and just watch you in frustration. I’m glad Jin told me” You said.

“Me too” He nodded.

“So… Do you like Jin then? Because I think we all know he does” You said.

“I- Yeah… I do like him” He said, with an adorable smile plastered on his lips.

“Thank god, finally! Now it’s my turn to speak, Mia your time is over” Your eyes darted towards Jin’s tall figure standing next to the open glass door.

You smiled widely and stood up from your chair. “My job here is done”

“Everybody apart from Jia and Hoseok, is screaming for your help. We put the newest Purge movie on and this is my way out” He said.

“Sounds good to me” You laughed. “Have fun you two” You winked at Joon as he fidgeted with his fingers.

You walked inside, the four boys calling your name and you laughed as you took your seat back down next to Jimin and Yoongi. The both of them hugged you tight as soon as you did so and you laughed. You concentrated on watching the movie but it was too funny how everyone got scared.

Halfway through the movie, as you laughed at Jungkook’s scream, he stopped and looked outside. “You know what’s scarier though?”

“What?” Jia chuckled.

“Jin and Namjoon sucking their faces off, yikes that’s graphic” He pointed out of the window

You smiled widely and you all started cheering from inside, whistling at them until Jin had to flip everyone off with his middle finger.

Somehow things were starting to fall into place. Were they? Or were they just getting more complicated?

AU: I hope this was revealing enough for y’all lol.

Masterlist

Silience Masterlist

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[whentommymetalfie]

The more we find

Edit: Seen above, I had to insert a picture of the summary and so on because Tumblr is being the worst. Sorry about that! The story itself is not blurry. 

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14142465

Tommy claims he doesn’t blush.

That time in his office, when he came to Alfie in an absolute rage only to minutes later throw himself in his arms. That first time they kissed. I don’t get flustered. And I don’t blush. That’s what he said, wasn’t it?

Alfie doesn’t believe Tommy for a second. Because Tommy has no idea what he’s gotten himself into, has he? And he seems like the type who’d blush in the bedroom: so fucking uptight. Something about that pristine exterior, those high collared shirts that are always buttoned the entire way… how he holds himself –that straight posture… yeah, Alfie recons it’ll shake him up a bit, if he says something along the lines of ‘I’d like to bend you over this desk and fuck you until you can’t walk straight for a week-“

He figures that when he starts running his mouth, Tommy will blush like a fucking virgin on their wedding night. He looks forward to that, admittedly. Because some pink would look pretty on those sharply cut cheeks. And maybe Tommy will avert his eyes, and those long eyelashes will flutter a bit … Right, so Alfie may be a little smitten, what of it?

He doesn’t say anything too bad to begin with, because due to reasons yet to be figured out, he finds himself not wanting to scare Tommy off. So he gives it a few weeks, spends his energy on more important things. Like keeping Tommy from wandering off in the middle of the night, or make sure his brain doesn’t implode from overthinking every single little thing. Keep him from drowning in that self-loathing, that he’d sooner shoot himself in the knee than admit suffering from.

Tommy is so riddled with issues that it makes Alfie appear sane in comparison.

Alfie strangely enough finds himself wanting to make it better.

So he spends most of his energy just trying to reassure Tommy that he’s not about to fuck off. Figure out a few ways to soothe some of those demons constantly trying to claw themselves out of his chest. And in the bedroom, he just wants to make sure it’s good for him. God knows what Tommy’s been through to make him this way, Alfie hasn’t figured that part out yet. But he can’t risk anything: Tommy needs someone considerate and perceptive in bed that much is clear. Alfie tries to be all that and more. And it turns out, that the bedroom is one of the few places where Tommy doesn’t mind talking.

When it comes to fucking, Tommy is utterly shameless. And he’ll plead and order Alfie to have him all sorts of different ways, without missing a beat. Any filthy thing Alfie says is just met by a quirked eyebrow or a slight smile, as if Tommy is challenging him to prove it. Or spurs him on; encourages him to moan just a little louder, or beg Alfie to take him harder…

Alfie fucking loves it.

Though it leaves him wondering: What exactly is he supposed to do to throw Tommy off, just a bit? He's yet to be successful at this. But Alfie isn’t one to back down from a challenge.

They’re tangled up in bed and everything is perfect in that surreal, dreamlike way only a bedroom filled with warm morning light can be. Tommy's eyes are all soft, his hair is dishevelled, and Alfie gets to hold him close as he basks in the afterglow of some absolutely amazing sex.

And they say you can’t have everything…

He’s talking about nothing in particular, letting his mouth run as usual. Because Tommy likes it. Seems to ground him a bit. Just as being held soothes those intrusive thoughts.

Suddenly, Tommy laughs at something he’s said, and Alfie stops rambling to look at him. It’s probably not quite the first time he’s heard him laugh. But Tommy’s laugh is often this quiet little outlet of breath more than anything. And every time, he chokes it back just as quickly. Alfie always relishes it none the less, because for just a second, it makes him look childishly happy.

And this time, it’s an actual laugh. The kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the corner, and his teeth show in a wide smile that lights up the entire room.

“Now that’s a beautiful sound,” Alfie says without thinking. It’s just an immediate reaction.

Tommy stops laughing and blinks. “What?”He honest to God looks surprised.

“Fuck, you oblivious bloody person, the laugh.” Now it’s Alfie’s turn to chuckle. “Never heard it like that before.”

“You’re so full of it,” Tommy scoffs and looks away, without finding an actual spot to focus his attention on.

And a deep shade of pink tints those pale cheeks. Finally, he’s got it figured out. Alfie is very pleased indeed.

“But would you look at that-” he grabs Tommy’s jaw and admires his handiwork with a smirk “Of all the filthy things I’ve said to you, who would’ve thought an innocent little compliment would do the trick?”

“Fuck off-“ Tommy scowls and grabs his arm, only to be pinned completely as Alfie rolls on top of him and presses both his wrists down onto the mattress. Tommy glares up at him without averting his eyes, doing his very best to assert non-existent dominance in the situation. His cheeks are still red.

“You have a beautiful smile, too, you know that?” Alfie’s toothy grin softens to an affectionate smile, as he leans forward until the tip of his nose touches Tommy’s. “See, your eyes light up. And you get these little dimples in your cheeks, right here-“ he places a light kiss on the mentioned spot.

For once, Tommy loses at his own game and lowers his eyes, lips tightening as he quite clearly bites back a smile. He’s quite unsuccessful, and it makes for just as beautiful a sight as Alfie knew it would.

Tommy looks vulnerable like this, eyes downcast and lips forming a soft smile. It does strange things to Alfie. Fills him with this viciously protective instinct. And it’s sort of worrying, because feelings like that usually leads to trouble. Does all kinds of strange things to the head…

“You know that’s why I’m always talking your ear off, right?” He whispers and rests his forehead against Tommy’s. “Because sometimes, I manage to say something that makes you smile.”

“You’re such a fucking sap,” Tommy declares, but he’s still smiling.

It’s a beautiful thing indeed.

Alfie only wishes Tommy would do it a bit more often. He decides that from now on, that will be the number one priority.

Over the following months, Alfie discovers that Tommy does in fact blush quite easily. Not when Alfie makes dirty jokes or innuendoes. Not even in public, when he leans in and whispers in his ear just how hard he’s going to fuck him once they get home… All of that is just met by that smirk. But longwinded compliments, things that no-one else dares pointing out about the so intimidating Thomas Shelby, that does the trick. Tommy retaliates, stating it’s because he’s pale. It’s got nothing to do with anything else. Well, he can tell himself that all he likes. And Alfie doesn’t really care why he blushes, he just enjoys every instance of it.

They’re walking along the Thames, and the sun is shining from a sky almost free of clouds. The air is filled with that mood only spring can bring after a seemingly endless winter, this sudden optimism that just surges through the city.

It’s nice, being out during daylight, Alfie muses. Hasn’t been much of that these past few weeks; either they’ve been cooped up in some office until late afternoon, or the sky has been covered by thick, grey clouds. But this day has brought something so unusual as sunlight, so when lunchtime rolled around, Alfie firmly stated that a walk was in order, ignored Tommy’s protests and ushered him out the door.

“Not a too bad idea, this, eh?” Alfie nudges Tommy’s ribs with an elbow. “Just look at that, actual sunlight. But take that thing off, bet it’ll do those pale cheeks some good.”

Alfie snags Tommy’s cap and shoves it into the pocket of his coat.

“You’re on thin ice, Solomons,” Tommy says without much conviction and turns his face toward the sun in an instinctive response to the warm light. His mouth twitches too, another one of those reactions ingrained in all humans.

Those mid-day walks become a regular thing the following days, when the sun continues to shine an unordinary amount of light over the city. And one morning when they’re sitting by the kitchen table, Alfie notices the freckles on Tommy’s cheeks. He’s looking up from the newspaper, watching him over the edge of his glasses when the little dots sprinkled over Tommy’s cheekbones and nose catches his attention. Tommy is busy reading something from the previous day’s paper.

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get more beautiful,” Alife says, shaking his head. “Fucking hell. I’ll have to start taking little breaks from looking at you, won’t I? Or I’ll never get any work done ever again. Maybe I’ll put up some sort of wall around you at the office-”

Tommy glances up. “What are you on about?”

“I didn’t know you freckled.” Alfie smirks. “Should’ve figured though, what with your fair complexion. It’s bloody precious.”

As always when he’s lacking a witty response, Tommy is silent and focuses his attention elsewhere, namely back on the article.

“People will start just dropping dead at the sight of you,” Alfie goes on. “Won’t even have to carry around those razor blades.”

Grumbling something in Romani, Tommy attempts to hide behind the newspaper, but Alfie folds it down to reveal two quite red, freckled cheeks and a scowl.

“You’re just saying shit like that because you like watching me suffer,” Tommy states.

“I’m deeply offended,” Alfie gasps with feigned indignation. “That you would accuse me of such manipulative tactics.”

He reaches over the table and grasps Tommy’s hand, kissing the palm lightly. Tommy’s expression softens. “I always find something new to marvel at with you, love.” Alfie mutters against his skin. “And then I’ve got to point it out, don’t I?” He runs his thumb over his knuckles. “That you blush a little is just an added bonus.”

Tommy lets out a defeated sigh, but grants him a slight smile.

And when Alfie lets go of his hand and goes back to the paper, it only takes a few minutes before it finds his again, reaching across the table to absentmindedly stroke his knuckles.

Right then, Alfie thinks about just how much things have changed for the better over the past months. Who would’ve thought then that Tommy, who couldn’t even bear to share a bed an entire night, would casually take his hand at the breakfast table?

He’s a lucky man, alright.

It’s a strange feeling, realising that someone else’s home has also become yours. Mostly hits you when you go inside without knocking first, and no one attempts to shoot you in the face for it.

Alfie opens the door to the Shelby household without giving it a second thought. And it’s not until he’s stepped inside that he realises it.

He finds Tommy in the kitchen with Polly, engaged in a conversation of unspecified nature.

“If it isn’t the light of my life, just sitting there by an ordinary kitchen table!” Alfie exclaims when he enters the room. Tommy’s entire face lights up, as if they haven't spent a week apart, but an whole year... and it’s such a thing, innit? To get that reaction. Alfie’s chest fills with warmth. He continues- “My reason for getting out of bed in the morning, the man of my dreams, whose beauty is beyond compare-“

“Will you ever just calm the fuck down?” Tommy shakes his head, smile unwavering and gets out of the chair.

Two long strides, and Alfie has his arms wrapped around his waist and is kissing him with almost feverish intensity. He lifts him off his feet, and this is one of those rare occasions when Tommy doesn’t demand to be let back down. Instead he wraps his arms tightly around Alfie's neck as he kisses him back.

It’s just been one week. But it feels like a fucking eternity.

Instead of thinking about how this is going to be what finally does him in, Alfie revels in the feeling of having Tommy in his arms again. Where he's supposed to be.

It’s such a cliché, but for a moment, it’s like the rest of the world just fades away. And all that exists is Tommy’s soft lips against his, the hands that tangle into his hair, the warm breath against his skin-

Someone clears their throat quite loudly and the sound breaks him out of the blissful haze. Tommy pulls away and blinks as if he’s just woken up, and Alfie is suddenly very aware of his surroundings again.

Polly is giving them a look over the edge of her teacup.

“Oh, no worries Solomons, pay no attention to me. Just keep trying to devour my nephew in my kitchen,” she says, not without amusement. It probably has something to do with how Tommy looks.

Tommy has never, to Alfie’s recollection, blushed when he’s kissed him in front of any of his siblings. With the possible exception of Finn, if the kiss happens to be coupled with some groping.

But now it very much looks like he wants to sink through the floor.

“My deepest apologies Miss. Gray, where are my manners…” Alfie reaches over the table, takes Polly’s hand and kisses it in a theatrical gesture. “How is the Shelby family's matriarch on this beautiful day?”

“Just go upstairs you two,” Polly shakes her head, but a smile crosses her lips. “You’ll give me cavities.”

Tommy opens his mouth to protest, but Alfie is already dragging him towards the door.

“Better do as told, love. Terrible dental care in this fucking town, I’m sure.”

“Remember to lock the door,” Polly calls out after them. "And that the walls are thin. I'd like to finish my tea in peace."

One of all the things Alfie enjoys about waking up together with Tommy is getting to see him dress in the morning. Something about the way his hands look, when fastening all those normally so obnoxious buttons... Or tugs at the shirtsleeves to make them sit right under the jacket-

He likes watching Tommy get dressed almost as much as he likes undressing him.

Alright, maybe that’s not entirely true. But it’s pretty high up on the list.

Tommy is standing by the mirror over the wash basin, adjusting the collar of his shirt. Deciding that he’s done with his own clothing, Alfie comes up behind him and runs his fingertips up along his ribs. It’s a gesture he’s done a million times, but maybe the touch is a bit different today, or in just a slightly different spot, because Tommy suddenly flinches. A thought crosses Alfie’s mind.

“Are you ticklish?”

Tommy must notice the grin on his face, because a sudden look of dread comes over his face for just a moment.

“No,” he then says firmly.

Without giving him any sort of warning, Alfie grabs him by the waist and pushes him down onto the bed, straddling his thighs and pinning his wrists against the mattress. The movement is swift and well-rehearsed, and Tommy doesn’t even bother struggling, he just stares murderously at him.

“Really? So it’s fine if I do this?” Alfie experimentally pokes him in the ribs, causing him to twitch.

“It’s fine,” Tommy states, but he’s very soon about to regret those words. Because Alfie makes use of all his fingers, and very soon, he’s got Tommy shrieking and pushing desperately against his hands to no avail.

“Alfie, I’ll fucking kill you-“

“Maybe if you beg a little, I’ll stop."

“Stop it, for fucks sake-“ Tommy is gasping for breath, squirming and kicking in a futile effort to get away. “Alfie, stop- I swear I’ll shoot you- Stop!“

“Oh you can do better than that,” Alfie digs his fingers into Tommy’s sides and tickles him until he’s on the verge of tears and making sounds that are closer to cries than actual laughter. Writhing like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a fox, he grasps Alfie’s arms and tries to pry them away. Alfie rarely takes full advantage of the fact that he can physically overpower Tommy, but now he does, and refuses to relent.

“Please, please stop-“ Tommy pleads, finally giving up as he’s out of both breath and strength to fight back. “Alfie, please-“

“Solomons! What’re you doing to my brother?” Someone bangs violently on the door. “What’s going on in there? Tommy, you alright?”

It’s Arthur, of course. Who else?

“Fuck off, will you,” Alfie barks, and sits back on Tommy’s thighs. Coughing as the air gets caught in his throat with each harsh breath, Tommy attempts to gather himself.

“It’s fine, Arthur,” he croaks between gasps, sounding extremely unconvincing.

“Solomons, open this door or I swear I’ll break it down and smash it over your fucking head!”

Letting out a very displeased grunt, Alfie goes to open the door before Arthur actually does attempt to kick it down.

Arthur is fuming.

“Good morning Arthur, what a lovely fucking surprise,” Alfie says amiably. “I thought we were past this whole thing by now. But apparently not.”

“Well, it sounds like there’s a murder happening in here!” Arthur snaps and looks over his shoulder at Tommy, who’s sat on the bed trying to straighten his appearance a bit by smoothing his hair back. It only makes matters worse, and it stands on all ends.

“How thick do you think I am, eh?” Alfie retorts. “Why would I kill Tommy in your fucking house? Bloody hell, I can’t even get a moment of peace to fuck him. Let alone commit murder. I’d do it back in London, obviously…”

Arthur ignores his little rant. “You okay, Tommy?”

“Sure-“ Tommy rubs an eye with the back of his hand in an attempt to clear it from tears.

“He’s just a bit ticklish, that’s the whole thing,” Alfie declares.

There is a moment of silence.

“Ticklish?” Arthur looks between them, eyebrows raised.

Alfie hums and Tommy just stares very firmly at the floor to avoid his older brother’s eyes.

“Your face is all red.” Arthur eventually tells him gruffly, before stomping off, muttering something about ‘bloody children, the pair of them, fucking hell…’

Alfie turns back to look at Tommy, smiling brightly again. How can he not, when Tommy is sitting there looking so utterly adorable?

“I will get revenge for this,” Tommy gets up and starts to readjust his dishevelled clothing. “Mark my words.”

“How about I make it up to you instead, hmm? Tonight in bed.” Alfie tugs him closer by the lapels of his jacket and places a kiss on his warm cheek. “I’ll do some of those other things with my fingers... Make you beg for entirely different reasons.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Tommy braces his hands on his chest. “But any more of this behaviour and you can look forward to night on the couch.”

It’s an empty threat, and they both know it.

It’s another one of those blessed mornings in bed, when the world is quiet and the sun shines in through the curtains.

Tommy is curled up mostly on top of him, arms resting on his chest, cushioning his head and legs tangled with Alfie’s. He props his chin on his hands and looks thoughtfully at Alfie, who eventually stops talking.

“Something on your mind, love?” he runs his hand thorough his sleep mussed hair.

“You have beautiful eyes,” Tommy says, fingers tangling into his beard like they so often do. “Was just thinking about that.”

Alfie, for once, doesn’t know what to say. It’s unlike Tommy to be so straightforward with things like this.

“I think you’ve got me confused with yourself,” he finally says and much to his annoyance feels heat creep up his neck. “See, your eyes- I’m pretty sure entire wars could be fought over them. Have you heard that story about Helen of Troy? Something like that-“

“Don’t make this about me,” Tommy laughs and looks very pleased. “You have beautiful eyes. And a beautiful face. Live with it.”

Alfie feels that he is definitely quite red in the face now, and attempts to derail the conversation.

“Did you know that the Trojans, yeah? They built a wooden horse. A fucking wooden horse. See, because they had this plan-“

Tommy kisses him and Alfie has to stop talking. For once.

[thisisamadhouse]

OQ Prompt Party Sunday

For the final day of @oqpromptparty here is my 7th contribution. This one is the first part of my second chapter for Join us in the shadows my DOQ Mafia AU. Hopefully I can post the whole thing later today or tomorrow. This is a response to prompt #56. One is a killer/Criminal the other one is trying to catch him/her.

Regina Mills has always been a light sleeper. She guesses it comes from her upbringing, it wasn’t rare to have strange visitors showing up at all hours of the night at the Mills Manor, and, more often than not, Regina’s eyes would pop open and she would strain her ears to catch snippets of conversations between her parents and their latest guest.

So when either of her lovers so much as shifts, she feels it and her peaceful slumber becomes a distant memory. Out of the two, it usually is Robin, Mal only needs some body heat to fall into a 7 to 8-hours coma.

He stirs some more, and she feels the chest she uses as a pillow expand as he sighs.

“You’re thinking again,” she whispers, mindful of the still blissfully unaware blonde on his other side.

His breath catches as he realizes she is awake, and despite her closed eyes, Regina can clearly picture him wincing in apology.

“I’m sorry, my mind just won’t shut down tonight,” he murmurs, drawing random patterns along her satin covered side with the tips of his fingers, making her shiver pleasantly.

“What is it?” She asks, tilting her head back slightly, and finally opening her eyes to study him.

“Sometimes I wonder how I ended up being so lucky, and I’m afraid to wake up one day and find out it was all a dream,” he replies, and he looks so positively stricken by the mere idea that the snort she was about to let out at his cheesy words dies down in her throat.

“What on Earth made you think about this at two a.m?” She wonders, bewildered, bringing her hand from its resting place above his heart to cup his jaw and turn his head towards her.

“I think about it most nights to be quite honest,” he admits, smiling wistfully at her, and she is taken aback.

“You never said anything,” she breathes out, her thumb gently stroking his cheek, enjoying the way his stubble grazes her skin as he nuzzles into her touch. He normally prefers to be clean-shaven, but sometimes they are able to convince him to indulge them.

“I was afraid to jinx it. After all why would two bold, stunning women like you keep a lowly thief like me around?” He looks down at himself with a vague gesture of his hand, his face twisting in a grimace. “Especially given how I found myself involved with you.”

He believes it, Regina thinks, startled, he really believes he is not good enough.

“Probably because, most days, you’re the one person able to keep us sane. I don’t know if you realized it but, before you came along, our moral compass had been pretty much thrown out the window,” she tells him lightly, hoping that some humour will help get him out of this funk, though the events she refers to, when he started working for them, are anything but humorous.

She knows he can’t have forgotten the smell of burned flesh and the dying screams as he had stood by after they had doused Sydney with gasoline, her former closest associate who had betrayed them when he couldn’t cope with the fact that Mal had supplanted him by Regina’s side. Unable to endure his pathetic excuses, Regina had thrown a lighted match in the barrel herself and walked away, never looking back.

Two birds with one stone, they call it: they had sent a message reminding everyone what was the price to pay for talking too much, while testing their newest recruit. Robin had passed with flying colors, his composure impressing them, and he had waited until they were in private to wonder if there may be less drastic ways to proceed in the future. The only thing that had stopped them from lashing out was the fact that there wasn’t any trace of judgement in his voice, just genuine curiosity.

“Of course, Mal would manage to bring home the only noble thief out there,” Regina chuckles softly, shaking her head with a fond expression.

“I don’t know about noble, but I’m certainly glad she did,” he counters, pressing his lips against Regina’s forehead, his gaze suddenly far away as he remembers.

A dear friend, the brother he never really had, begging for help to settle a huge debt, a series of burglaries and larcenies in an otherwise trouble-free, extremely wealthy community, an unrelenting sheriff, and Robin had found himself locked up. He had pleaded guilty, and had received a rather mild sentence, since he had no priors and had kept nothing for himself.

His wife, Marian, had never forgiven him the shame he had brought on his family though. She had divorced him a few months into his four-years sentence, deemed him unfit to be in their son’s life, fought for sole custody with no visitations rights, and won. By the time Robin got out, she had been long gone, taking not just Roland with her, his precious boy who would never know him, but also Keith Nottingham, the Sheriff who had arrested Robin.

She had packed his stuff in his car and into a garage, the key and address to which Robin got from his lawyer. Going through what was left of his possessions, Robin found an old map, closed his eyes and randomly pointed at a spot: the coast of Maine. With no clue as to where he could find his son, a fresh start where no one knew him seemed like the best option.

So, in his beat-up car, with a few clothes and whatever mementos he couldn’t stand to sell, he slowly made his way from Chicago to the East Coast, trying to enjoy his newfound freedom, finding little jobs here and there to pay for food, motel rooms and gaz. When he finally arrived in Storybrooke, he found a quaint little town, where everyone knew everyone, but asked few questions. He helped out at the local diner, Granny’s, in exchange for a room at the adjacent Bed & Breakfast, the no-nonsense, eponymous owner having a soft spot for his dimples.

He thought that he could finally breathe, but luck had not been on his side for a long time now, and he found the local sheriff waiting for him in this room one morning after breakfast. Before he could ask how the man had entered, he let him know in no uncertain terms that he knew all him.

“You see I have been appointed here to put an end to the criminal activities plaguing the county and which seems to originate from this town,” Sheriff Graham revealed, and Robin couldn’t help his raised eyebrows and the way he looked around the tranquil B&B.

“Don’t let appearances fool you, Mr Locksley. There is evil rooted deep in Storybrooke, and I want to purge it, but I can’t do it alone, believe me I tried. You are just the kind of person I need for the job,” the man explained, and Robin appraised him silently for long moments before wondering:

“If you are asking someone like me for help, I guess that this is dangerous, what could possibly motivate me?”

Graham obviously expected the question, though he huffed and clenched his teeth at the idea that Robin would not just jump at the opportunity to help the Police.

“As I said, I know all there is to know about you, if you assist me, I could help you find your son,” he bargained, and Robin immediately straightened up.

“You know where Roland is?”

“It would be easy for me to find out.”

Robin looked at the man intently, looking for any sign of deception, and the Sheriff held his gaze, unflinching.

“Alright, I will do it,” Robin finally acquiesced.

“Perfect, I don’t want to share many details just yet, I only have strong suspicions at this point, could never prove anything, so I think it’s better to work our way up. One thing I do know is that the local cab company seems to be at the center of it all, it would be a good start to find yourself a job there. I will send you a burner phone to contact me, the less we are seen together, the better.”

Robin sent an application, and not long after John, the owner of the cab company, offered him a job.

Given the trust the man was placing in him, Robin felt obligated to reveal some of his history, but John only laughed, and that probably should have worried him more that it did. The man said that he believed in second chances, and Robin was only too happy to be given a chance. He hoped that it would bring him closer to getting help to find Roland.

The first few weeks, it was pretty simple, transporting people coming and going to the airport mostly, a few packages to fetch or drop, always with the strict instruction to not open. They didn’t need bother, Robin had learned in prison how aggressive people could become if you touched their stuff, and he knew better. The Sheriff was pretty interested in the drop-offs, and he asked details about the people he transported. Robin had taken the habit to stash a notebook in his glove box to keep track of all those informations.

He got used to some kind of routine, until one morning when John gave him a special assignment: to pick up a special customer from the airport. She had had to let go of her usual driver, and John was hoping she would use their services from then on.

He gave Robin a sign with the name “Mal Drachen” written on it, and sent him on his way. Robin wasn’t sure what to expect, since he had no idea who to look for, but the tall, blonde woman in a stylish grey pantsuit and matching fedora, meaning business, certainly wasn’t it. She headed straight towards him, looked him up and down, eyes lingering long enough in some places to have him start to feel insecure and wanting to fidget, only to conclude with a “you’ll do”, and preceded him towards the car, her suitcase rolling behind her, leaving him barely a few seconds to recover from his shock before he had to follow.

By the time he had loaded her luggage in the trunk and started the car, she was already on the phone, and Robin understood very quickly that she was no ordinary client, and exactly why John had chosen him specifically. He made his way towards Storybrooke, knowing better than to disturb her to ask for the address, it could wait.

“I’m on my way home, I just got your message, what happened?” He heard her say, keeping his eyes firmly on the road. A pause as she listened intently to her interlocutor’s reply, and then: “He did what?” Her voice became low and deadly cold, it sent an unpleasant shiver running along Robin’s spine.

“This can’t go on, you tried to let him down gently, and it’s obviously not working. He needs to be dealt with… permanently, and the sooner, the better,” she continued, and Robin forced himself not to react. There was only so many ways to interpret this conversation, and he wasn’t sure that he liked where this was going. Could it be that easy? Could he have found an actual lead so quickly?

“Of course, I’m right,” she said, after another pause. “I’ll be there soon, we’ll determine the best course of action then,” and she hung up.

A silence, and then: “I must admit that I’m rather impressed with your self-control. Usually, by this point, after such a conversation, people tend to sweat and look around for the best way to flee,” she remarked, and he looked in the rear-view mirror and caught her eyes for a second before focusing back on the road.

“Well,” he shrugged. “I make it a point to respect my client’s privacy, and I didn’t hear anything that could give me reasons to worry about my safety. Two very good incentives to keep driving,” he looked up again, and saw her smirk.

“I can see why Sheriff Graham was so eager to have you on his side, Mr Locksley,” that made Robin’s blood run cold. “I hope that we can make a competitive offer for your services,” she continued, and the vice like sensation around his heart relaxed slightly.

“How do you know…” He started, before she cut him off.

“You will realise that we know everything that happens in Storybrooke, we are well established, and people around here trust us more than they do some Sheriff thinking they are God’s gift sent to save us all, until their bosses understand that they are no better than the one before and replace them,” she told him, and well he could see her point, he had found Graham to be more than a little arrogant since their first meeting.

“What do you want from me?” He asked.

“Only that you listen to what we have to say, give us a chance to present you with some options,” she replied, and Robin gulped.

“Options?”

“Let’s wait until we are in a more comfortable setting. 108 Mifflin Street will do nicely, I trust you can find it.”

He knew the address, had passed by it several times since his arrival.

The rest of the drive was quiet, her passenger was relaxed in the backseat, while he tightened his grip on the wheel until his knuckles turned white with each mile that brought them closer to their destination.

He took a deep breath after parking the car in front of the rather impressive mansion, and exited from it to open the back door for his client. He gave her the suitcase and followed her inside.

He was surprised to find a small crowd milling about, going from one room to another, some carrying packages, others on their phones or computers, exchanging papers or a few words, in what had looked like a well practiced dance.

Each of them stopped what they were doing when they saw Mal, saluting her as she led Robin towards the back of the house. She knocked once on the door, and entered without waiting for a reply. She closed the door of what Robin quickly realised was a large study and walked to the imposing wooden desk behind which another woman had been working.

She straightened up at their entrance, and Robin’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. Mal Drachen had certainly been a vision, but this woman… she was truly delectable. It was the first time in years that he had such a reaction to a woman.

“Robin Locksley...” Mal introduced. “...meet Regina Mills.”

TBC...

[applrcorn]

edr: Mob Psycho 100

tl;dr: Highly enjoyable anime, would definitely recommend this to new anime viewers. Genuinely love it.

For the last couple of weeks, I spent my time watching Mob Psycho 100 on Netflix (side note: it’s crazy how Netflix has been acquiring the rights to air so many anime series. They obviously have the anime market in their sights, and I can’t really complain because that means I get to enjoy the perks of downloading content on my phone & watch it whenever I feel like it; plus the user interface is so convenient). So it went like this: I was watching about an episode per day, every other day or so - then yesterday night, I decided to binge watch the rest of the series because I was simply enjoying it too much and that’s how I consume most of the anime I watch. Nevertheless, this is really an anime I would revisit, perhaps because I know that there is still so much enjoyment and appreciation I can squeeze out of a second viewing.

In this review, I will be explaining a bit about the features of the anime that I really enjoyed, but the bulk of the rest would be making comparisons to other anime - such as One Punch Man, and briefly Devilman Crybaby. Mainly, because the former is written by the same author, and the latter, because I want to draw comparisons between two vastly different styles of anime to illustrate how MP100 is really easily digestible & accessible to people who are new in anime.

// spoilers ahead, as usual //

What I loved about MP100

Mainly, the characters themselves, who are extremely endearing and you really do feel for them as you progress through the story. Throughout the course of the anime, I really get the impression that each of the main characters have their own complexes, struggles and insecurities. This is actually quite a big factor in this anime, that is: it explores the inadequacies of the individual, rather than constantly linger on the strengths and accomplishments of the powerful. Of course, I would not say that the anime delves deep into the respective psyches of each and every character, but as the viewer you are given just enough information about the inner workings of each character than you feel more invested in their story and their world.

From Mob himself, which is a simple-minded, down to earth kid with a gentle personality - and yet, when he gets serious or when the lives of his loved ones are threatened, he is a certified bad ass. Or his ‘Master’, the con-man Reigen that is equal parts charming and hilarious and surprisingly provides a good role-model for Mob is some ways. Or even the side characters, like the muscle-building club which quickly take Mob under their wing and consider him their little fledgling baby whom they fiercely protect. The characters are all extremely likeable, and this really played a large part in the whole viewing experience.

Speaking of the viewing experience, MP100 is really an anime that is easy to watch, doesn’t particularly invoke much deep philosophical thinking, but it is an extremely fun, wholesome experience that almost anyone can enjoy. More of this later. 

Why I liked MP100 more than OPM

When I asked my brother, off-handedly, if he has watched MP100, he shrugged and simply remarked, “Isn’t that the anime that’s from the same guy who made One Punch Man? They have pretty similar plots and themes.” And of course, it is easy to see the similarities. Over-powered superhero. Subversion of the typical hero/shounen anime stereotype. Even visually, there are many similarities in the art style and subsequently their adapted animation design. And I really liked OPM as well. It was a very comically driven series that I really enjoyed, and the dry humour (that usually purposely falls flat due to the main character’s monotonous execution) in MB100 is very similar. However, the main difference for me was that MB100 had a story line that progressed in a more meaningful way than OPM did. Throughout the series, we witness Mob’s growth as a person and as a psychic, learning how to gain more confidence in his abilities while also just generally learning how to be a normal teenager. That goes for other characters like Ritsu, Mob’s younger brother, who works his way through an inferiority complex; or even more secondary characters like Dimple and Teru, another psychic that was initially introduced as an antagonist to Mob who eventually becomes a strong ally. On the other hand, OPM’s episodes usually just consists of sprinkles of humour, meta-commentary, and a big boss fight where all the heroes struggle valiantly while Saitama easily demolishes the threat in one big (anticlimatic) fell swoop. While OPM has some kind of plotline going, it really isn’t as satisfying as watching a more conventional story arc, where the protagonist goes through stages of struggle, emotional turmoil, and a resulting growth of character. While I enjoyed the elements of MP100 that reminded me much of the dry wit and fun of OPM, I liked it especially so for how it differs from OPM.

Why it’s an easily accessible anime

I believe that MP100 falls into the category of anime like My Hero Academia, where the story and characters are simple enough that most people can easily get into and enjoy, but still has a compelling enough story to sustain one’s interest. It is a pretty short season, with 12 episodes in total, and the anime rounds itself up in a natural way, with a cohesive and satisfying ending. It isn’t as visually and thematically edgy and raw as Devilman Crybaby, for example, which was another anime that I watched very recently. Perhaps because it is so fresh in my mind that I somehow wanted to draw comparisons and contrasts between the two. Devilman is an anime that leaves a deep, almost disturbing imprint on your mind, bringing you through an emotional rollercoaster that ends off with a rather... unsatisfying? ending. On the other hand, MP100 is a completely wholesome, enjoyable, fun anime that kids, teens and adults can enjoy just the same. For me personally, I love having a good mix of both; definitely the former may be more daring, more thought-provoking, but sometimes you just got to have some fun and light-heartedness in your life to keep you mentally and emotionally sane. Which is what MP100 really does. Not to say that MP100 is a happy bed of roses - to be sure, the animation style especially of Mob’s sinister psychic powers, definitely hints at a darker threat underlying the surface.

All in all - wonderful experience. Lovely anime. 10/10 would recommend.

[d-noona]

BARTERED BRIDE

SUMMARY: Kim Namjoon is a ruthless financier used to buying and selling stocks, shares and priceless artifacts. But now Namjoon has his eye on a very different acquisition – Y/N L/N. Left destitute by her father’s recent death, Y/N walks into Namjoon’s bank looking to extend her overdraft. As Y/N needs money and Namjoon needs a wife, he proposes the perfect deal: he’ll rescue her financially if she agrees to marry him. But in this marriage of convenience can Y/N ever be anything more than just a bartered bride?

WORDS: 1928

Kim Namjoon x Reader

M.List | Ch. 02

CHAPTER 01 - THE ACQUISITION

Expecting him to be a middle-aged toad, Y/N was surprised when the man who rose from behind the large orderly desk was a tall, dark, middle twenties, very handsome, with dimples on top. Man was he handsome.

“Miss L/N, please sit down.” He gestured to the chair on the outer side of the desk and waited until she was settle before resuming his own sit. She knew nothing about him, except that his name was Kim Namjoon and he occupied a large office on the highest floor of a prestigious office block in the City. This area of Seoul was one of the world’s great markets. Judging by his discreetly luxurious surroundings, this man was one of the market’s moguls. To Y/N, until very recently, money has been something she spent with careless extravagance on clothes for herself, presents for others and anything else she wanted. Now the supply she had dried up. That was why she was here in the formidable presence of this well-built, 5’11 tall, whose physique didn’t match her mental image of a top-level financier. All she knew about him was that Mr. L/N, her late father’s lawyer, had said that Kim Namjoon wished to see her and -might be able to help her and her mother out of their predicament.

Predicament being the understatement of the year, Y/N thought wryly, leaning back in the comfortable leather chair and automatically crossing her legs, remembering a moment too late that this was a no-no in the books of advice on how to impress interviewers. The movement caused Mr. Kim to shift the focus of his cold brown gaze from her face to her shapely knees and then to her ankles. Y/N accustomed to men admiring her legs furtively or openly according to temperament. Kim Namjoon belonged to the latter group, but whether his frank appraisal was appreciative, critical of indifferent it was impossible to tell. He had the most deadpan expression she had ever come across. It made her nervous.

And Y/N wasn’t used to being nervous. She didn’t like it. The appraisal didn’t last long, perhaps not more than three seconds. Leaning forward, his forearms resting on the edge of his desk and his long-fingered hands loosely clasped, he returned his gaze to her face. “You’re in trouble I hear.”

Lacking any regional of social accent, his voice gave no clue to his background. Self-assured and brisk, it was a voice she could imagine giving decisive orders people would jump to obey. Had she met him in surroundings not indicative of his occupation, and had been asked to guess it, she would have assumed that he held a senior rank in one of the special units of crack fighting men called to the world’s trouble spots when drastic action was the only solution. He had an air of contained physical power. A man of action rather than a desk-bound number-cruncher. “Yes,” she agreed, “we are. Since my father’s death, my mother and I have discovered that instead of being comfortably off were extremely hard up – virtually penniless.”

“Not penniless,” he said dryly. “The watch you’re wearing would pay the grocery bills of an average family for several months.” She looked down at her Cartier watch her parents had given her for her eighteenth birthday “I won’t be wearing this much longer, but I don’t mind that. I can cope with the change in our circumstances. It’s my mother I’m worried about. She’s not young. She’s never worked. She –“ He interrupted her. “Nor have you, I understand. The press described you as a playgirl”

“The press put labels on everyone…not always accurate. It’s true I’ve never had a job. There was no point. My father was rich…so we thought. I wasn’t brainy enough to train for one of the professions. I don’t have any special bent. The most useful thing I could do was to help keep other people employed, not take a routine job someone else needed” as Y/N attempts to explain her situation. “You do not have to explain your butterfly existence to me Miss L/N. but without any work-experience, you’re not going to find it easy to start supporting yourself, particularly not at the level you’re accustomed to.”

“Presumably you didn’t ask me here to tell what I already know,” she replied, with a flash of irritation. There was something about his manner that put her back up.  He hadn’t smiled when he greeted her. Beyond standing up when she was shown in by his secretary, he hadn’t done anything to put her at ease. “Why did you send for me?” she asked quirking at eyebrow at the man.

Rising, he picked up a file lying on top of his desk. He walked round to hand it to her.  “Have a look through that.” He strolled away to a window looking out on a vista of rooftops. He stood with his hands behind him, the right hand clasping the left wrist. The file held plastic pockets containing illustrations taken from magazines and the glossier kind of catalogue. Mostly they showed pieces of sculpture, paintings and other objets d’art. There were also several photograps of horses, an aerial view of an island off Scottland and a picture of a small French Chateau. Half turning from the window, he said “Theyre all things that caught my eye over the last few years.  Some of them are mine now I’m in the fortunate position of being able to indulge my acquisitive impulses…as I expected you did before your father died.”

Shaking her head “Not on this scale,” said Y/N. She couldn’t see where the conversation was heading, as she glanced at him, Kim Namjoon returned to his desk, resting one long hard thigh along the edge of its polished surface and folding his arms across his chest. “There’s one picture in there that you’ll recognize. Carry on looking.”

Intrigued, she obeyed, turning the pages more rapidly than before. Suddenly, with indrawn breath of surprise and puzzlement, she stopped. She hadn’t expected to see a photograph of herself. It had been taken at a party of socialites. She was wearing a figure hugging dress of black crushed velvet and showing a lot of sun-tanned cleavage, having recently returned from a winter holiday in the Caribbean. “What am I doing here?” she demanded, baffled. “You, I hope, are going to be my next major acquisition, Ms. L/N” For the first time a hint of amusement showed in the hard steely-brown eyes and flickered at the corners of his wide, chiseled mouth.

Inconsequently, it struck her that his mouth was at variance with the rest of his features. It was the mouth of a sensualist in the face of a man who otherwise gave the impression of being self-disciplined. But it was the meaning of his extraordinary statement, rather than the contradiction between his mouth and his eyes that preoccupied her at the moment. “What do you mean?” she said warily.

“I need a wife. You need financial support. Do you understand the word fortuitous?” says Namjoon. “Of course I do,” she retorted, her long lashed – brown eyes sparkling with annoyance at the implied aspersion of her intelligence. It was true she had been considered a dunce by most of her teachers and had never done well in examinations, but that was because she hadn’t been interested in the things they wanted her to learn…grammar, maths, physics and incredibly tedious bits of history, all of them taught in a way guaranteed to send the normal teenagers – particularly the sort of restless, hyperactive teenager she had been…into well…boredom. She said, “It means happening by chance…especially by a lucky chance. But I can’t see anything luck about my father dying of massive coronary in his middle fifties, with his business on the rocks and his wife destitute,” she added coolly. Matching her coldness, he said “In my experience, most people make their own luck. Your father’s lifestyle wasn’t conductive to a long healthy life. As a business man, he took too many risks for a man with responsibilities.”

“Did you have dealings with him?” she asked. She knew nothing about her father’s business life. Since her late teens he had spent little time with his family. It was years since he and her mother had shared a bedroom. Y/N knew there had been other women. “Not directly. But after seeing that picture, I made a point of finding out more about you. I was on the point of making a contract when your father died and I put the matter on hold. In the light of subsequent events, I’ve adapted my original plan to deal with things more expeditiously. If my information is correct, you have no relationships with men in train at the present time?”

“How did you find that out?” she said baffled. He said coolly, “I had you investigated…a reasonable precaution in the circumstances. Marriage is a very important contract. When people are buying a house, they have searches made by surveyors and lawyers. I had you checked out, very discreetly, by a private detective. You may want to run a similar check on me. For the time being my secretary has prepared a file which will give you most information you need.”

Retrieving the file she was holding, he placed another slimmer folder on the edge of the desk in front of her. “I can’t believe I’m even hearing this, I thought this was a merchant bank…not marriage bureau.” Y/N’s eyes were both perplexed and angry. He didn’t look like a crazy person. In his expensive suit and diagonally striped tie, perhaps the emblem of one of those old boys’ networks which still wielded so much influence, he looked eminently sane and sensible. But he must be out of his head to believe he could buy a wife as casually and easily as everything else in the file he was putting away in a drawer. “It’s a bank and I am its chairman,” he said calmly. Y/N cocked her head to the side “You wouldn’t be much longer if your shareholders heard what you’re suggesting. They’d think you were out of your mind. You can’t buy a wife.”

“It isn’t the usual method of acquiring one,” he agreed, going back to his chair. “But these are unusual circumstances. I have neither the time nor inclination to follow traditional course. You are in urgent need of someone to straighten out the financial shambles you find yourself in. if you agree to marry me, your mother won’t have to move and you won’t have to worry about her future. I’ll take care of that. Think it over, Y/N. when you’ve had time to assess it. I think you’ll agree it’s an eminently sensible plan.” For some reason his use of her first name detonated the anger which had been building inside her. It was rare for Y/N to lose control of her temper. But she did now. Jumping up, she said fiercely “I don’t need to think it over. Nor would any sane person. I’m furious you’ve made me come here, thinking I’d hear something useful! This trip to Seoul has been a complete waste of time. I’ve damned good mind to write to you board of directors and tell them they’ve got a nutcase in control.” Without waiting for his reaction, she marched to the big double doors of solid mahogany and yanked one of them open. Glowering at the startled secretary at his desk in the outer sanctum, she slammed in resoundingly behind her and returned to the private lift which brought her up to this rarefied level of the building.