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fannishstuff · 4 months

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How would Ford get kicked out instead of Stan?

So, a bit ago, @ckret2 posted an essay expressing frustration about the fandom portrayal of Filbrick. Filbrick is often characterized as violently and irredeemably abusive, whereas ckret2 cites some very convincing evidence that he was a well-meaning but authoritarian father - not a good dad, but not an evil person.

This discussion was prompted because ckret2 was considering an AU in which Ford never goes to college and ckret2 prefers the smallest possible change in AUs.

I wanted to link those posts because they have absolutely gotten me thinking about the subject. The following will make more sense if you've read that essay and this follow-up about Filbrick's regret over Stan's behavior. I accept the contents as canon for the purposes of this post.

(For completion's sake, the entire discussion was prompted by a Ford as a Trucker AU, but the following doesn't actually have anything to do with that.)

Let's make Ford the kind of person Filbrick would kick out of the house

Stan's eviction is the end result of many, many years of contention between Stan and Filbrick - an earnest last-ditch effort by a desperate father to get his delinquent son to shape up, and a decision he only made because he thought Stan was legitimately malicious. Most AUs in which Ford is kicked out instead of Stan will just rewrite the Science Fair scene so that Stan has more to lose than Ford. If we're talking "smallest possible change," though, I don't find that convincing. If Filbrick was an unpredictable maniac who's ready to ditch his kids at a moments notice? Yeah, fine, any small mistake by either one of them would work. But if Filbrick has been earnestly trying to be a good father, and just didn't feel like he was getting through? One mistake, even a big one, from his less troublesome son would be unlikely to prompt a disowning.

So, my question is: what "single small change" early in life would lead Stan and Ford to develop in a way that flipped Filbrick's expectations of them?

Personality traits and how they affect the relationships

Let's talk about Filbrick, Stanley, and Ford.

So, first of all: Filbrick wants is sons to be industrious, tough, honest, and hard-working. Those are the qualities that matter to him. He makes them box so that they'll be able to stand up for themselves and others. He fights with Stanley because Stanley is a thieving scam artist. He demands the kids be profitable and successful because that is a mark of success as an adult for him. If we assume that the twins were an unplanned pregnancy, then he also firmly believes in taking responsibility for your mistakes -- in owning up.

Stanley is a born liar. Like, even his playful and friendly interactions with his family involved good-natured lies. (He reminds me of one of my uncles, who was an avid prankster up until the time he went up against me, but that's a whole story that I won't get into here.) I think in order to be on Filbrick's good side, he'd have to prove that he was honest in his own way - for example, by defending people when it really mattered even at the expense of his own reputation, or by refusing to take advantage of someone who has wronged him. I don't think canon Stan would do either of those things for anyone except family, but canon Stan is also convinced that nothing he does will ever be good enough. His last, dying words were "I guess I was good for something." He never until that moment thought he was. We need to make sure that he earns some self-respect earlier in life.

Now we need to find a flaw in Ford to exacerbate to the scale Stan had in canon. This isn't really hard, honestly. Ford may have been the less troublesome kid in high school, but he is ruthlessly ambitious, and as an adult he will steal or destroy anything to get the results he wants. I think that the reason he was the less troublesome kid is because there really isn't a good way that a high schooler can be ambitious at the expense of the people around them on a scale that matters. The stakes are just too low. Maybe Ford put down his classmates to secure a win in a spelling bee or stole an answer key once or twice, but it's hard to imagine Filbrick caring about schoolkid drama. That said, if Ford did have an aspiration - a science project, for instance - that he became truly obsessed with, it's easy to imagine him stealing or breaking things to achieve it.

So, how would we make stealing and destroying things a pattern of behavior for Ford, instead of a single one-off mistake? And how would we make Stanley's good-heartedness and self-sacrificing nature something that is visible to his father and overwhelms his tendency to lie?

Oh, and one more thing:

The big fight didn't just happen because Ford lost something he wanted. The entire Tale of Two Stans is about two twins who are very close to each other when they're young drifting apart over time as their needs, ambitions, and hobbies begin to diverge.

How do we make this separation happen in a way that flips the script?

Ford as a more isolated kid

Ford has a one-track mind.

In order to make this alternate canon work, I want to isolate Stan and Ford from each other very quickly. Filbrick might not be violently abusive, but he does ignore the kids, and Ford is already isolated from his peers due to bullying and poor social skills. If Stan isn't spending all of his time with Ford, then Ford might become more and more withdrawn. I don't think he would even be unhappy! Maybe a little lonely, but he's a bright kid with varied interests, and he'd keep himself occupied. But he might get a little... unhinged.

My Ford sans Stan is a kid that gets into trouble. A lot of trouble. Way more trouble than parents should have to deal with.

He gets arrested for disassembling abandoned cars. He gets detention for melting things in the chemistry lab. He gets stitches and tetanus shots after climbing under bridges, or ends up in the burn ward because he stuck a fork in an outlet. (I knew multiple academically gifted children who did this, what is wrong with you guys.) He might make a weapon like a nail gun because he thinks it's cool, and while that wouldn't cause as many alarm bells in 1980 as in 2020, it gould get someone seriously hurt. And, moreover, no matter how many times he's yelled at or bailed out or suspended or has his privileges revoked, he just doesn't get it. He'll express genuine remorse every time, but Filbrick will stop believing him after a while because he never changes. He never changes because... well. Because he is incorrect about what's wrong.

This version of Ford is isolated from his peers and doesn't have his brother to entertain him, so he's extremely self-centered. He doesn't think about the consequences of his actions and he doesn't think about how they might affect others. Let's say he snuck into the chemistry lab after hours, did an experiment without adult supervision, and ended up catching a shelf on fire. When he is punished, he's contrite and apologetic. He earnest in his expression of grief. He feels horrible. You'll tell him what he did wrong, and he will say, "I know," and accept his punishment without complaint. But, if you were to actually ask him what he did wrong, the answer will be:

"I used the wrong solvent." Or, at best: "I wasn't careful enough."

Nothing about disrespect for property. Nothing about breaking the rules. Nothing that reflects the fact that he is a child using someone else's resources to try a dangerous experiment without permission or supervision.

I don't think the adults around him, least of all Filbrick, would notice the communication error. Filbrick isn't in the habit of asking young boys about their feelings. Even if they did notice it, I don't think they would handle it well; this is before modern mental health science, and it might actively frighten the adults around him to realize that he doesn't understand morality in the way the kids around him do.

I think that if we start with this version of Ford, it would be very, very easy for him to screw up so badly that Filbrick felt the need to kick him out.

Some ways we can reduce Stan's influence

Option One: Stan might actually be worse off.

Usually, these reverse AUs are about Stan being the golden child and Ford being the one who Filbrick has it out for. However, that doesn't necessarily have to happen in order for Ford to be the one who gets kicked out. If Stan gets caught (or framed) for a crime big enough to send him to juvie for a while, or for Filbrick to send him off to a reform school, Ford would be left alone for years - long enough for Ford to develop the habits I just described.

This AU would fit really well with the themes of canon, too. The show is about how, even though family has its ups and downs, we're better together than we are apart. If Stan is separated from Ford against his will, and the rest of the Pines live to regret it, we address that theme head-on.

In an AU where Stan goes to boarding school, juvie, or something like that, I personally think Stan would still love Ford dearly and do his best to support him. Ford would do his best to make his own way in the world after his falling out with his father, and Stan meets up with him whenever he can. They have their own lives but remain friends.

Option Two: The ever-so-beloved Sports Stan option! If Stan ends up in a successful hobby, it might keep him out of trouble enough to curb his more dishonest tendencies. If that's the case, Ford's isolation comes from Stan having more friends (teammates!), more extracurricular responsibilities, and possibly the kind of social life that keeps him busy during school hours. I figure that in this version, Stan might stand up for Ford getting bullied, and he would be listened to, because you don't fuck with the football team. That would leave Ford with neither friends nor enemies. Ford might hang out with the sports kids for a while, but it would be really awkward, since he's just Stan's brother and doesn't have much in common with these guys.

This version leaves Stan slightly less delinquent but otherwise the same as his canon counterpart. Sports keep him out of trouble, might get him a scholarship, but otherwise leave him pretty much intact.

My problem with both of these two options is that I feel like, for maximum effect, we need to isolate Ford in middle school or earlier - I think fifth grade would do it. Sports don't really get that serious until late middle school or high school, and it's hard for a ten-year-old to get in enough trouble to get sent away.

The sooner the twins begin to separate, the better for this narrative.

Option three: Boy Scouts (or something). In this version, Stanley doesn't just have a hobby he likes - he has a hobby that becomes a lifestyle. He joins a club or meets a mentor that has a profound impact on him as a person. This, I think, would be the biggest possible impact with the smallest possible change.

I'm going to use Boy Scouts as my example, even though I can't really imagine Stan joining a troop without Ford. Just know that this is a placeholder, and it could be anything: he might find a car repair shop with a kindly and avuncular war veteran mechanic, he might fall in with a volunteer group, et cetera. If we go with the boy scouts, though, here's what happens:

Stan is bored and frustrated and has too much energy as a prepubescent or barely pubescent kid. He ends up hanging out with some boy scouts, and they do things that he thinks are really cool. They're the first kids he meets who like boats as much as him, and they know all the rigging knots. Maybe one of them tells him all about how to take care of lizards, and that other kid knows how to light a fire using a flint.

He convinces his parents to let him join the troop. At first, he doesn't fit in at all. All of the other kids have been doing this since first grade, and he's bad at making friends. However, one of the troopmasters becomes a mentor to him: this man intentionally gives him attention, spends time with him, asks him about his interests, teaches him skills that he's missing, et cetera.

If you've ever been or known a young kid who didn't get enough attention and then, suddenly, met someone who made them feel included, you know what happens.

Stan would sell his soul for this guy.

Stan memorizes his handbook, he attends all the functions, he mentors the cubs, the whole shebang. I think Stan would have a blast, too. Boyscouts make up bullshit to tell the little kids constantly. They play pranks on each other and the troopmasters. They haze the new kids. The develop complex internal mythologies for their troops. They get up to all manner of ridiculous shenanigans, oftentimes with the help of knives, ropes and fire. Stan would love it.

By high school, he's working hard toward his Eagle Scout badge, and that means he isn't just attending troop functions. For those who have never been scouts, the whole program is supposed to be about leadership training. The Eagle Scout status is one you earn by doing a project of your own - usually some small but tangible improvement to your hometown, such as building some benches or making an improvement to a museum. So, in the Sports Stan version of events, Stan is busy because of regularly scheduled team sports; in the Scouts Stan version, he's spending a huge chunk of his own free time planning, fundraising for, and building his project.

But there's another thing at play here.

Boy Scouts have a strict code of honor. If Stan was a gung-ho boy scout, he would probably become exactly the kind of person Filbrick wants him to be.

And, well,

I think he'd also become judgemental as hell.

Yeah, he still loves his brother, but here Stan is living his best life and being a good citizen who contributes to society, while Ford's out there... drawing pictures of ghost he insists he saw? Reading about mermaids? Catching the chemistry lab on fire?

Like, seriously bro, you need to get a real hobby.

You know how by the end of high school, Ford was treating Stan as an immature and ignorant kid with no real aspirations who wasn't going to amount to anything in life? You know how Ford was so sickened by Stan's relative lack of ambition that he really believed that Stan would deliberately sabotage his science fair experiment just for a chance to hang out more?

Yeah.

Now imagine that reversed.

#I need to proofread this #Gravity Falls AU #Meta Analysis #Gravity falls #Stanley Pines #Filbrick Pines #Stanford Pines #Fan essay #AU discussion #Boy Scout Stanley Pines #My post

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howlingday · 6 months

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That’s cool. Now, what will the how Beacon story goes if Jaune is born a Xiao-Long? Is Yang going to be either an overprotective sister or a fun and party-loving sister to him? How would the interaction with Jaune and Weiss go?

Okay, so let's cover up to and including the initiation, starting with going to Beacon. Jaune says good-bye to Summer with Ruby and Yang, then the three go off to Beacon. Jaune and Yang were supposed to go together, but having learned Ruby managed to bust up Roman Torchwick and his goons, they're not that surprised that Ruby gets in with them... Well, Yang isn't surprised. Jaune and Tai were worried sick (literally for Jaune) when they learned Ruby got into a fight with an actual gang. Jaune spends the trip to Beacon with his sisters, flipping between being airsick to worrying about Ruby. Yang tells him to stop babying her, which Ruby agrees.

Once they arrive at Beacon, Jaune and Yang get dragged off by Yang's friends, leaving Ruby alone. Ruby explodes, Jaune helps her, this time dusting her off and making sure she's okay. She bats him away, insisting that she's fine. The two walk and talk with Jaune explaining that he's just worried about her since she was always the smallest of the three. Ruby then unfurls Crescent Rose, noting that it is at least three times heavier than Jaune's weapon. They then head to the assembly and Jaune gets dragged off by some friends. Ruby and Yang meet up, "tall, blond, and scraggly" and Jaune catching up to Ruby and Yang expressing how excited he is to be noticed by such a cute girl already, which Ruby scowls and pouts at because Weiss is nowhere close to cute.

"Oh, come on, Ruby, where else am I gonna find a girl willing to talk about me that isn't you two?" Pyrrha pops her head up.

The night before initiation and initiation itself go about the same, and Jaune now regrets not working on his "landing strategy". He was never good at it, and even now, he's still flying through the air like a dog toy. Y'know, the long arm and leg ones? Anyway, Jaune meets Pyrrha and he explains that he's still not used to this whole "being a huntsman" thing.

"Then why apply at all?"

"Well... I kinda have to." He explains. "When I was younger, my sisters and I were walking in woods, alone, and we ran into some Grimm. One of my sisters got hit and none of us had aura yet. I covered my little sister to protect her, but..." He shakes his head. "Yang's always been so headstrong, so she needs somebody to pull her back. And I didn't expect Ruby to get accepted, so now I have to protect her, too!" He sighs. "Sorry for dumping this on you. You probably think I'm worrying too much."

"No, no, I... I never had siblings myself, but I think I understand why you're here." She smiles. "I guess I'm lucky to have someone so kind as my partner." The two share a chuckle.

Jaune still manages to make the Deathstalker mad, gets flung, flies into Ruby, and manages to catch Weiss as she's falling, too. Jaune stresses about the Nevermore but decides to let Ruby and Yang take care of themselves while he and his partner deal with the Deathstalker.

The teams defeat their respective Grimm in about the same way as they did in canon.

"That's your sister?" Pyrrha asked. "She's very skilled, isn't she? Did you teach her to do all of that?"

"No." Jaune looks up to Ruby. "She did that all by herself."

As for your other two questions, I will say that Yang will still be her usual self, trying to do her balancing act between rough and tumble party girl and caring older sister. When she sees Jaune with his team, she admires how much her dorky twin grew into his own. And as for Weiss, well... I think that'll have to wait until next time.

#rwby #jaune xiao long au #rwby au #my thoughts #jaune arc #ruby rose #yang xiao long #pyrrha nikos #weiss schnee #jaune xiao long

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ivorydragoness44 · 3 months

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Rinzler x program!Reader: Access Denied

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: 1,318 Warnings/Notes: Jump scare accidentally by Rinzler, brief combat, Rinzler purring, nuzzling, NSFW / NSFT, dry humping, caressing, mostly non-verbal Rinzler, some brief biting, two programs “having sex”, program energy exchange/sharing, essentially Rinzler passing out as a result of their energy sharing (he’s fine, he just has to reboot). Summary: Going home for the microcycle (day), program!Reader finds that they are not alone. After a brief fight, they realize that it is Rinzler. Apologies lead to physical intimacy between the programs.

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Another microcycle came and went. With it, the usual processes of the Grid. You left the cityscape behind you as you made your way home. Uneventful and calm, just as you preferred it at such a time. A smile formed on your lips as you approached your apartment. However, just as you entered the dark space of your home, someone stepped in quickly after you. The foot step was subtle enough to miss, but their proximity was not. Twirling around, you launched a fist at the intruding program. With a thwack, it was easily blocked. In quick succession, you threw your knee up before being shoved away. With the short distance separating you both, you kicked up swiftly to their head. Your astonishment was soon knocked out of you as they blocked your attack and grabbed your leg, pushing you backwards onto the floor with a hefty grunt.

With the light of the city filtering in from the window, you could finally identify the program pining you down. Purr. “Rinzler?” You asked with bated breath. Purr. “You scared me!” You accused, flicking a finger at his visor. Purr. “Well, you did.” Rinzler leaned down closer and nuzzled his helmeted face into the crook of your neck. You sighed in acceptance of his apology, probably quicker than you should have. Reaching up, you ran your palms along his back. A light glow trailed behind your gentle movements. You slid a hand over his sides and down his torso to the bundle of circuits between his thighs. There, you pressed firmly with your palm. A deep long purr reverberated from Rinzler. His pelvis pushed down on your hand, and continued to push rhythmically slow. With your other hand, you glided it back up to his helmet, cradling his close. “How are your energy reserves, program?” “Plenty.” A small smirk played at your lips from his words. Reluctantly, however, you removed your hands from him. “Get on the bed, please.” Doing as you requested, he flipped off of you and onto the bed out of your sight. You sat up and leaned back on your arms. “I missed it,” you smiled. “Can you do it again?” Without a micro’s hesitation, he backflipped off of the bed, landing precisely. Rising to his full height, he waited for further instruction. You clapped approvingly. Even for the smallest of gestures, he was always impressive.

Standing back up, you gestured with your hand for him to return to the bed. Flipping onto the bed, Rinzler laid down on his back. Though his eyes were not visible, he watched your every move. The smallest fraction of a head tilt or a sweeping gaze, one would know when he had his sights locked on them. Carefully hopping onto the bed, you straddled onto his lap. The palms of your hands found their way onto his chest. “Strong program.” Purr. His hands glided up your arms. “Will you removed your helmet for me this microcycle?” No verbal response came from him. He tilted his head to the side a fraction. You smiled sadly in your disappointment. Expectations could not be to high, but you could always make an attempt. Leaning forward, you laid your torso onto his and kissed his chest. Looking up into his reflective visor, you asked, “What about your circuitry?” You gave his chest another kiss and smiled. Rinzler’s armor and overall black suit digitized away. Smile never fading, you reached up to kiss his neck. “We’ll get that helmet off one microcycle,” you whispered. Purring, he gently caressed your arms. Nipping at his neck, you felt him sigh. For such a reaction, you left a stronger trail of bites down the side of his neck, and across to his shoulder. After you did so, an extra light caught your attention. A certain glow came from his hands. With it, you felt an energy increase. You sighed, delighted relief at the sensation, especially after a busy microcycle. Rinzler’s hands glided up your arms, encircling your shoulders. A glowing trace followed his movements. His touch made your circuits ebb to a violet hue. “Rinzler,” you sighed into his neck. Relief and pleasure from the energy transmuting from his hands was exactly what you needed. It was not expected so late into the microcycle, but you were not about to complain. Purr. As you sat up, his hands slid don to your waist and he watched; always. Within micros, you digitized to your bare circuitry. Rinzler purred for the entirety of it. One of his more lengthy purrs. Placing your palms down on his chest, you caressed around the smooth muscles; a mixture of your energy glow trailing behind. From your movements, Rinzler’s orange circuitry turned a bright violet. He let out another purr, and bucked his hips up to yours. You gave a light laugh. “All right, be patient.” Grabbing ahold of his wrists, you moved his palms over your abdomen and chest until all of your circuitry were hues of violet and a warm pink. Bringing one of his hands up to your lips, you pressed a kiss along his fingertips. “We won’t be interrupted this time, will we?” You asked, kissing the inside of his wrist. Rinzler shook his head. “No.” “Good,” you smiled. Swaying your hips in such a swift motion, it allowed a certain section of his bare circuitry to enter yours, truly connecting you both. A deep purple gradated out form your conjoined pelvises. Rinzler adjusted his legs, now bent behind you. With his feet planted firmly on the bed, he was ready for whatever you had in mind. You kissed the palm of his hand as he began to thrust upward with a strong continuous purr. Pressing his hands onto your bare circuitry, you closed your eyes from the sensations.

“Faster, program,” you instructed. Placing a hand to his chest to steady yourself as you continued to transmute energy between you both. Rinzler always did as he was told, and he never disappointed. Every circuit as far as you could see was laced with a violet light. You felt the warning signs of an energy surge. And even though you were very much enjoying his quickened motions, you wanted to prolong the inevitable result. For at least another nanocycle, if you could. “Rinzler, stop,” you said softly with a small gasp. His hips dropped back down to the bed with you. Kissing his palm again, you finally released his hand to his own will. And he wasted no time with it. Feverishly, he caressed your bare circuits. It was as if he wanted to memorize every bit of you. To commit you to memory. With your hands firmly on his chest, you watched as the glow increased in its intensity. The room soon filled with your sighs and his purrs. Moving your hips against his, you swore you heard Rinzler speak in your energetic daze. “Please.” There was a silent pause after, before his purring returned. The warm pink glow was at its highest. It was so strong that it was all you could see. A micro later, it was gone. In its absence, you focused on Rinzler. His circuits dimmed and flickered before going dark. A reboot cycle. You did not think that the energy surge would be so strong for him. Even so, it would take less than a nanocycle to complete. Smiling to yourself, you lifted off of him and crawled over to his side. Gently, you tucked yourself beside him and reached over to toss a blanket over the pair of you. Tomorrow would be a new microcycle, and you expected to be fully energized as you were satisfied. Nuzzling your face into his shoulder, you let your eyes close and succumb to some well deserved rest.

The lights of Rinzler’s circuits turned back on, but it would be some time before you saw its color.

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

Thank you for reading!

You can check out more of my fanfictions on my pinned post on my blog: My Masterlist of Masterlists.

#rinzler #rinzler x reader #rinzler x program!reader #program!reader #rinzler fanfic #rinzler fanfiction #rinzler insert reader #tron: legacy #tron legacy #rinzler smut

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hard-deck-confessions · 1 year

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I See You - Chapter 1

Pairing: Hangman x Phoenix

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: enemies to lovers (not yet tho), slow burn, slight swearing, for sure some military inaccuracies, third person POV

Summary: Phoenix hates Hangman's guts. But she cares about her friends more, and Hangman is making her best friend miserable. About a month ago, Hangman started picking on Bob again. No one knows why he started his jeering up again, but Phoenix is willing to pay anything to make it stop. But what happens when that price is a date? And what happens when it turns out that Jake Seresin actually isn't the worst company?

A/N: I had the idea for this fic after I saw a fanfic quote prompt somewhere: "I brought you a juice." (I can't find the user it was from, but if you do please let me know so I can credit them!) From there I wrote a cute little Hangman x reader incorrect Top Gun quote post, but I realized it was such a Hangman x Phoenix interaction so Jabber and I collaborated over some ideas and this baby was born!

This story is written fully in 3rd person, so omnipotent narrator who reads the other characters minds occasionally, but it takes place mostly from Phoenix’s POV.

Also I may have completely made up correction sensors, but they’re based off whatever targeting system that malfunctions during the “mission” in the movie. They never get mentioned again, please leave them alone. They are sensitive and valid.

Chapter Song(s): Mean, NO, CHOKE

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"That’s a kill!" Bob’s excited voice came crackling through the radio in the Daggers’ break room.

The room erupted with cheers. No one had been able to down Hangman in this week’s exercises on targeting without the correction sensors so far, but Bob’s quick thinking and steady hand had finally done it. Hangman’s gloating would be replaced by cheers of Bob’s name that day in the lockers. A welcome reprieve.

Back in the air, Phoenix was pumping her fists in the air and flipping off an unknowing Hangman. "Suck it, Bagman! We got your butt good!" the aviator called through the radio. "That’s how we do it over here with the smoothest duo in the Daggers! Great job, Bob! MVP of the exercise for sure.”

The shy backseater blushed lightly beneath his oxygen mask. He still got flustered over the smallest compliments, no matter how many times his supportive squad mates clapped him on the back or clasped his shoulders singing his praises. He stumbled over his words as he squinted against the sun in his eyes, making getting the words out even harder, "I, uh, you—you basically lined up the shot for me, Phoenix, I just pressed the button."

"Nah, that was all you, Bob. Don’t sell yourself short." Phoenix insisted proudly.

"No, please do sell yourself short, Baby," Hangman interjected with a laugh, the cockiness and resentment were practically dripping from his voice, even through the radio.

"Please go screw yourself, Bagman," Phoenix spat back. "Ignore him, Bob, you did amazing."

"It’s okay, Phoenix; he’s just joking." Bob said, always trying to keep the peace, especially between Phoenix and Hangman. Bob was getting pretty good at standing up for himself, but the two of them always seemed to be at each other’s throats and Bob found that he was usually, unintentionally, the reason.

"I wasn’t, actually," Hangman quipped again.

Phoenix’s blood was about to boil; if it wasn’t likely to get both her and Bob a court martial, she’d dive on the cocky blond's plane just to give him a good scare. Instead, she settled for some "playful" verbal abuse.

"Bagman, everything everyone says behind your back is true."

"Was that meant to hurt my feelings, Phoenix?"

"I swear the only reason they let you fly solo is because your WSO would purposely sabotage you both just to get some damn peace."

"Oh, really? That the best you got?" Hangman taunted.

The breezy jovial feeling that had filled the air of the jet just moments before had gone stale, and instead a thick layer of smog-like anger had fallen over the aircraft cockpit. The temperature within had surely gone up by at least a few degrees with all the red hot words flying from Phoenix's mouth into her mic.

Bob's cheeks glowed to a flaming red as he listened to the two pilots bickering, entire body tense, helpless to remove himself from the mid-air argument, just waiting for the right moment to interject. He’d been in this situation many times before—he knew the drill. But that didn't make him any less uncomfortable. "Okay, c’mon, guys—" he began timidly, yet a level of assertion still came through in his voice.

"Great work, aviators!" Mav’s voice came like a shock over the radio, squashing the argument before it could manage to turn physical. No student had died on Mav's watch so far, and he wasn't looking to change that any time soon. Especially because 'purposeful collision due to mid-flight training disagreement' would not go over well on an accident report. "Let’s get these birds back on the ground. It’s quitin' time!"

Steam filled the empty locker room. Phoenix breathed deeply as she stepped out of the shower. She always felt like she had gained a new life after her shower at the end of each day; the amount of sweat produced under those flight suits was ungodly. She also liked to imagine that the boiling water was washing away all the boys’ BS that she had gone through that day. She loved, almost, all of them—though she’d never tell them that—but being the only girl on a team of men, Navy men, was rough. She was sure at least two of them truly were raised in a barn, and she knew Bob and Rooster were the only ones who even knew what the word "filter" meant.

She thought on her boys fondly, unable to hold back her smile, as she toweled off her hair behind the emotional privacy of the her locker door. She'd never dare show this side to them. This was still the military, after all, and she was still a woman. No matter how many times she proved herself tougher than the men around her, her and soft emotions were not allowed to coexist without ridicule. Wiping the condensation off of the mirror, she looked at her own face in the tinny glass, it had been hardened over her time in the Navy, and it reminded her of the look of rage on Hangman’s as they clambered back into the hanger. She laughed lightly. That was without a doubt the best thing she’d seen in weeks. She wished she could’ve had it photographed so she could look at it when she was having a bad day.

She didn’t truly hate the cocky pilot, but she had been nearing the line between it and mere distaste with his recent antics. After their first mission together, it had seemed like all grudges between any of the Daggers had been squashed; Hangman and Bob had been fully civil up until a couple weeks ago when Hangman decided to make the younger pilot his verbal target practice. Everyone had noticed the shift, but no one could tell exactly what triggered it. Bob had finally started to stand up for himself in the past couple days, which Phoenix was thankful for because any time anyone else said anything to Hangman, the treatment just got worse. It needed to end, and soon. Phoenix was ready to string Hangman up, but she knew acting out would only risk getting both her and Bob disciplined. She didn’t know what she was going to do. But she was sure as hell going to do something.

She finished getting ready to head home and slung her backpack over her shoulder. She tossed her hair into a loose bun as she walked out of the lockers, preparing to face the scorching heat already constantly present even this early into the California summer. Fanboy intercepted her in the hall outside the locker rooms. His face immediately told her that whatever he was about to say wasn’t another corny joke about his favorite tv series.

"There’s something you should know," he said.

"BAGMAN!"

Lt. Jake "Hangman" Seresin might not have finished at the very top of his classes, but he was smart enough to know that that yell could only mean one thing: he was about to get the chew out of a lifetime from one Lt. Natasha "Phoenix" Trace. He pulled his signature toothpick out of his mouth before turning on his heel to see the livid brunette storming down the hall, fire ablaze in her eyes.

If anyone else had been in the vicinity, they would've sworn they felt the temperature shift.

"What the hell, Hangman?" Phoenix barked, shoving a hand roughly into his chest, and sending the unprepared man stumbling back a couple steps with an unsophisticated mix between a "WOAH!" and "HEY!"

"What do you mean ‘what the hell'?" Hangman shot back, gathering himself and stepping forward, squaring his broad shoulders towards her. "You can't just attack a man without telling him what he did to provoke it."

Phoenix's face was now inches from his. Hangman could feel the rage on the heat of her breath.

"Watch me," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "Don't even start that crap with me. You know full well what you did."

"Humor me." Hangman said with the same tone he would have used in a casual conversation with a friend, which this situation very much was not.

There was finger in his face. He pretended there wasn't, looking past it directly into Phoenix's face.

"I am so fed up with your immature little grudge against, Bob."

"I didn't know I ever had one."

Hangman's tone was aloof, and it drove Phoenix crazy. How could he be such a prick? All she wanted to do was punch him in the jaw. She didn’t know why she always felt like she was about to explode with Hangman, no one else made it so difficult for her to keep her emotions in check, but she held it together—this time. She wasn't going to make herself any promises for the future.

"You two were supposed to be cool after the mission, I thought you had agreed to lay off him! I don't know who you think you are, but Bob is just as, if not more, qualified as any of us to be here. And you know it! But your fragile little ego just can't take that he's smarter than you, can it?" She practically spat the last words, ensuring they hit Hangman square in the face.

Phoenix saw his eyes soften for just a second and knew that she'd hit a nerve, but his expression didn’t change. He just continued to look at her with that same stupid, smug expression he always wore.

"And I have laid off him. He's not my concern any longer." He shrugged, popped the toothpick he'd been holding back into his mouth, and started to turn away. Phoenix forcefully grabbed his arm.

Her grip was stronger than Hangman assumed it would be.

"Really? 'Cause that's not what it looked like to Fanboy when he saw you corner him in the lockers after that last flying exercise. He said you looked ready to throttle Bob before he stepped in. That's low, even for you. We got you fair and square in that exercise. If you don't want to lose, try not making stupid mistakes. And one more thing," Phoenix said, leaning into Hangman's face, fists clenched so tightly at her sides they were pure red. "If you ever try taking your sore loss out on Bob again, we will be having a very different conversation that will not be much of a conversation at all."

"Is that a threat, Trace?" Hangman said coolly, a smirk on his face.

"It's a promise," Phoenix snapped, pushing past him forcefully, her shoulder smacking into his.

Hangman dropped his head and laughed, his tongue twirling the toothpick in his mouth. Head still lowered, he called after the receding footsteps, "Wow, I didn't know you had a heart, but since you clearly care so much about him, I'll leave Bob alone."

The footsteps stopped. Hangman turned to face them, shaking his head lightly.

"But it's gonna cost you."

Phoenix cocked one eyebrow in an ‘I knew this was coming' fashion.

"Really?" She said, crossing her arms over her chest, taking a step closer.

"Really." Hangman shot back joyfully, also taking a step closer. He was clearly enjoying this.

"Fine. I'll bite. What's your price?"

"Go on a date with me."

Phoenix scoffed, staring at him agape as if she hadn't heard him correctly or refused to believe he'd actually said what she thought he said.

"That's the worst joke you've ever made, Bagman, and you've made a lot of bad jokes." She scoffed again as she turned and continued toward the exit.

"Maybe because it wasn't a joke." There wasn't a drop of sarcasm in his voice.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," said Phoenix, turning back to him again.

"You want me to leave Bob alone? That's my price. One date, and we'll never have this issue again. I promise." He held up three fingers in a "scouts honor" kind of way.

"You’re insufferable, Bagman," Phoenix said. With that, she turned and walked down the hallway, silently fuming.

#top gun #top gun maverick #jake hangman seresin #natasha phoenix trace #hangman x phoenix #fanfic #robert bob floyd #phoenix x hangman #hannix #hangnix #seresin x trace #top gun fanfiction #fanfiction #i see you

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prettyblondguys · 2 years

Text

Part 2

Dmitri x plus size f!reader

Warnings: None for this chapter I think, don't you dare ask me to proofread

Sunday Bingo Night was, thankfully, Russian Man free. As a matter of fact, the rest of your week had been as well, leaving you to put all of your focus (and anxieties) into your work at the local library. It wasn't a stressful job per say, not when compared to other fast paced environments, and the hours and pay were decent, but still you had the habit of working yourself up over the smallest things. Case in point, you were currently sitting behind the circulation desk with a notepad trying to figure out everything that still needed to be done for the upcoming Friends of the Library Event, a relatively small gathering that was held each year to drum up more funds, and the second it had been assigned to you to take care of, you'd felt that all too familiar dread of 'what if I mess up?' wash over you. It wasn't as if you didn't know what to do, you'd worked here for years now and you worked hard, sometimes spending extra hours just to get more work done, opting to finish filings or sortings sooner rather than the next day, and going out of your way to think of and make fun displays to draw more of the community in. And your hard work hadn't gone unnoticed either, after just 3 years you'd been promoted to co-head librarian, head librarian being your 64 year old coworker, Delores.

No, you knew what you were doing, you just often did more than needed to be done.

"I know we've decided on tea sandwiches," you say to Delores as she flips through some papers, letting out a sigh when you bring up the event again, "but what if people want a second option? Like, what if they get sick of the sandwiches? It's 2 hours, maybe we should have something else as well?" Delores fixes you with a withering look over the rim of her glasses, lips pursed in thinly veiled aggravation, "Like what?" You scramble for an idea, you were sure she'd shoot you down without even considering it. "Umm, how about chips and dip?"

"Too messy."

"Devilled Eggs,"

"Too smelly." Fair.

"We could have fruit!"

"What kind of fruit?"

"Um, how about..grapes..?"

"You want to serve tea sandwiches and grapes?" She looks at you like you'd just asked what the Dewey decimal system is. "I, uh, I guess we should just...stick to the sandwiches." Delores goes back to flipping through her papers and you dejectedly return to your notepad, scratching out where you had written 'second food option'. There's still a lot that needs to be done in five days; the rest of the recently donated books needed to be checked for marks and put in neat boxes, you needed to make sure you had enough name tags and markers, and not to mention blank labels. You had come up with a fun way for the patrons to interact with the library they help fund, by letting them go through the donated books and label them, sort of playing librarian for the day. Even Delores had thought it was a good idea. You hum to yourself, fingers tapping against the paper,

"How about a second drink option?"

"Dom, dom, dom, dom, dom, dom, be, dooby, dom. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoaaaa," you quietly sing through a mouth full of tomato and sliced turkey, head bobbing as The Beach Boys' Come Go With Me plays through your headphones. You had walked five minutes away to spend your lunch break at the park that overlooked the beach, sitting on the picnic table and decompressing from your coworker's passive-aggressiveness. And decompressing here was easy, with the sun warming your face and the smell of the ocean filling your lungs, and the sweet, sweet sound of The Beach Boys crooning in your ears. Tea sandwiches be damned, this was peaceful.

"So come and go with me, whoa whoa whoa whoaa-" oh no. Walking away from the beach and towards you was Dmitri, a plain white shirt draping over his body like liquid. Ok, maybe that was a bit much, but he looked delectable. You consider getting up and walking back to the library, cutting your break short halfway through, but that would be too obvious. Maybe he hasn't seen me. Maybe he'll walk by and not even notice me. Maybe you should stop shoving your sub down your throat.

His eyes land on you as he gets closer, the side of his mouth turning up in a soft smile. "Y/n," he greets you after you slip your headphones around your neck, stopping to stand near where you sit, "fancy seeing you here." You inwardly cringe as he repeats your words from the grocery store just days earlier.

"I wahurc neher behi," you say through yet another mouthful of sub, holding your hand up for him to wait when he gives you a confused look. You swallow and continue, "I work nearby. I'm on my lunch break." He nods, moving to sit on the bench next to where your feet are, giving you the high ground, "It's nice here," he looks out towards the water as he speaks, elbows resting on his knees, "you can see the ocean whenever you please." I'm just gonna ignore how hearing you say 'please' just made me feel. "Have you gone in yet?" You ask, taking small nibbles of your sub.

"Not yet," he replies, "I haven't had the opportunity." Pal, it's California, the whole state is an opportunity to get in the ocean. "You said you work nearby?" He changes the subject, turning his head to look at you as you're mid-bite. It'd be weird to offer him some. Do NOT offer him some. You slowly hold the sub out to him, which he politely declines. "I work at the library down the street, the one with the flamingo statue out front." You love that flamingo statue, you'd named him Jacques. "What about you? What do you do?" Ok, why does he suddenly look like I just asked why his basement is locked? "I am.." he seems to be trying to think of the words, "in between jobs, at the moment." You nod and continue eating, a silence filling the space between you two as you stare out at the water. You slyly eye him in profile, taking the moment to actually look at him. You hadn't been exaggerating when you said he was hot, but now you notice just how pretty he actually is, all of the little details you'd overlooked the previous times you'd met. You had noticed how full his lips were, but not how pink, how mysterious his eyes were, but not how soft his gaze was, and certainly not the little specks of silver in his hair and trimmed mustache. God, he's like, seriously beautiful.

He catches you staring before you have time to look away, eyes boring into yours as you feel your cheeks start to burn, "Sorry," you mumble with a laugh, fiddling with the sandwich wrapper, "I was, um…" he smiles as you fumble for an explanation. "No, no there's no way to spin that, is there?" Good naturedly shaking his head, he stands up and faces you. "Perhaps I will stop by the library sometime, if that would be alright?" Did I fall asleep? Have I been dreaming this whole time? Did Delores finally snap and murder me for my incessant perfectionism and now I'm in heaven? "If not," he continues when you don't reply, "that is fine, I understand." NO! "No! That's not it," please don't screw this up for yourself, "I was just…"

"Staring." He says it matter of factly, kinda smug about it, too. Huh, add that to my growing list of turn ons. "Yeah," you admit defeatedly, "that I was." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out one of those little pencils that were always on side tables in motels, are they called golf pencils? and a folded up scrap of paper. He tears off a section and hands it and the pencil to you, which you take with a heavy look of confusion. "Cool...thank..thank you.." Is this like...penguins gifting rocks? Is it a Russian thing? Is this a dowry? He chuckles before crossing his arms over his chest, fixing you with those piercing blue eyes, "How am I supposed to call and ask you on a date if I do not have your number?" Oh. "Oh."

Sylvia is not gonna believe this.

Authors Note: I'm sorry the chapters aren't very long but I hope y'all are enjoying the story so far! Feedback and Reblogs are very much appreciated!

#California Girls fic #dmitri antonov #stranger things #enzo stranger things #tom wlaschiha #dmitri x reader #dmitri x plus sized reader #plus size representation #plus size reader #Spotify

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365elephantsoap · 2 years

Text

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Many of you may not know that I took the MCAT before I took the GRE to apply for grad school. I was still undecided about medical school. Honestly, I didn’t know what I wanted. Here is what I knew: I was flooded with excitement and wonder whenever I looked in a microscope and even the smallest scientific discovery made me clap my hands with glee. Life around us is fascinating and the tiny life forms of this planet are spectacular. I did very well on the MCAT, well enough to probably get in to medical school, but something told me that I would not find that life to be as fascinating.

When I started working for Margaret, I didn’t know anything about Dictyostelium, but I learned very quickly how to grow, culture and care for these little soil amebas, as well as manipulating them for microscopy viewing. When food is scarce for Dicty, they’ll send out a signal to other Dicty cells in the area. Then they all group together to form a slug that eventually transforms itself. The head of the slug becomes spores while the rest turn into a stalk with a fruiting body on the end containing dormant cells that can fall off under more favorable conditions. A large portion of the cell community dies so that some cells can live on later when there’s more food or the environment is nicer. We kept plates of Dicty in this form and I remember asking Margaret once about seeing them like this in the wild. She assured me that it was possible to find Dicty in the wild as fruiting bodies and since then I’ve been a little obsessed with the idea. 2022 was my year for seeing Dicty in the wild. First, Heather sent me a picture of them growing on her car. Then I found some hanging off my porch light. That sighting made me light up and immediately morph into Jordan from Real Genius. I excitedly told Michael all about the life cycle of Dicty while I took photos of our porch light.

Recently I’ve been talking to one of our graduate students about making miso. He’s been experimenting with trying to make his own koji (think starter, like sourdough, but with Aspergillus oryzae instead of yeast). This week he brought me a book on making koji and we had a long nerdy talk about trying to culture the powder koji starter that he has. I helped him get set up on a microscope and then went back to my desk. I started flipping through the pages of the book and came across some glossy prints of microscopic images and I got so excited. I ran back into the microscopy room and sat down next the grad student and started blathering about culturing and checking strains with microscopy and I got really excited about making my own miso. The part that excites about making miso has very little to do with making actual miso, but a whole lot to do with the science side of fermentation.

So here’s my gratitude. I am so grateful to be in a position where I have been able to maintain my excitement and enthusiasm for life sciences. With my job and the people I get to interact with every day, it sometimes feels like a dream. It is the difference between just having a job and getting to choose your job and that is a privilege.

#gratitude #science #privilege

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frankensteinmutual · 3 years

Text

the end of day debrief with kim really makes me so insane like. the amount of yearning in every sentence? it's like suddenly a switch has been flipped in your brain and this thing that you've been trying to suppress your whole life is suddenly clawing its way to the surface, now that you've literally obliterated yourself to start anew. even electrochemistry has to comment on how "devastatingly cool" he is. devastating! electrochemistry who does nothing but try to convince you to do drugs and ask out women! but it's not even just that, literally every one of your senses is focused on him, all your skills attuned to him, feeding you never ending information about how the city reflects in his glasses, all his smallest micro-expressions, how slender the cigarette is in his fingers, how deeply he inhales it, how the dark circles around his eyes somehow make him look younger instead of older - if you were to visualise the scene harry literally would not take his eyes off kim. and the way kim opens up! and even compliments harry! it's so intimidate, so tender. when I played the game for the first time I really did not know anything about it and when I got to that scene I was completely struck by it, the first thing I did after was googling "disco elysium queer" or something. and after this scene it just kept going, so much growing longing in every thought, every interaction with kim. yes I know it's still not obvious to everyone who plays the game, but as a queer person who knows this subtle desire bleeding through your subconscious when you're not ready yet to look at it in the daylight, this love that dare not speak its name - there's no way not to recognise it. and it's so beautifully done, too, there's no question about authorial intent, this doesn't happen by accident. even taken out of context, but especially within the context of harry's confusion about his own sexuality, the smoker on the balcony, kim's homosexuality, harry's censoring of homophobic slurs as the only thing that gets censored in the whole game, the focus on harry and kim being the target of homophobic slurs throughout the whole game in general, all the flirtatious little moments between them - it is text. it only gets reinforced by the subtext, like kim's saviour halo explicitly linking him to dora via portraying him as another person harry turns holy in his heart (and the metatext, because everything the devs have ever said about it only supports this reading (which isn't even a reading, it's just there, it's the game)). anyway my point is they were insane for all of this but the scene on the balcony in particular

#don't mind me I'll just never get over this #disco elysium #kim kitsuragi #harry du bois #op #*#**

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hansolmates · 4 years

Text

busted in busan

summary; you’re snowbound at the airport, when the only thing you want is to be homebound. your anxieties heighten as the snow rises, worried that you won’t make it in time for christmas where your fiancé and his parents expect you—picture perfect. when all flights are cancelled due to a massive storm, you have to turn to the hands of an unlikely, hard-headed hero who knows the fastest way out of busan (and into your heart) pairing; jungkook x (f) reader genre/warnings; a christmas detour!au, fluff, angst, slice of life, strangers to lovers, enemies to lovers, pining, this is a total romcom, hallmark movie galore! tw–microcheating (or not however you look at it) mentions of sex, making out, profanity w/c; 10k a/n; for @suhdays holiday hallmark event! this event was totally up my lane, i couldn’t wait to post it! a huge thank u for @eerieedits for making this wonderful fic banner! this is totally unedited, i’ll to go back to it tonight but pls enjoy! for those of u who need a little more christmas charm this year, this is for u

if you loved this icy couple, please consider giving it a like n’share!⛄⛄⛄

“The Korean Air 1102 flight from Gimhae International Airport to Incheon International Airport will be delayed six hours due to the intense weather conditions. Please be on standby for any further updates.”

You’re twitching, fighting the urge to nibble on your nails because you’ve just got them done for Christmas. They’re a sleek champagne gold, because your fiancé insisted that they’re far more mature than your usual red and brown reindeer art. This is awful, and is only going to get progressively worse as the snow builds and builds. Right now the weather isn’t that bad, the snow isn’t even sticking to the ground and—oh.

Gnawing at your lip, your fingers brush over the cold window, a clear view of the landing strip you should currently be boarding. The touch is icy, and the pads of your fingers are enveloped in little rings of fog at the sudden warmth nudging the glass. Upon closer inspection and a squint of your eyes reveal that in fact, the snow is now sticking to the ground. Big, fat clumps are covering the freeway and destroying your Christmas plans.

Your fiancé will understand if you’re a little late for their Christmas Eve party, but you’re not sure if his parents will. You’ve been on livewire all week, wanting to at least spend the morning of Christmas Eve with your family back home. Knowing that your fiancé’s Christmas Eve party would run until very late, you booked a noon flight with enough time to get ready and impress his parents. Evidently, it was an ill-prepared idea.

Immediately falling into your terminal’s line, you hope that you can talk with the receptionist in hopes they could put you at ease.

“How soon will you announce our flight’s departure?” A sad smile.

“Is there any way you can put me on the next possible flight?” A shake of the head.

“Will the weather let up?” A frown.

Every bit of rejection weighs you down, and you’ve run out of questions to ask. For a receptionist, she’s not very receptive.

“C’mon lady, you’re holding up the line,” a voice tugs you from behind, “you’re not the only one who’s gotta get down to the city on Christmas.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, wanting to slap the rudeness off this man’s face. Instead of falling back in line, you move to the side to glare at him. He’s unfortunately attractive, albeit in a rugged sort-of way—nothing like your fiancé. The leather jacket that he carries tall is worn and crackly at the collar. Wavy dark hair he constantly has to hold back, a gesture that looks flirtatious and to your chagrin the receptionist is definitely recepting to him.

“Your refund should be processed in about two to four business days, Mr. Jeon,” the receptionist murmurs, the simultaneously sultry and chirpy voice making you twitch in your spot. Maybe if you drank a cup of tall, dark and handsome you’d be getting the same kind of treatment.

“Thanks,” he replies shortly, and it’s then you notice the extremely large luggage next to him. It’s the size of you, and despite the broad shoulders under the baggy jacket, he lugs it with careful force, making sure not to bump into anyone as he wheels it away from the counter.

It seems that your trainers have a mind of your own as you follow him down the terminal. He side eyes you as your feet pick up the pace to match his long legs, but he waits for you to say something first.

“Why did you ask for a refund?” you ask, frowning at him, “the flight is only delayed.”

He scoffs, “Do you see the snow? They’re just saying it’s delayed so they can hold onto your money a little longer. Besides, it’s a win-win. I get my refund sooner and some other poor sap can take the ticket and wait until five in the morning.”

“Five A.M.,” you exhale to yourself, slowing down.

It would be too late by then, far too late. Your shoulders slump, people start to bump into you without a care.

“Besides,” you hear his voice say from your stricken form, “I had a backup plan.”

That’s when your feet start to burn up, and you whip around to pump your legs, catching up with the man who’s already far down the hall. “What kind of backup plan?” you blurt, raising your voice because the crowds are starting to get noisier and deeper the further you follow him.

He hooks his lips into a confused frown, “You’re awfully nosy.”

“I’m in a pinch, my fiancé’s parents will kill me if I don’t show up to their party tonight.”

“Your fiancé’s parents… will kill you?”

“That’s an exaggeration,” you cough, immediately feeling self-conscious, “they’d kill me with their eyes. They’re really big, really pretty corporate people. They have high expectations for their future in-law.”

“Ah, and you're the country pumpkin who managed to sweep the rich guy off his feet?”

“Something like that,” you reply, rocking on your heels, “my dad was his dad’s former secretary, and we grew up together.”

The stranger with a plan stops in front of a long line. It’s so long that you’re not entirely sure where it leads to. People are piling out the door two at a time, and you can see they’re trying to get through the process as fast as possible. The window leading outside is blurry and caked in white ice. He hooks one leg over his luggage, the metal and plastic case is so high that his feet barely touch the ground. Like a kid with a flat scooter, he wheels himself through the line.

“These lines are for busses going in the direction of our flight,” he jabs a finger out the door, “if the flight got cancelled I was just going to ride one of these,” out of his pocket he pulls out two tickets, flicking it in front of your face.

“Are there any tickets left?” your eyes bug, and you immediately pull out your phone to reserve a spot.

“Nah, been booked since last month.”

It’s then that your eyes zero in on the second ticket he has in hand. Both tickets are addressed to the same name. You lower your phone in your pocket, narrowing your eyes. “Why do you have two for yourself?”

He pats his luggage as a response.

“That’s not fair!”

“It is when you buy it, sweetheart.”

“A literal human could be in that spot, wanting to go home for Christmas!”

“You’re just salty you don’t have a ticket, don’t take it out on my luggage,” he feigns a pout, rubbing the handle of the heavy container, “you’re hurting it’s feelings.”

It doesn’t take long for you and the stranger to reach the end of the line. To others in line the two of you look like two companions bickering good-naturedly, but in reality the only thing you want to do is slap that smug smile off his face.

“You want my ticket,” he states.

“I want your luggage’s ticket,” you bite back, staring petulantly at where he sits comfortably between the handle.

Unbeknownst to you, the man’s face morphs into a teasing grin upon seeing you glare a little too hard at the silver and black case. It just so happens that your eyes gravitate to the middle of the luggage, at the apex between his long legs leading up to a pair of black sweats. Despite the soft, baggy fabric you can see how the bulge of his thighs outline the thin cotton, looking large and inviting which—

Fuck. You’re engaged. Why are you checking out some stranger’s thighs? Your fiancé also has nice thighs, think about those!

“How much do you want for it?” you cough, crossing your arms and turning to the side to hide your flaming cheeks.

“Who said I was offering?”

“I’ll pay that and then some.”

“With your rich-boy’s money?”

If your hands were not digging into your elbows and you weren’t so concerned about your gold-foiled manicure, you’d deck him. Do the holidays normally make this person so snappy? He simply flips his hair, and you catch the shaved ends of his sides.

“Three-hundred,” he says easily, and if he notices you staring he doesn’t say anything, “including any extra fees for my luggage.”

“Done,” you hold out your hand for him to shake.

“I’m Jungkook, if you care,” the man named Jungkook adds wryly, practically swallowing your small hand with his larger one. You shortly reply with your name, and he merely nods, “a thank you would suffice.”

“Thanks,” and it’s then that you manage a scarily pretty smile, one that Jungkook finds both alarming and amusing. It’s a catered smile, one that you’ve trained yourself to accomplish after hours in the mirror in fear of your fiancé’s parents seeing right through you. It’s the smile you give during work when you don’t give a shit but you need to suck it up. It’s a 9/10 success rate.

“Scary,” he shivers, and then you realize he’s the 1/10.

The only bus for you two to pile on is one of the smallest. Probably half the size of a regular coach bus, but at this rate you don’t care. You’ll fly by hot air balloon if the weather wasn’t so crappy.

“Taehyung!” you startle at Jungkook’s sudden belt, and he does a big, beefy-chested bro-hug to the driver. Ah, so he has connections. You watch the two interact from your corner, pulling up your hood to stop the rapidfire snowflakes from pelting your eyes.

The driver is a classically handsome thing, dark eyes and dark fluffy hair. His paperbag pants look absolutely frigid however, and his teeth are chattering as he regards Jungkook with annoyed eyes.

“Listen, so plans have changed—”

“As always, Kook.”

“—and I need you to do me another solid. Do you have room in the compartment for my babies?”

“The answer is, and always no. That’s why you bought two tickets.”

“I know but,” he gestures to you with a jab of his thumb, “like I said, plans have changed.”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung frowns, “trying to do some Christmas miracles? In this snowstorm?” Taehyung shakes his head, eyes flickering to the running bus. Most of the ticket holders are already on it. “I can save you two a three-seater, but there’s no room in the compartment. It’ll be a tight fight but—”

“It’s perfect. You’re dynamite, Tae,” Jungkook even has the audacity to reach his hands out and squish the driver’s cheeks, much to his distain.

The two of you are ushered quickly into the bus, leaving you in the very front diagonal to where Taehyung is sitting. The three seats are tiny, it probably barely fits Jungkook’s thighs with the large luggage nestled in the other two seats. The two of you suggest to put the luggage out in the aisle and take turns holding it, but Taehyung interjects that the luggage is a fire hazard.

“But not a human,” Jungkook decides, and he gestures for you to sit down in the available seat. You’re practically shoved against the window as Jungkook manages to squeeze his gargantuan luggage in the other two seats. He’s tall enough to grab the metal rungs of the bus, steeling himself in the middle of the aisle.

Taehyung doesn’t fight with that, and finally puts the bus into drive. Pulling out of the airport feels akin to leaving the eye of the storm. It’s going to be a long journey, and it makes you worry as to whether you’re going to make it on time or not.

Your favorite pastime is watching the window on a long car ride, especially when the snowflakes crystalize and melt away through the warmth of the vehicle. However, you’re irked. You thought Jungkook was a bit of a wank, a little too full of himself and far too mysterious for your own good.

Exhibit A, the luggage that’s currently threatening to wheel over and crush you against the glass. You wonder what’s so special about this luggage that Jungkook so desperately wants to protect, even so far as to buy its own seat. Sneakily, you lean over to smell the zipper. Surprisingly, it smells a little vinegary, the fumes getting you a little lightheaded within seconds. Your eyes dart to Jungkook, who’s currently engaged in conversation with Taehyung. You tilt your head and sniff again, confirming the slightly rancid smell.

It’s then you take in Jungkook’s form once more. He dresses a little schlubby, his clothes are old, his eyes are sunken in, and his luggage is filled with weird-smelling things.

Oh no. Is Jungkook a drug dealer?

Your fiancé’s parents would surely have a fit if this man gets arrested and you come up in the report as an accused accomplice. It makes sense, he would want to make sure that his goods are in his view at all times, and it explains why he so easily gave you his ticket for triple the actual price.

A giggle interrupts your thoughts. Yes, a tired, yet bubbly giggle. Jungkook’s face is pressed against his bicep, and you catch the fluttering of his eyes as he tries to keep up with Taehyung’s rambling. His grip is starting to loosen on the metal bars, and you’re worried that he might accidentally slip, or not hold tight enough in the event the car takes a sharp turn or slips on black ice.

“J-Jungkook,” it’s the first time you’re saying his name out loud, tasting it on your tongue as you regard him steadily, “why don’t we take turns sitting? I don’t mind standing for an hour while you sleep.”

He regards you with a sleepy smirk, shaking his head against the fabric of his jacket. “You’ll be flung in two seconds, besides can you even reach the handles?”

Good point, but Jungkook is far more muscular and if he does end up flying he’ll crash through the window and further hinder your commute. It’s why you choose your next words carefully, and you convince yourself it’s the only reason as to why you propose your solution.

“I’ll sit on your lap,” and since it sounds super weird coming out of your mouth, you tack on, “I’ll put your jacket over your lap as a barrier.”

He slacks, regarding you with a scrunched face. “Is the jacket supposed to make that situation any better? I’m fine standing like this.”

“This ride is going to take hours and you’re barely on your own two feet,” your point is made when the bus topples over a speed bump, and Jungkook looks awfully small as he moves to grapple the top bar with both hands, “my fiancé doesn’t get jealous, I’ve sat in plenty of friend’s laps before.”

“We’re not friends,” he blurts with a raise of his brows.

“Yes, I know that,” you’re a little insulted by the curt reply, but he still looks rather horrified that you’re proposing the following, “I don’t like it either, but I’m sitting in your seat and now I’m feeling guilty as hell.”

It’s a lot of shuffling and shifting after that. You try not to laugh as Jungkook rips off his leather jacket, folding it into a perfect square, ironing out the corners of the crinkly fabric as he gestures for you to take a seat. You try not to take note of how sturdy his thighs are, or how the muscle stretches across the seat so well that there’s no way for you to fall between the cracks.

“You’re going to sleep anyway,” you try to assure him, side eying him as he presses his forehead against the window, “it’ll be like being with a dead body.”

“Didn’t know you were into necrophilia, but whatever floats your boat,” Jungkook mumbles, eyes immediately fluttering shut.

At first it was easy, ignoring the fact that you’re sitting on top of a human. The drive seems endless however, Taehyung driving further and further into a sea of white ice. You force yourself to thread your fingers together, sitting on the very edge of his knees with your back ramrod straight. Eventually, you tire out and relax against Jungkook’s lax body. Your face is centimeters away from Jungkook’s. Long, dark lashes, and a strand of equally dark hair falls in front of his eyes. His cheeks are flushed from the blaring heater, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

Hm, for a drug dealer, he smells pretty.

Despite the weird-smelling luggage that looms over the two of you, the white long-sleeved shirt he wears is soft to the touch and smells fresh.

You huff, and shift in your seat.

“Stop,” Jungkook mumbles into your shoulder, and you don’t have the heart to look at him.

“I’m sorry, it’s cramped,” you reply.

“I get that, but you don’t have to—hike yourself so far up here,” he sounds almost embarrassed saying it, and his hand shuffles to adjust his belt. “Literally can’t sleep because you’re making me pop a boner.”

“Why, I’m engaged!”

“God, I know. It’s like your personality trait or something,” Jungkook retorts, “just because you’re engaged doesn’t stop my body from reacting. I’m sure your fiancé has reacted like this, stop acting like a blushing virgin.”

You tense, your eyes glued to the window in front of you. How do you even make a comeback to that? Wringing your hands in your lap, you feel your palms sweat with nerves the longer it takes for you to reply. This causes the gears to run in Jungkook’s mind.

“Holy fuck, have you two not—”

“Shut up,” you hiss, turning your body around to slap him in the chest, “shut up shut upupupshutup!”

You make seething, burning eye contact with Jungkook. You expect him to have a shit-eating grin on his face, teasing you for your relationship. Instead, Jungkook is wide-eyed, mouth parted open like a confused guppy and his big bug-eyes looking stricken. He says nothing.

The road starts to get bumpier, and the drive swerves from time to time to avoid black ice. Neither of you are relaxed. Combined with the heart of the storm, your heart is currently wrung on electrical wire, pumping blood with a fervor you cannot stifle.

“I’m going to put my arms around your waist,” Jungkook murmurs softly, and you lift your arms slightly to see him lace his fingers over your belly button. “Like a seatbelt.”

You sigh, relaxing in his hold. Now it’s awkward. He feels compelled to hold you to keep you safe, even though he clearly finds it awkward you’ve already put him in this position.

Jungkook isn’t so bad, you think as you let your gaze linger on his hands. They anchor you to his lap, making sure you’re not jostling during the ride. He may have a razor sharp tongue and gets under your nerves just for the heck of it, but he’s kind of nice. Under the prickly leather jacket, there’s a softness to him you can’t help but gravitate to.

It’s dark outside, save for the speedily descending flakes and the dim lights of the highway. You’re sitting on the lap of a total stranger, yet it’s a stranger who’s holding your waist like he’s a seatbelt, a stranger who’s making you feel safe to say the words that have been haunting you for the past few months.

“I’ve tried to initiate sex,” you finally say. “I don’t know why he doesn’t want me, it’s already been two years.”

Your eyes turn red with bloody horror. Your vision blurred by the insanity of what you’ve just blurted out to this surprisingly kind stranger who’s offered his seat (both times) to you.

“I didn’t mean to word vomit like that. Forget I said anything—”

“Must be his loss,” Jungkook cuts you off, and when he says it doesn’t feel impolite at all. However, Jungkook doesn’t continue on, doesn’t give you rhyme or reason, just lets you linger on his reply like a madwoman.

Maybe it’s because you’re so touch starved, maybe you’re just seeing things, but for some reason Jungkook’s fingers feel more apparent against the seam of your jacket. They tighten a fraction, drum around the metal zipper that holds the thick fabric together. Your palms feel like a fountain, and you try to ignore the burn between your legs, the liquid heat betraying the commitment that sits on your finger.

You’re engaged to be married, you chastise yourself. All eighteen carats that symbolize that bond glare at you, bright and eager to make you feel guilty. The whole reason why you’re on this cramped bus ride is to get to your soon-to-be husband. Some pretty stranger with strong hands won’t change that.

“We’re here! Finally!” Taehyung cheers, and you realize now that you’re parked into a tunnel surrounded by other buses.

Jungkook and you wait until everyone steps off the bus. The pads of Jungkook’s fingers play an unsung tune, absentmindedly drumming to a song you can’t put your mind to.

“God, you can’t just pay the extra money for someone to take care of this?” Taehyung hauls the large luggage in the aisle seat, and you feel like you’re being revealed under a curtain, doing something you’re not supposed to be doing.

You hop off his lap, scoop your backpack in your arm and scramble off the bus. The cold, winter air bites into every available pore in your body, replacing the warmth that Jungkook gave in the tiny bus. You hike the collar of your oversized turtleneck higher up your chin, prickling in shivers as you wait for Jungkook.

“I don’t remember Seoul being this, empty,” you say to yourself, frowning at the lack of humans past the bus station. You peer curiously at the dark, dark road off the terminal. There’s no flicker of light, or a skyline filled with bustling sounds and flickering head beams.

“That’s because we’re only halfway there,” Jungkook walks past you, luggage in tow.

“What?” you pull out your phone, it’s already 4PM and it’s pitch dark outside.

The snow is beating down as you two speed walk out of the hangar, reaching a nearly vacant parking lot save for a pure white minivan. You barely notice the vehicle with all the snow, blending in perfectly as wave after wave of ice beats down on it. The pops of rust by the tires, gaudy orange stripes is the only thing you can focus on as you try to make it to the car as fast as possible.

“Get in and start the car,” Jungkook practically shoves the keys in your hands, gesturing for you to take the passenger seat.

When you enter his car, you’re hit with a scent scarily identical to the one in Jungkook’s luggage. You nearly gag when you inhale too much, and your eyes flicker over to the lemon air freshener attached to the exhaust, trying its best to mask the smell. You vaguely remember all the warning stories your parents told you as a kid—never enter the white van.

Ohmygod, you’re in a white van and all of Jungkook’s drugs are in the back.

You shake your head, willing the car to start as you arch your back over the console to start it up. You’ve been around your fiancé’s parents too long, letting them fill your head with judgemental gab and crazy assumptions only rich people have about people lesser than them.

Once the car spurs to life, soft holiday music plays from a pop station. The front window of the car is absolutely covered in snow, you can’t even budge the windshield wipers to scrape the layer of ice off.

Suddenly, a blanket of ice slides off the window, swept to the concrete. You’re met with Jungkook’s toothy smile and horror-esque stare, and you have this jerk reaction to nervously laugh and jump in your seat. Your nails dig into the cheap fabric of your seat as Jungkook’s scary expression melts into a more softened one, as if happy to have gotten you to laugh in such sucky times. Jungkook continues to brush your windows, meticulously making sure no ice can cause any damage as you two go into the night.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road!” Jungkook whips the door open, throwing the snow brush at the space between your feet.

As soon as he shuts the door, your stomachs growl simultaneously.

The two of you break into a quick laugh, giggles that overlap the twinkly holiday chimes and the packed snow crunching under Jungkook’s boots.

“After McDonalds,” Jungkook declares, setting up the GPS for a quick pitstop to the nearest fast food joint.

Ten minutes into the drive, you pull into a generic food joint, too starved to find gourmet McDonalds. You make it a point to flick your card and lean over his body to meet the cashier, telling him you’re spotting the meal. Jungkook doesn’t complain, and tells the cashier to add in a vanilla sundae for good measure.

Color yourself impressed, but you can’t help but gawk as Jungkook expertly sets up his food on the dashboard like a five-star meal, with fries in the cupholder and a burger unwrapped perfectly to catch any spills and to keep his fingers from getting greased up. For such a terrible snowstorm, he pulls out of the joint gracefully, a brief intermission in your long journey.

“So, is my fiancé’s place far from where you need to be?”

Jungkook shrugs, a stray fry hanging from his mouth. “It’s not far, not close either. I don’t mind, I like driving.”

“Do you drive around a lot?”

“Yeah, for work. It’s a little annoying that I have to spend Christmas alone, but it is what it is.”

Pausing on your speculation, you take a big bite of your burger. You were hoping that your conversation would spur on a little more detail about his drug-esque job. However, all you start to feel is the heaviness of your fast food meal, stemming from your chest and filling your grease-filled stomach.

“You’re spending Christmas alone?” you say, and you don’t mean to sound so sad saying it, but the thought of him being alone tonight makes you feel pinched with pain.

“I can practically feel your puppy-eyes,” Jungkook shakes his head, not even needing to look at you as he focuses on the road. “I’m fine, don’t you worry.”

“Do you wanna come to the party?” you offer, trying to sound as neutral as possible as you throw the suggestion on the dash.

“Not my thing,” Jungkook scrunches his nose, “with my line of work, I prefer to lay low.”

Trying not to feel a hurt by the sudden (but expected) rejection, you practically eat your burger whole, eyes glaring on the road. You surmise it’s a valid excuse, drug dealers aren’t exactly one for highly-populated areas and with your fiancé’s reputation, you’re sure his parents would smell Jungkook’s reputation in a micro-minute.

The drive isn’t anything special. You’re sure if it were spring, the foliage would be pretty and the sun would be setting into melty orange hues by now. It’s all black and white, boring shades that are aggressively pelting at the van and hindering your evening.

“So, what other character traits do you have?” Jungkook cuts through your semi-brooding, as easily as one slices through butter, “other than the obvious that you’re engaged, and that you’re getting married. And oh yeah, you have a fiancé!”

You scoff at his cheesy joke, folding your arms together. “I like spending time with my family. Watching movies under a weighted blanket. Plants.”

His stare dips away from the road for a fraction, enough for you to catch that he’s rolling his eyes, “Fascinating. Not a plant person myself. I like those cute little succulents though. Had a bunch of those in college.”

“I am also a ramen connoisseur,” you say pointedly, turning up your nose.

“Ah, are you?” you smile a little when you see Jungkook’s eyes light up at the mention of food, “what’s the criteria for good ramen?”

“Deep, creamy broth. Also, the egg. Gotta look like a custard-y, eggy sunset. It’s just,” you smack your lips together, mimicking a chef’s kiss, “perfect.”

He chuckles, and goes on to tell you a story about a ramen shop he’s visited on his travels. It’s one he declares that you need to visit, one he still dreams about often. It takes a ferry and it’s a bit of a trek, but he says it’s worth it, and the eggs are as custard-y and sunset-y as you’d like.

It’s between pockets of his story and pulling yourself out of this little bubble of a van you realize: are you flirting with Jungkook?

The longer this trip goes, the more your stares linger. They linger like the snow that sticks to the ground, unable to do nothing but cling. Layer after layer of confusing feelings, building up to a blizzard that you’re unable to quell.

“So, your family’s also going to be at your fiancé’s party?” Jungkook asks, poking at yet another one of your personal facets. He’s being blatantly nosy, yet neither of you seem to mind.

“Oh, no,” you shove your hands in your pockets, “they wanted to stay back in our hometown with the extended family. Y’know, the older members can’t really travel as much as they used to.”

“Ah, so you’re splitting up your time,” Jungkook drums his hands on the wheel, eyes drooped slightly as he continues along the monotonous road, “your fiancé couldn’t make it?”

“Couldn’t,” you reply lightly, “just, y’know, work.”

“Been there, done that,” Jungkook replies, “I’m sure he missed out though. What’s your family like? Are they the type to bake cookies until 3 A.M.? Oh, or do they get wine drunk and talk shit about their annoying cousins—”

“Jungkook,” the words fly out of your mouth before you can even think, “I’m engaged.”

The weight of your words holds differently now. A whole day has passed with this man, and you’ve developed an attachment that simultaneously scares and thrills you. Not an hour goes by that you have to think to yourself that you’re taken, to the point that you can’t even tell what’s in your head and what’s being spoken out in the air.

Instead of a snippy comment, a snarky retort of, “I know, I know!” like you anticipate, Jungkook stops the car.

There’s no human trace for miles, so it doesn’t scare you when he slows down and pulls off to the side. He gears the car into park, roughly pulling the handle. He lays his arm over the steering wheel, turning his body so he can face you fully. The heat in the car suddenly feels too cloying, and you shrink in the seat as he leans in on you.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, and from the looks of it, he’s genuinely hurt.

“I—Jungkook,” you plant your feet on the ground, trying to find some power in this situation, “I mean I, we—you just can’t keep doing this.”

“Do you feel like I’m trying to steal you away? Or, seduce you or something?” Jungkook is starting to talk himself into a stupor, eyes flickering from the window, to you, to behind you, and back to you. It’s almost jarring, seeing how self-conscious he starts to get without the presence of an audience. Gone is the smooth talker that you met at the terminal, willing to haggle it all for your cash. “Are you uncomfortable? Is it weird I have a crush on you?”

“Wait, you have a crush on me?”

He reels back, nearly pressing his head against the window. Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, exhaling deep from his lungs. “Adults still get crushes, y’know.”

“Yeah, but not to people you met eight hours ago.”

Jungkook arches a brow, “People fall for people in the most unlikely of ways.”

That singular statement hits you, hard.

Jungkook looks like he wants to get out of the van. He seems stuffy, and he unzips his coat and shoves it under his legs.

“You’re cute,” he echoes the statement like he can’t believe that in a short amount of time, he’s attached to you, “you seem to have good taste, you love family, and your personality isn’t half bad,” the last bit is meant to be teasing, a lighthearted way to end his bout of emotion, but it only makes you ache further, “And it makes me upset knowing that you have to keep convincing yourself that you’re in a relationship that isn’t as fulfilling as you hope. This whole drive, you’ve been anxious about going to his parents, worrying that you’re not going to make it on time instead of relaxing with your family. Where you actually want to be.”

“I also want to be with Jimin,” you say weakly, a half-hearted attempt to defend yourself.

You never mentioned your fiancé’s name until this point. It makes Jungkook stiffen a little, finally putting a name to the man that’s supposed to have your heart. It makes the relationship concrete, palpable.

“I’m sure you do,” Jungkook smacks his lips, evidently sealing the conversation to suffocate under the snow.

Jungkook puts the car into drive, sliding back into your current route.

“And to answer your question, Jungkook. No, you having a crush on me is not weird,” and smaller, quieter, you reply, “because it’s weird that I might have a crush on you, too.”

You know that Jungkook catches your statement, because he cranks the volume of the radio harder, effectively shutting you out.

The first thing Jungkook says when you finally reach the Park’s house is: “Wow.”

His van looks completely out of place, parked on the side as limos and Escalades drop off more and more people into the large estate. It’s pouring with elegant piano music, and the large window in the middle of their home reveals a century-old chandelier, crystals beaming and winking against the hundreds of guests that lie underneath.

The rest of the way driving was almost painfully fast. After that awkward wave of emotion, neither of you said anything. Well, you didn’t at least. Jungkook attempted to clear the air by singing along to the Christmas songs on the radio, but it only further attracted you because to your chagrin—Jungkook’s a pretty good singer.

The estate isn’t in Seoul persay, it’s a sizable plot of land that definitely comes from old money. It’s decked up like the North Pole, lit up and tiny crystal lines dotting the expanse of the rooftops. The snow certainly adds to it, and many guests are outside taking pictures of the picture-perfect holiday show. The blizzard has finally subsided, leaving a clean blanket of snow across their yard.

You scoff to yourself. What they find to be a Christmas miracle only derailed yours.

Jungkook stares at you while you send a quick text to Jimin. You tell him he needs to come fast, because you don’t want his parents to see you all sweaty and dressed like you’ve been traveling for hours.

“Oh, uh,” you finally take a look at him, and you immediately regret it because you’re getting sucked into his gaze, “I think you put my bag in the trunk?”

“Right,” he shakes his head, “follow me.”

He tilts his head down when he’s outside, as if the snow’s going to start back up and drown him. Your thumb scratches the ring on your finger as you hop out of the van, effectively popping the bubble the two of you have been sealed in for the better half of the evening. Is this going to be it? Is the last you’ll see of Jeon Jungkook?

All those thoughts evaporate when Jungkook opens the trunk.

There’s no drugs.

In fact, you don’t even know what to think. The van is absolutely filled, wall-to-wall art supplies and canvas carefully lined up like Tetris blocks to avoid damage. The floor of the van seems to receive the brunt of the messes, and you catch recent paint stains and spray cans stacked to the side. It explains the smell.

There’s some clear cases in a corner, protecting completed prints that are already framed. Your eyes cling to a vibrant hyacinth, coral and satin blue petals bunching in the middle of a black background. It’s absolutely gorgeous, if it wasn’t for all the paint lying around, you’d think it’s real.

Jungkook’s an artist.

“Holy shit, I thought you were a drug dealer,” you blurt, and you want to smack yourself in the face.

“Excuse me?” Jungkook jerks his head towards you, “did you think I was a drug dealer this whole time?”

“N-no,” you frown petulantly, letting Jungkook loop your arms through the straps of your backpack. “Maybe. You were very shady.”

He laughs, a genuine laugh. It confuses you, the way he tucks his hands in his pockets and bends his back over to look up at you through his dark lashes. It’s like nothing’s wrong, like he’s trying to erase the past eight hours and leave with no qualms. You don’t know if that comforts you or terrifies you.

“So, you were willing to let a potentially dangerous man be your travel partner for eight hours so you can make it to your fiancé’s party?” Jungkook’s eyes flicker over to the front door, “you must really love him.”

“I do,” you say the phrase like it’s second nature. Rehearsed. Practiced.

“Merry Christmas,” Jungkook pulls out his hand, and you don’t hesitate to grasp it.

Liquid heat sparks through your skin, one that tingles from where his large palm encases yours, all the way to your heart.

“Merry Christmas,” you echo, and your feet feel like lead as you back away from him.

Jungkook waits until you go inside the house, even though the valet is side eyeing him and mentally telling him to leave already. Turning your back to him is rough, like you’re without snowshoes and you’re trudging through snow.

The goodbye feels rushed. Your heart is cold and heavy. Unfortunately, by the time you realize you haven’t paid Jungkook for his bus ticket and the ride, it’s too late. Jimin has already pulled you in his awaiting arms, and Jungkook has peeled out of the driveway.

“You look awful,” Jimin coddles you, dusting the invisible dirt off your jacket. You know Jimin means well by the statement, but you can’t help but feel a little unsupported by his words. You did all you could to make it to Jimin in time for this party full of faceless, nameless people. And yet, Jimin inadvertently manages to put you down for finally making it.

The hallway is relatively empty, save for one staff member who cleans the wet linoleum floors whenever someone with snow steps in. You can easily make out where the heart of the party is, the tinkly holiday music playing from the speakers, along with all the bodies huddled by the extra large Christmas tree that is brimming with presents.

You do feel like a wet noodle, in comparison to Jimin and Namjoon’s complementary pinstripe suits. Jimin’s deep burgundy suit pops in the endless hallway of marble and light wood as he quickly leads you upstairs to a spare room for you to change. Namjoon’s more muted grey still looks stunning on him, cutting his tall figure nicely. You think it’s cute that Jimin made an effort to match with his assistant, not making him feel out of place in this big party.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Namjoon interjects softly, gesturing to the garment bag hanging on the boudoir, “I picked out your dress.”

“I’m sure whatever you bought is beautiful,” you assure softly, stepping fully into the room. It’s an extra bedroom, you’re assuming it might be yours.

“We’ll give you some time to freshen up and get ready,” Jimin squeezes your arm, a touch you can barely feel due to the puffiness of your down jacket. It’s just an awkward escape of air to you, a sssttt that you catch Namjoon hiding his smile for, “we’ll walk around a bit and bring you some food.”

“I want cupcakes,” you blurt impulsively, and the two of them laugh on their way out the door.

Once you’re finally alone, you strip yourself bare. Jacket, shirt, socks, underwear. You make quick work of taking a hot, damp towel to wash your arms and legs, scrubbing your face of any oil and dirt from the day. You wrap yourself in an indulgent fluffy robe, the plush material comforting you as you flop on the bed.

It’s been a day.

You take a five minute cat nap, the weight of the day taking its toll on you. When you finally flutter your eyes open however, you see him.

It’s not exactly him, it’s his art. It’s mounted right atop the headboard, a large blown up painting of a tiger lily. The orange and gold flecks flicker and go perfectly with the decor of the room. The piece is longing, aching for you to go back to two hours ago when you could’ve phrased your words better, balm the situation into something to salvage. This must be a sign, you think. Upon closer look, you see the signature Jeon JK etched in silver in the corner. Who knew the Parks were buying Jeon Jungkook’s work, the world is smaller than you’d originally thought.

It ignites you. You rip the zipper of the garment bag, pulling on the slinky glittery gold dress Namjoon picked out for you. It’s gorgeous, and you don’t know how he managed to find your proportions, but you figure an assistant of his caliber has access to many things. You don’t have much time, so you slap on some light makeup and swipe some highlights across your eyes. By the time Jimin returns, you’re pulling your hair up and out of your face.

Jimin walks to the bed with a pretty red velvet cupcake, “You look beautiful,” he says immediately, and you follow to sit with him at the foot of the bed.

You don’t hesitate to grab the cupcake from his tea plate, nearly shoving it in your mouth. You definitely need a rush, something to curb you over for the plans you have tonight. “Sugar sugar,” you chant like a mantra, and you don’t care that your lipgloss is smudged and crumbs cling to your cheeks.

Jimin just rubs circles onto your thigh, letting you eat and relax. He knows you’re not a fan of these kinds of parties, preferring to wallflower it, preferably at a wall closest to the buffet. His touch is comforting, and you chew slower in order to prolong the inevitable. It takes a beat for you to finish your cupcake.

“I need to talk to you,” the two of you blurt at the same time, and you point and giggle at each other like you’re still five year olds tinkering in the sandbox.

Jimin pouts, “Can I go first? Mine’s kind of important.”

“Mine’s also really important,” you don’t mean to invalidate Jimin, but you really need to get this out. “I might explode if I don’t say this now.”

The blonde scrunches his nose, obviously weak to your unusual distress, “I guess I wouldn’t want that.”

You clutch his hand, the hand that holds the plain wedding band he picked out for himself two years ago. Your eyes flicker to how your ring kisses his, “Jimin. I love you, like really love you. I can’t imagine my life without you, you’ve been my best friend since we could crawl. But as I traveled down here, I realized that even though I love you, I think I’m not in love,” you wince at how cheesy that sounds, “I don’t want you to feel like you’re not good enough, but the whole trip down here made me realize I don’t think I can commit to this.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” you gasp, watching relief wash over Jimin’s features. You’re not even done with your whole spiel and he’s already unbuttoning his blouse, “this makes what I’m about to say a whole lot easier.”

“Jimin,” you trail off, squeezing his palm, “what do you mean?”

“I mean, I think I’m in love.”

Your jaw slackens slightly, seeing the sweat that lines Jimin’s slicked back hair. He must’ve been thinking about this all night, waiting for you to tell you this. Your chest aches, weighing in on all the sudden facts. “Who is it?” you ask.

Jimin shrugs, “The man who does my taxes and makes sure I sleep at least seven hours a night.”

“Namjoon,” you conclude, eyes moving to the sealed door. You think Namjoon is waiting out there right now, silently supporting you two as you go through this. Of course, Jimin’s parents would be livid if anything would tarnish his reputation. A broken engagement would be sticky to cover up, and Jimin falling for his assistant is a headline right for the books.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin whispers, despite the room being vacant he feels the need to keep his words short, “You came all this way to hear this. But I guess we’re on the same page, huh?” His soft fingers make a beeline for your ring finger, removing the diamond band, “And by the way, I love you too. Which is why we’re going to come clean in the morning and work this out with my parents, together. I’m sorry if you felt obligated to follow me all this time just because our parents did.”

“Hey, like you said, we’re in this together. Both in and out,” you chastise, pulling your engagement ring from his grasp and holding it to the light. “Can I keep this? Instead of an engagement band, it can be our best friend band. I’ll even get it re-sized so it can go on another finger.”

Jimin pulls you into his arms, crushing you. The silky material of your dress bunches and rides, but you don’t care. The two of you can’t help but be a little crybaby-ish about it, feeling much like your younger-selves when you had to pull each other out of trouble.

The two of you walk out of the bedroom hand-in-hand, and Namjoon is leaning against the banister in the hallway, a soft smile melting on his tanned skin.

“I’m so happy for you,” you gush, hugging Namjoon tightly. You’ve only known the man for a few months, but you can tell he’s taking care of Jimin and that’s enough for you.

“I… really thought you’d be more upset.” Namjoon marvels, patting your back.

Jimin interjects, “I think she’s found someone hotter than me.”

“Impossible!”

You could stay at this party, lay low until you and Jimin have to confront his parents in the morning. They suggest to get all the food they need and sneak out to the home theatre. The three of you hustle it down the stairs to another part of the house, in order for you to make your getaway and avoid Jimin’s family.

“Hey,” you stop in front of another painting, pulling the two men to a stop. Your eyes lock on a framed droopy peony, tipped with pink dye. You realize you can’t stay here, not when someone’s home alone tonight. “Namjoon, I need you to locate someone for me.”

Jungkook does not expect to see you at his front door.

You’re stunning, and look as breathless as he feels. The liquid champagne number that hugs your frame does things to him, and he’s strangely attracted to the fact that you paired this expensive dress with your snow-drenched trainers.

You showing up at the wee hours of the morning was the last thing Jungkook thought would happen. It’s nothing short of a holiday event, you look like you’ve just walked out of a gala and then ran a marathon to reach him.

He thought when he said goodbye, it would be the last time you’d cross paths. At first, he was okay with that. After all, feelings come and go, and spontaneity only works a percentage of the time. Seeing you presently however, throws all those half-hearted concedings out the window.

“Hi,” you finally say, drinking from the fact that you actually found him.

“Hey,” Jungkook breathes, “you look, beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you smile.

“So, is this about you not paying me back for the ticket?” Jungkook suddenly feels guilty, having dipped out of Jimin’s manor once he saw him appear at the door. It was unrightful jealousy, and because of that he needed to drive away as fast as possible. “Because honestly, it was me messing with you. I really don’t need the money.”

“I figured, from the fact that I had to take the elevator up to the penthouse of the building.”

“So then why are you here?” Jungkook wobbles on the balls of his feet, unsure of what to do with himself.

“My ex-fiancé is in love with someone else,” you lay your cards out just like that, and Jungkook’s unprepared to deal.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry—”

“Let me finish,” you cut in gently, “my ex-fiancé is in love with someone else, and that’s okay. We’ve been best friends since we were little, and we want nothing but happiness for each other. And for me? Happiness is right in front of me.”

You bite your lip, and Jungkook fights down the urge to run up and pull you into his arms. You must be so cold, running out without a jacket and rushing to his home. However, he lets you finish, and he holds himself down by clutching the door frame as casually as possible.

“I also have a big, fat crush on you,” you say boldly, “and I had to tell you as soon as I could. It took a twenty-minute phone call and some serious leverage from Jimin’s company to figure out where you lived. That receptionist is definitely not letting me use my frequent flyer miles next flight.”

“You harassed an airport receptionist just for me?” he smiles wanly, placing a hand on his chest, “I’m touched.”

“You make me excited to try new things, to be spontaneous and do things for myself,” with every statement you take a step further, and soon enough you’re in his dimly lit apartment. The plush couch in his living room looks awfully warm and comfy, and the light music that plays from his speakers is soft and soothing. “So, let’s spend the holidays together and see where this goes. And go to your art gallery tomorrow, because I did research you on the drive and found out you had to rush here because of a big show.”

“So you’re actually a stalker?” Jungkook teases, tugging you over to the couch.

He takes the lead, plopping himself on the couch first and inviting you to sit next to him. You take a detour and plant your body atop of him, and with an ‘oof’ the two of you are sinking.

“A stalker and a potential drug dealer does sound like a promising pair,” Jungkook jests, his hand palming the silky material of your ruched up ball gown.

“I’m sorry,” you pout, wrapping your fingers around the long tresses of his hair, “can you please stop bringing that up? It was judgemental of me.”

“I like when you’re judgemental,” he pokes your puppy-faced cheeks, ruddied with embarrassment. “I like picking fights with you and getting you all riled up.”

“Will you rile me up now?”

Sexy, he thinks. He figures a vixen has been hidden under you, one suppressed by a complicated engagement and many other factors he’d love to learn about in the near future. The situation at hand however, is far more pressing. Your body is finally warming up, and Jungkook tries to ignore the weight your body is causing, re-igniting an ache he felt hours ago when you two were squished against each other in the coach bus.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you declare, and you look a little frustrated that Jungkook is taking so long to process this information, “and I hope I take your breath away.”

You taste like sugar and the softness that comes with the holidays. It’s tender and oh-so comforting, and Jungkook can’t help but squeeze your hips closer as your lips brush fervently against his. The feeling is both new and old, and Jungkook figures you’ve finally uncoiled a flame that you can no longer quell.

Soon enough your kisses turn hungry, and Jungkook has to remind himself that you two have only known each other for a total of twelve hours, and he isn’t sure of what’s appropriate to jump to due to the speed of your relationship. Once he feels the first roll of your hips, a liquid heat that Jungkook can’t help but return back, he pulls away from your soft lips. Not too far, but a few centimeters apart so that Jungkook and you can catch your breath.

“We should take this slow,” he starts, trying to make a reasonable impression now that you’re a guest at his home and finally settled from their long trip. “I really, really want to get to know you. And you’re so beautiful and I really do want to have sex but—”

“Jungkook, I have not had sex with someone in two years,” you speak with a depraved tone, as if it’s been centuries since you’ve been touched. He can’t help but throw his head back and laugh, “a night full of sex sounds like the best last-minute present ever.”

You bring his hand over to your core, the shiny glassy material of your gown doing nothing to hide the glimpses of pleasure you’re minutes away from experiencing. You whine desperately at the thought, and Jungkook’s a goner.

“Well, I guess I’m about to pull a Christmas miracle,” he murmurs against your lips, ready to work his magic.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook fic #kwritersworldnet #btsghostie #btswritingcafe #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts fic #bts x reader #bts fluff #bts angst

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snowdice · 2 years

Text

Messages from a Hacker (Part 5)[Folds in Time Universe]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan/Virgil

Characters: Virgil, Logan

Summary: Virgil has a presentation on his research. It’s streamed online.

Notes: Time travel AU, sort of stalkerish behavior, (not really because he is never attempting to acquire the information to get to Virgil and doesn’t pry into private things, but still watch it if it’s a trigger)

This is set during the story Folds in Paper

Virgil’s phone buzzed once as he was signing into his university account. He glanced at the notification briefly. ‘You’ll do fine.-L’

Virgil puffed out a breath. It was too late to respond to that, so he just turned his phone on silent as he pulled up his presentation. He didn’t want to be distracted by any other notifications while he was speaking.

The presentation slides loaded just fine, and the smallest amount of his worry faded away. Having his entire presentation suddenly self-destruct on some server somewhere before he could download it here had been the last major possible embarrassment his anxious mind had made up last night instead of sleeping. At least, the last major possible embarrassment that could happen before the presentation started.

He flipped through the slides a couple of times. Someone had already made sure everything was working, but it didn’t hurt to double check. He tripled checked with the person running the online stream of the presentation that they could see and hear him as well as see the slides change. She told him she could see and hear everything perfectly.

Today, Virgil was presenting on his latest published paper on the evolution of computers when the internet started to become mainstream. It should be no big deal. He was just presenting to students and colleagues about a topic he knew incredibly well. However, he was currently waiting on the last bit of approval for his summer trip that he was taking to build on the research he was talking about today, and the people who had the final say were currently in the audience…

So, mega anxiety time.

He’d barely even slept the night before making sure he had everything and there were no mistakes.

He was fully prepared to go with about 45 seconds to spare, but he felt like time was slowing down as his heartbeat sped up. He swallowed nervously and took a sip of his coffee. He grabbed his phone from where he’d laid it aside and glanced at the message from Lo again. With 30 seconds left, he sent a quick thumbs up back. Then, he put his phone down again.

He’d basically blacked out from a mix of anxiety and his teaching persona taking over at that point. Sure, he remember everything that had happened, but he had no idea at this point if he did well or not. He’d basically been on autopilot the whole time. He just knew he’d talked for 50 minutes and then left 10 minutes for questions, but none of it felt quite real. Then, he blinked, and it was over.

Well… not quite over. He still had to go to the little social thing with cookies the department always put on after big talks and pretend to be a normal functioning professional who totally did get more than 30 minutes of sleep last night. Yep… mhmmm. Tell me more about your new home security device, Todd, I’m very interested.

Finally, he managed to escape the hell that was social interactions on no sleep while coming down from an adrenaline high. He practically collapsed into his office chair. Now, he just had to get his stuff and take a quick 5-minute trip home by shuttle.

He grabbed his bag from where he’d left it that morning and went to slip his phone into it only to realize there was a notification he hadn’t noticed since he’d muted the phone for the presentation and then had been bombarded with people talking to him afterwards. It was another email from Lo.

‘You did well on your presentation.-L,’ it said.

Virgil frowned and typed out a message back. ‘How would you know? You weren’t there.-AM’

There was another email as he was locking his office door. ‘I watched the livestream of it.-L’ Another message came directly after that. ‘I hope that isn’t considered ‘creepy’ behavior. It was a public talk and you’d mentioned it, so I assumed it would be okay to attend. Apologies if I overstepped.’

‘It’s fine.-AM’ Virgil typed back.

‘Good.’

‘So, you really think it went well? I don’t even remember it if I’m being honest.-AM’

‘You did very well. Your work is very interesting, and you present it well despite your claims of being ‘too anxious to function.’-L’

Virgil felt his cheeks heat up a bit and distracted himself by swiping his card for the shuttle. ‘Thanks,’ he wrote once he was standing in the shuttle. ‘And thanks for watching it.-AM’

‘I enjoy hearing about your work. I’d like to hear more whenever you have the time.-L’ Before Virgil could respond to that, there was another message in his inbox. ‘Not today though. You did not sleep last night.’

‘Okay. Some other time.-AM’ Virgil wrote back. He couldn’t keep the smile of his face the whole ride home.

Want to read more? Click below!

Folds in Time Universe Master Post

My Main Masterpost

#sanders sides #logan sanders #virgil sanders #analogical #ts sides #folds in time universe #adriana writes #not pieces fic #time travel #stalking type behavior

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okay-j-hannah · 3 years

Text

Devout Hands & Rubied Apples

The Lord of the Rings : Fic

Faramir x Reader

Word Count: 3241

Warnings: Man I’ve always loved Faramir but holy frick I think he’d be such a loyal and caring husband 😭 I love wingman Boromir too

Request: “I’d love to request a Fic with Faramir where he and the reader (who was also apart of the fellowship) spend Aragorn’s coronation and the party that takes place after together. He’d slowly be building up the courage to confess how he feels while Boromir tries to be a good wingman. At the same time, Merry and Pippin are scheming ways to get them together. Just lots of fluff involving dancing, drinking, and cute interactions :)” @whitewolvesandwitches

A/N: In light of the Ring being destroyed, the fellowship find themselves in need of a new task. One appointed by Boromir to aide his brother in winning over the heart of their healer and friend

(Y/N) took it upon herself to assist in the infirmary as much as she could. After leaving the battlements relatively unscathed, ensuring the remnants of her fellowship were all right, she turned her attentions towards the wounded.

Upon entering the rows of stretchers enveloping the interior of Minas Tirith, she was quick to notice her companion Boromir. Strong and steady, the warrior was knelt over a makeshift cot wielding a man of similar fair hair.

“Boromir,” she muttered, resting a hand along his shoulders, “He will recover.”

The older man reached to touch her hand behind him, “I know. How could he not with you watching over him? You saved my life against the Uruk-hai, and you will save his life against my father’s poor judgement.”

(Y/N) frowned at the memory of being told the Steward had made Faramir’s condition worse even after sending him to his death at Osgiliath.

“I am flattered, but I’m sure he draws strength from your constant visits.”

“I would beg to differ,” the man she saw as a brother stated. He drew another stool closer as she took a seat to stay. “He is just as comforted by you as he is by me.”

(Y/N) moved a hand to feel the sickly brothers forehead. When she moved it towards his cheek, there was the smallest of movements as he nuzzled her palm in his sleep.

Boromir rested his elbows on his knees, covering his mouth with both his hands. His knowing eyes flickered to (Y/N)’s face, wondering if she’d have a reaction.

“What are you looking at with such a smile?”

“Oh, simply pondering your verdict.”

(Y/N) grinned back, “His fevers broken. It won’t be long before he’ll be walking about.” She let her hand linger perhaps too long on the scruff of Faramir’s cheek, for Boromir was clearing his throat and standing to leave.

“I must get back to the front. Aragorn is holding a council for his coming coronation.”

“Then get at it, Steward.”

Boromir flashed a grin, taking a light bow, “As you wish, Healer (Y/N). Keep my brother alive for me, will you?” He turned on his heel, trying to hide that smile that almost gave him away.

And watch over Faramir, (Y/N) did. Though attending to other duties with the quickly recovering survivors, she spent every sparing moment at his bedside. With him out of immediate danger, Faramir was moved to his own chambers, a soft pillow beneath his head and plenty of books for (Y/N) to choose from.

She became accustomed to a schedule of attending the infirmary then grabbing a tray of food and making way for Faramir’s room. She’d share a meal with him, trying to keep him awake longer and longer each day before he fell into another unconscious stupor.

When he did, she simply picked up the nearest book and read passages from it, sometimes saying them aloud to him. She found peace in those moments alone by his bedside. Chaos was attempting to be reined in by Aragorn, Boromir, and Eomer – the new lords of Middle Earth. And the sanctuary of Faramir’s chambers was always sought after a long day.

Though she was never far from boisterous visitors.

“Evening, (Y/N),” came the cheery voices of Merry and Pippin. “How are you?”

“Perfectly content,” she mused, placing a book marker on her current page, “What can I do for you?”

Merry put his hands behind his back, taking slow steps to Faramir’s bedside, “We were simply wondering when the last time you saw the light of day was.”

She laughed, curiosity peaked, “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“By our reckoning,” Pippin continued, at the foot of the bed, “You’ve done nothing but move between the infirmary, kitchens, and this room every day. You’ve done hardly anything else since the war.”

“We,” Merry gestured between himself and Pippin, “Are here to rescue you.”

(Y/N) sighed a smile, “I told you I am perfectly content sitting here. But thank you for showing such concern.” She had an impish tone to her words, “How are you healing, Merry?”

“Don’t you change the subject,” the hobbit retorted, “There is to be a party after Aragorn’s coronation, and you’ll have no one to see if you don’t leave this room to meet them.”

Pippin flickered his gaze between the bed and (Y/N)’s puzzled expression, but he added quickly, “There are many soldiers dying to meet the one that healed them after the field.”

She couldn’t see how Merry stamped on Pippin’s large foot. They weren’t supposed to encourage meeting other men of the field.

“You know I’ve got plenty of friends that’ll be there.” She thought of the fellowship and how joyous their reunion had been when the Ring was destroyed. “And I don’t much fancy being sought after by a handful of injured soldiers.”

“And why not?” came Faramir’s quiet voice from the bed covers, “Surely these soldiers have won the honor to seek your hand.”

“Oh, Faramir!” she said, standing to reach his forehead, “How are you feeling? You slept far longer this time.”

The young captain, though healed of his injuries, was still pale and weak from weeks stuck in a bed. “I’m all right. Your book reading keeps me well asleep.” He lingered his weary blue eyes on her expression, not wishing to do anything that would make her retract her hand from his face.

She was oblivious to how he was looking at her.

“Well, aren’t you going to answer his question?”

Merry stamped on his companions foot again.

“Oh, well…” (Y/N) seemed a bit flustered by the question, “I’ve never been one for courting, especially by strangers.” She moved her hands back into her lap and Faramir felt his brows slant in longing.

Merry and Pippin flipped their gazes between the two, peculiar smiles on their faces. Similar to the one that Boromir usually bore when he visited.

“What are you up to?” She questioned, “There is more than simply getting me out of this room.”

“You got us,” Merry resigned in mock defeat, “We need to get you out for a particular reason.”

“We need to speak to Faramir,” Pippin said in a rush, unable to conceal his excitement. A swift smack from his friend made him yell out, “Ow! What was that for?”

Merry sighed, “You have no tact, Pippin. Must be a Tookish trait.”

(Y/N) couldn’t help but laugh at her friends banter. The lovely sound made Faramir return his tired gaze to her.

“You could have just said so,” she said. “I have made promises to set up the festivities with Eowyn. Perhaps I’ll seek her out and start early.”

And once she had left, the hobbits were quick to let out the breaths they had been holding. Faramir, though still exhausted from his lack of energy, laughed at them. “I have a feeling Boromir has something to do with this.”

And speak of the man, Boromir inched his way into the room, looking around him as if to see if someone had spotted him yet. “Are we alone?”

“Completely,” Merry muttered, “(Y/N)’s off to find Eowyn.”

“Don’t worry, Faramir,” Pippin consoled his friend, “We’ve been putting in the good word for you the entire time you were ill.”

The poor man appeared entirely bewildered, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, “Good word?”

“Listen to me, brother,” Boromir said, a kind of light in his eyes. “The opportunity is almost ripe for the taking. The coronation is in just a few days, and that will be when you strike.”

“Strike?”

“We’ll all be there if you need us,” Merry continued, “We’ve just got to get you up and about. You still look like death.” Him and Boromir offered to help Faramir into a sitting position.

Such small a movement and it had Faramir straining, “I still don’t understand.”

“(Y/N)!” Boromir stated with such excitement, “Now is the time to confess your feelings for her.”

That woke him up real quick. “(Y/N)? Have you three been scheming behind my back?”

“Only because you were on your deathbed,” Pippin shrugged.

Faramir ran a hand over his face, taking a deep breath, “I couldn’t possibly… how would I… like (Y/N) would actually…”

“Relax, Faramir,” Boromir smirked, “I don’t believe you have anything to worry about.”

“You should have seen her,” Merry sucked in his lips in exuberance. “She paid such special attention to you out of all the survivors.”

“Which brings us to why you have to get up, Faramir,” Pippin stated, “There’s a lineup of soldiers talking of charming (Y/N) at the coronation. You have to be better by then to take them on!”

Boromir raised a hand, seeing the slight panic entering his brothers face, “There’s no need to pick a fight with every man that comes her way. Because I am sure (Y/N) will pick you regardless.”

“You’re sure?” Faramir asked, almost breathless in his growing anxiety. “How could you possibly be sure?”

“You were not awake,” Boromir had a wicked grin, “She clearly has feelings for you. She is simply not as vocal about them.”

Merry urged him on, “I don’t see (Y/N) staying in any of her other injured soldiers rooms.”

The coronation was a celebration beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings. Aragorn was crowned King Elessar amongst a flurry of pale petals and ecstatic subjects. Friends and acquaintances gathered from every stretch of the map, offering bows of good faith and trust.

(Y/N) stood diligently beside those members of the fellowship she cherished most. Boromir clapped boisterously, whistling loudly above the cheers. It made (Y/N) smile.

Amongst the chaos, Boromir leaned around to get a better look, grasping someone near him and trading places. This new person bumped right into (Y/N), stumbling and finding that it was Faramir his brother had traded places with.

He gave her a sweet, apologetic smile, as if to say, “My brother is a menace.”

She blushed back, taking a step away from brushing shoulders with him only to discover Legolas standing steadfastly beside her. She caught a questioning, slightly smug, look on his face before retreating back to being shoulder to shoulder with Faramir.

She couldn’t possibly have noticed the minute glance the elf gave to Boromir over their heads.

And the newly made King Elessar came walking among his subjects, the fair lady Arwen on his arm. He peered at her delicate, radiant face with such devotion that it made (Y/N) blush. She could feel heat radiating off Faramir’s body against her shoulder.

She sneaked a glance and caught him staring at her, even as the King and his Queen trailed past. Faramir couldn’t seem to look away and in an attempt to appear normal, started clapping along with the crowd. (Y/N) couldn’t put her finger on it, but the expression on his face reminded her of the look on Aragorn’s only moments before.

When he looked upon his queen.

The festivities that followed were as celebratory and raucous as you’d believe, especially with friends such as Boromir and Gimli around.

(Y/N) had quietly followed Faramir and Legolas into the throne room, which had been decked especially for the occasion. A large feast surrounded them, fiddlers and minstrels in the corner, and grand chandeliers of candles above.

She found that within an instant Legolas had mumbled an excuse to leave, putting her and Faramir alone and at the edge of the party. She kept her hands folded and in front of her, a shawl gracing her back and elbows. A circlet of golden leaves and rubied apples surrounded her head, an extravagance that Eowyn insisted upon.

“Healers,” she had said. “You never do anything for yourselves.” And she proceeded to dress her friend in fine white gold and cornsilk trimmings.

It was Faramir that attempted speech first, “The crown you wear, I recognize it.” He had to lean forward slightly to be heard over the feast. “It is quite beautiful.”

(Y/N) hoped the dimness of the candles hid the crimson on her cheeks, “Thank you. Eowyn took it upon herself to dress me. She says infirmary aprons are not acceptable.”

Faramir laughed, “It suits your complexion.”

She swallowed hard; there was no way her cheeks were as red as those rubied apples. In a moment of silence she straightened the circlet nervously. Faramir appeared to notice as he opened his mouth to speak.

But (Y/N) got there first, “Eowyn told me of the summer wine.” She gestured to a table across the hall, “I simply must try some.” And she vanished in a flurry.

It was incredible how quickly his companions surrounded his shoulders.

“That could have gone better,” Boromir stated grimly, clapping his brothers arm. “I approve of the compliment though.”

“How could you possibly hear us over this crowd?”

Merry pulled himself onto a table of desserts, Pippin not far behind with a fruit pie in hand. “You’ve got her all in a tither already.”

“I’m scaring her,” Faramir frowned, trying to glimpse her golden crowned head amongst the wine glasses.

“You’re flustering her, brother, there’s a difference.” Boromir stroked his scruff, observing the surroundings. “We’re going to have to evade her defenses.”

Pippin popped a blueberry, “Back to the ways of the Green Dragon.” The hobbits shared a gleeful glance, skittering off towards the minstrels.

“What are you planning?” Faramir fretted, not wishing to frighten (Y/N) further.

Boromir waved an impatient hand, apparently deep in strategic thought, “It was not my idea. Though a clever one.”

“Must you be so vague.”

The line of fiddlers shifted in their seats, a new merriment in how they held their bows. Their hobbit friends trailed from them, grasping mugs of ale and finding the tallest table they could stand upon.

A quick, rousing tune filled the air and Faramir recognized it immediately as a sort of line dance. One that included trading partners and flying feet.

“Dancing is not…”

“It is exactly how we’ll sneak you into (Y/N)’s arms.” Boromir grasped his brothers shoulders and shoved him towards the forming circle of people. Merry and Pippin were on their stage, beginning a drinking song of the Shire.

He could already see a pale faced Eowyn greeting (Y/N) and gesturing towards the center of the room.

“Excellent,” he muttered, much to Faramir’s anxiety. “Hold her swift and don’t let go.”

A billow of fabric and laughs consumed Faramir, quickly caught by a fellow Gondorian. He looked at her petite frame surprisingly but recognized her friendly face. They danced a few paces, him memorizing the moves before passing her along – this new partner an acquaintance from Rohan.

Clapping and cheering surrounded them, the hobbits hyping the crowd with bellowing lyrics and chugs of ale. Faramir felt himself loosen as he grinned and tapped toes with different partners. He recognized many friends and shared a few laughs, though an old arrow wound flared in his leg.

He spun and found himself in front of (Y/N) – she was flushed from the dancing, but a delighted twinkle was in her eyes. He continued to smile brighter, taking her hand and twirling her as the dance instructed.

A laugh came from her strawberry rouged lips and he relished the noise, less afraid to grasp her waist as they danced about the hall. When the time came for him to pass her to the next soldier, he found himself simply trading places with him.

(Y/N) peered at him with a comical gaze, “That is cheating.”

Faramir shrugged, taking the liberty to twirl her again, “I simply could not let you go.”

This time she did not mind the butterflies in her stomach, choosing to grin back at him instead of running away. They danced like that, Faramir continuing to jump places with the soldiers so she only partnered with him, until the music died away with a flourish.

Everyone clapped, (Y/N) and Faramir included, neither seeming able to remove their eyes from the other.

“Your shawl,” he pointed out. It had fallen on one side and dangled from one arm onto the floor. (Y/N) twirled to grab the end, but Faramir lightly grabbed her shoulders, stopping her, “Allow me.”

He stood behind her, draping the fallen end around her elbow, smoothly linking their arms together as he did so.

She gave him a suspicious brow, though smiled.

“Care for a drink?” And he led her towards the refreshments arm in arm.

Behind them was a rally of stunned cheers from a certain fellowship as they watched the motion.

“Was the summer wine to your liking?” Faramir continued, not wanting the momentum of his confidence to falter.

(Y/N) was still marveling at the smoothness of Faramir’s actions, allowing him the grace of keeping her arm delicately through his. “It was far too sweet. A pity.”

He charmed her, “Perhaps the elven made wine, then? I can attest to its richness – I’m sure you’ll prefer it.”

She nodded, finding herself intrigued by the bubbling drink, golden in the candlelight. It was crisp and tangy on the tongue, a look of delight on her face as she smacked her lips. Faramir watched her, releasing her arm to find a glass for himself.

“It is delicious.”

He grinned, “I’m glad.” And his gaze lingered as she enjoyed her drink. It lingered so much that (Y/N) chose to stare at the bubbles in her hand then at that look. She was correct in believing it reminded her of the King and Queen.

It was a look of devotion.

“Earlier you told me you recognized my crown,” she spoke towards her toes, “What do you recognize it from?”

He settled his wine glass on a nearby table, “It’s Gondorian made – it comes from our family stores.”

(Y/N) grimaced, “Oh, I told Eowyn not to go snooping. I didn’t realize she took it.”

“It is no trouble,” Faramir stated lightly, “It had belonged to my mother.”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened, “I didn’t realize…” she immediately went to take it off, holding the circlet with a newfound gentleness. “Forgive me.”

“There is no need to return it now.”

She skewed her brow in apology, “This is far too precious an object, I should not be wearing it.” She offered it to Faramir, “Your mother was an honorable woman.”

Faramir held the golden crown with sincerity, gazing at the worn leaves welded upon it. He smiled sweetly, turning to (Y/N) and placing the circlet once more on her head. “My mother would be glad it was worn by someone as strong as her.”

He brushed her hair away, keeping his hands on either side of her face. “There. Beautiful.”

(Y/N) opened her mouth but found herself with no words to say. This time she returned his devoted stare.

“I have found myself growing very fond of you, (Y/N),” he whispered, “It would be shameful to leave this night with your face so apologetic.”

In an instant she was clear of the emotion – it was replaced with mingling shock and another delightful light in her eyes.

“The shame would only be my own; for my own misguided affections – I thought your fondness was only in gratitude for my healing.” That’s when he began to smile, “Then perhaps for the tolerance of your brother.”

He laughed, adoration plain in his features, “Perhaps I do feel those things. But first and foremost has always been for your heart.”

“My heart has always been open to you, Faramir.”

~~~

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