#exacerbating all of this! is I don’t have a car so I have very little freedom to get around or time to myself so I am basically stranded

[earlgrey-dyke]

personal post in the tags! just a vent scroll on

[lucyandthepen]

love on the floor | njm

exactly when does vice president na turn from the company’s worst nightmare into your favorite daydream?

pairing: chaebol!na jaemin x secretary fem!reader rating: vaguely M, but will very quickly escalate into a hard R in coming chapters genre: romance, fluff, (eventual) smut (in later chapters), chaebol!au warnings: jaemin isn’t really a total asshole but he isn’t great at the beginning either and i think that should be a warning, there’s probably some language use that deserves a bit of caution i GUESS, but tbh nothing much here because we want to pretend that this is a fic of chaste circumstances and not a lead-up to raunchy, depraved smut  word count: 16.4k

author’s note: first of all, the development of this fic is absolute SHIT because i love context too much and refuse to shut up at the beginning only to get antsy for the ending so if the pace is a little stop and go … it’s because i’m a Fewl !! and i totally own up to that !! and second of all, this is actually just a set-up for about two more shorter (?? what’s shorter) works that i’ve already been wanting to write but felt like i would be remiss in doing so without some kind of build-up to the relationship so :^) here we are ! heavily unbeta'd and miss lucy is a bit rusty but we carry on for the sake of enjoying oneself (and practicing writing once again) muah enjoy!

At least this job gets you free medical. 

Actually, all things considered, this is an excellent job with limitless benefits. You never have to worry about the three-level insurance, you have monthly paid-for visits to the dentist, and you sometimes get to use the company car for personal errands for as long as you meticulously check everyone else’s schedules and butter up the head secretary, Son Seungwan, just enough so that she feels mollified enough to let you have this favor (but not too much to the point that she catches on and gives you a ten minute lecture on the rising prices of gas post-the-turn-of-the-decade). Your rent’s well paid-for, and the apartment you’re staying at is comfortable, albeit a little smaller than most, although that’s just because you prefer spending your money on once-in-a-lifetime type things, like front row seats to a Paul Kim concert. You get 50% discounts at the company cafeteria, which boasts a pretty nice salad bar with more than just perilla leaves as the greens. The bathrooms even have luxury soap installed into the automatic hand dispensers, so you always come out clean and fancy smelling. 

All in all, the job’s pretty perfect, to the point that you don’t think leaving will ever truly be in the cards — except for the fact that you barely see your boss, which, as nice as it sounds on paper, is actually the most stressful part of the position. 

You’ve always been of the opinion that if Vice President Na Jaemin put his mind to something, he’d actually do it very well, but the running issue is that he hardly ever puts his mind to anything, especially when it comes to work. In fact, the only thing he ever seems to take seriously is having eleven hours of uninterrupted sleep, which you personally think is an extremely hard thing to achieve, leading you to the firm belief that if he channeled that energy into something less dead-to-the-world and a little more productive, things would be amazing. 

And maybe things would also be a little less distressing if his family would just accept him for who he is instead of expecting too much (or, actually, anything) from him, but Vice President Na is the only son of the family that owns the largest telecom company in the country, so his parents have a ton of huge expectations for him. His father, in particular, is clearly trying to prepare him to take over the entire business, something that the Vice President clearly isn’t keen on doing, based on the many arguments you’ve had to sit through alongside Head Secretary Son. The result is a lot of tension that’s only exacerbated by the Vice President’s desire to avoid more conflict, which he does by suddenly disappearing from the office for hours — sometimes days — at a time. 

So for as much medical, dental, and reasonably priced caesar salad as you’re getting from this job, you’re not entirely sure how worth it those things all are if they come with the task of you having to sit through twenty minutes of lecturing in place of Vice President Na Jaemin himself. 

“This is the last time,” President Na roars — not necessarily at you, but at you, in your general direction, while you stand helplessly in front of his desk, your hands folded across your lap and your head hung low. You don’t really feel terrified or hurt — more than knowing that the President isn’t shouting at you for your incompetence, you’ve also gotten used to being on the receiving end of these weird, indirect lectures and have thus come to know the exact standard of ‘sorry’ that you have to look for it to be over as quickly as possible. Still, you’re kind of annoyed that this particular spiel is taking up precious minutes from your afternoon break. Then again, you don’t know what you’d expected to begin with when you’d come back from the cafeteria after lunch and found the Vice President’s chair abandoned, leather cold, indicating that he’d been gone for quite a while. It’s about four o’clock now, and he still hasn’t come back, and all your messages to him have gone unread, as you’ve also grown used to. “You tell my no-good son if he isn’t back within the hour, he can live the rest of his life without my last name.”

You’re not sure if the implications of that will really sink into the Vice President’s heart enough to trigger the guilt it’s clearly trying to elicit, but you know better than to voice your opinion. You nod once, then bow at a perfect ninety-degree angle. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Four years of this, and he hasn’t learned a single thing,” the President continues, completely ignoring your useless and vaguely insincere apology. “Where’d he run off to this time?” 

You don’t know. You never really know. Since he actively tries to avoid all work-related things, he also actively tries to avoid you, something he does by never picking up the phone or telling you the details of his daily schedule anyway. You can only share what you do know, which is very little and, therefore, extremely useless, but you try to say it in a way that appears relatively helpful. “His schedule says he was supposed to have lunch with the foreign investors that are trying to connect Prime Video to the Korean market, but it seems he didn’t show up for that.”

Which essentially translates to: you have no clue. Again, all parties in the room — inclusive of Head Secretary Son, who constantly has to bear witness to the many threats Vice President Na receives via you — know this isn’t your fault, but it doesn’t make the vein that’s about to pop out of the President’s temple any less pronounced, nor does it stop you from bowing and apologizing again when he says “get him back in here before five o’clock or tell him he’ll never be able to step foot in this building again!” even though you know that the threat would probably sound more like a gift than anything else to Vice President Na. 

“And you,” the President points a vaguely accusatory finger at you. Your eyes widen slightly in surprise. “If he isn’t back here at that time, you can kiss your job goodbye too. You go ahead and tell him that. Let’s see if Jaemin will finally get off his ass if he knows someone else is going to have to suffer for his behavior.” 

The only person who sees your jaw fall open is Head Secretary Son, who’s now leading you away from the President’s desk and towards the door; the President has taken to staring at this huge family picture of himself, his wife, and the Vice President that’s hanging just behind his executive’s chair, all looking considerably happier than anyone in this situation feels. You hear him mutter something that sounds like “where did I go wrong with you, you punk?” before the door shuts close behind you.

“I’d say he doesn’t mean that, but we don’t actually know to what lengths he’ll go to get the Vice President on board.” Head Secretary Son admits, lifting two fingers to gently shut your mouth, still agape. “If I were you, I’d figure out how to keep him on a leash. The fact that he’s never around is probably ninety-percent of our current problems.”

“I can barely get him to respond to schedule reminders,” you groan; your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose like this will somehow stop the oncoming migraine. “Let alone get him to stay still. I was just about to put in a down payment for a car of my own, too.” 

You’ve never really been considerably attached to this job, mostly because there isn’t much to actually attach yourself to, but if you think about it now, it really is better than most, and this economy isn’t really kind to people who get fired from their jobs. You feel like puking at the thought of losing the free unlimited coffee in the pantry and trading it in for a life behind a convenience store counter, which is probably where you’ll end up, pessimistically speaking.

You excuse yourself from Head Secretary Son, who has the heart to look a little pitying as you trudge towards the elevator. You don’t even know where you’d start looking for the Vice President, especially since he spends quite a lot of his efforts trying to avoid having to communicate with you. You don’t even know what his habits are, which means you can’t make educated guesses on where he might have run off to, so the only route to go is to look in the immediately surrounding area and widening your search diameter as time passes.

Until five o’clock, of course — a deadline that, if unmet, will likely mean you also won’t be returning to the office either. 

You start off at the nearby bookstore, extremely skeptical that the Vice President would ever willingly go to a place that requires more effort even after you make a purchase. As expected, he isn’t there, but he isn’t in the nextdoor candle shop (also unlikely) either, nor do you find him in the hand-cut noodles shop next to that as well. You walk down the entire street for a good twenty minutes, pressing your face against the windows of stores shamelessly, to the ire of many startled and disgruntled staff, trying to look for a familiar head shape in the small crowds in them, but to no avail. Then, you think about calling him again, but when you pat the pockets of your jacket, you realize your phone is still on your desk, where you’d left it when you’d been summoned to see the President. With a loud groan and an annoyed clip clop of your heels as you stamp your feet on the pavement, you walk back to the office. 

In your frenzy to find the Vice President, you’d gone quite a distance, and your shoes simply aren’t made for long, aggravated walks; they start hurting your feet halfway back, and you’re pretty sure you have a blister behind the strap of the left one. Pride would tell you to tough it out, but you’d thrown that out at the thought of losing your job at the expense of a single man, so you don’t even hesitate to take them off and run back to the building. The big digital clock above the elevators says you have ten minutes left to find your boss, and you start thinking about using that time for better things — like packing your stuff up neatly in a box for when you get sacked. 

With the situation seemingly hopeless, you trudge to the first floor cafe, where the return counter has a pitcher of water and a stack of tiny paper cups. They’re tiny tiny, like the size of your thumb, so you have to keep refilling it just to start feeling a little more human. 

You’re on your third refill when you hear a giggle come from across the space. The barista’s just finished laughing at what must have been an extremely hilarious joke, or she might be flirting with whoever’s leaning over the counter to talk to her. A whoever that seems to be the exact same height and build as the elusive Vice President of this company. 

You accidentally toss the paper cup in the plastics bin in your desperation to get moving, worried that if you’re not fast enough, he’ll disappear into thin air again. Luckily, his attention’s completely focused on the barista, so he can’t go anywhere when you finally reach his side and huff, loud enough to interrupt what seems like an intimate-ish conversation between them. 

“Sorry, I was just — oh, it’s you.” The Vice President’s smile fades when he sees it’s you, someone he can’t charm out of what they’re supposed to be doing. You don’t think you’ve ever seen the Vice President smile at you in any capacity, anyway, except for maybe one or two slightly sarcastic smiles that are probably more fit to be classified as grimaces. “What do you want?” 

“I’ve been looking all over for you, sir,” you say, stiffly and a little quietly because you still don’t want to embarrass him in front of the slightly confused barista. “You haven’t answered my texts.”

You don’t have any way to check, but you’re pretty sure this is a safe enough assumption, which is corroborated by the Vice President bringing his phone out and checking the screen lazily before turning it back off. 

“Sorry. I don’t answer unknown numbers.”

You guess it makes sense that he wouldn’t want to save your number when he hates hearing about work, which is all you really try to communicate with him about, but it still stings considering it’s been two years and you’ve been using the same number since high school. It’s fine, you think. You really can’t expect much from him. 

“Well, your father’s been looking for you, too. He wants to meet you.”

“I’ll take a rain check, but thank you.”

“Sir,” your voice quivers with poorly quelled exasperation. “This isn’t an optional thing. This is very serious.” 

“I can see that, Briar Rose,” his eyes are trained towards your shoes, still dangling from your grasp, with a level of unabashed amusement. “Did he summon me from deep within the woods, or is this a new casual Friday look I should get in on?”

When his words are met with a stony silence, he sighs, pushing himself off the counter. His half-finished Americano is collecting a small pool of condensation under it, and you offer him the little handful of tissues you had gotten from the return counter and had originally been planning to use to wipe your tears in case you cried after getting fired so that he doesn’t waste time looking for something to hold his cup. He takes them without even a word of thanks, opting to instead say ‘lead the way, miss.’ You don’t miss the fact that he meets the barista’s eye with a considerably more genuine grin, raising a hand in goodbye to her before he strides ahead — before you even get a chance to lead the way at all — towards the elevators with you, hobbling on one foot to slip your shoe back on, not far behind. 

The President’s office must be sort of soundproof for instances like this. For the first time, you’ve been asked to wait outside with Head Secretary Son as the Vice President gets chewed. It doesn’t matter; you don’t really want to be in the middle of yet another round of shouting that has nothing to do with you in the same afternoon, plus you also know how the conversation usually goes: the President making very agitated threats and talking about his heart condition (even though the medical reports from their private doctor say he’s in perfect health) that the Vice President, who just spends the time looking boredly at his nails, will inevitably trigger. When you press your ear to the door for a minute, you actually hear something like ‘... strike you out of the will so that when you kill me, you won’t get a single won!’, and you can imagine Vice President Na’s exasperated sigh punctuating the statement. 

Ten minutes later, the room has gone quiet, and you step aside just in time for the Vice President to open the door and step out. You don’t even understand how he can look so unaffected after being ripped apart, but you suppose he’s also heard the lecture as many times as you have and is pretty much immune to all the insults. He doesn’t really have to make a show out of not caring, though, with his hands in his pockets and his lips pursed to allow him to whistle idly as he strolls down the hall to his barely used office. He’s been in it so few times that after long, inexplicable vacations, he sometimes forgets how to get there. You’ve always had to walk behind him just in case he gets lost or, worse, tries to make a run for it. You’ve never had to tackle him to the ground reciting the Miranda warnings, or anything, but he has faked left a few times just to give you a mild heart attack for the fun of it all. 

This time, he just walks, not bothering to joke you into trying to create a human wall he could just as easily push away. When he gets to his office, he lazily plops down onto his couch, extracting the Rubik’s cube he’d been working on for a few weeks now from underneath himself and spinning the top layer idly. He’s only ever finished the blue side. 

You just stand there, kind of perplexed and unsure of how to start the conversation. He’s still whistling, and you’re not sure if talking over him will count as interrupting him, which isn’t something you’re supposed to do. Thankfully, he stops after about two minutes of fiddling with the yellow side of the cube, looking up at you with a slightly surprised expression that somehow makes you want to cry. 

“Can I help you with something, Secretary ___________?” 

“Well, I…” You stutter for a bit, unsure of how to politely point out that he should be asking you for help with his job instead of the whole other way around. “Because… I just thought…”

“You can always leave a message with my secretary if you need time to figure it out.” He grins. “Oh, wait a minute.”

“Sir, don’t you think you should… I don’t know. Figure out your schedule, or something? Prepare for… anything?” 

“What’s that smell?” He lifts his nose to the air, suddenly curious, and because he looks so serious, you also start sniffing, but you can’t really smell anything out of the ordinary. “Smells… fresh. Very clean. A little like green tea.”

“Oh.” You awkwardly shift your weight from leg to leg. “I think that’s my perfume, but I don’t see w—”

“You smell very expensive, Secretary _____________.” He sounds genuinely surprised that you do, like he’s somehow saying he hadn’t expected you to have good taste. You have no idea where this conversation is coming from, so you chalk it up to him wanting to derail you from talking about work. “I like it. Very classy. Not too strong.”

“Sir, I don’t think now’s the time to be talking about perfume scents.”

“You’re actually quite pretty.” He sounds genuinely surprised again, but this time, it stings a little more. “I never noticed that before. How come?” 

You want to say that it’s because he spends most of his time and energy playing long-term hide-and-seek with you, but there’s also no polite way of putting that into words; even if there were, with the way you’re now bristling under his gaze, you’re not really sure you’d go the courteous route, anyway. You just decide to ignore the comment and question entirely, which you almost get to do.

“Wouldn’t you like to take a look at some of our upcoming projects? For instance, we’re just about to start negotiating the terms of this new partnership with Huawei —”

“You’re pretty, but you’re also pretty tense.” He cuts you off again, now looking a little dejected at this newfound information. You can’t understand why this disappointment in you actually hurts your feelings a little. “I think the cafe downstairs serves some tea, if that kind of stuff helps you.”

“Sir,” the one syllable is laced with weariness, and you knot  your fingers together in front of your lap. It probably looks polite, but it’s mostly so that you can feel like you have some semblance of control over anything, even if it’s just your own body fighting off the urge to grab him by the collar. “Please. If you could just take a look at your schedule — even just for tomorrow —”

“What’s the point?” His shrug is nonchalant, and he’s turning the cube over in his palm now, more interested in looking at it than witnessing your tired expression. “It’s almost six o’clock. I’ll deal with tomorrow tomorrow, you know what I mean? If my dad finally loses his marbles, I’ll deal with it all then. In fact, I might actually be okay with losing this department if it finally actually gets him off my back. I’ll also deal with that when it happens, probably.” 

Another long, uncomfortable silence blooms as his words sink in; not for the first time today, President Na has threatened the existence of your job, now alongside a good twenty other people’s, all for the sake of snapping some sense into the Vice President. However, like everything else, it seems to just be backfiring; Vice President Na doesn’t seem to care about anyone else in this department, most likely because he’s barely interacted with anyone else. You’re surprised he even remembers your last name, considering he once called the department accountant ‘Heejin’ even though her nametag clearly spelled out ‘Jinhee.’ 

It makes sense that the threat of abolishment means absolutely nothing to him, but it doesn’t make the knowledge of that any less distressing. He watches you curiously as you tug back at your ponytail, like it’ll once again stop the crawling migraine. 

“Sure a cup of chamomile tea isn’t in the cards today? I think I have the company card in here somewhere, although I can’t be sure that it hasn’t been cut off, based on my dad’s last threat—” 

“I’m fine; thank you.” You mumble, checking the clock. He’s wasted what’s left of the hour anyway, and the lack of change in his position just means he’s not going to change his mind for the rest of the time. “At least let me give you tomorrow’s agenda.” 

“Boring, but okay. Give it to me, then.” He yawns to make a point, and you offer him the tablet you tote around with you everywhere you go, just in case Vice President Na finally decides he wants to do his job. To clarify: that’s two whole years of you carrying that heavy thing around, with the Vice President only having touched it a handful of times. You’re mildly shocked that he actually opens it to check, because he barely does even that, but that all goes away when he yawns again, his expression glassy as he scrolls down aimlessly. “This is a lot. Can’t you just clear my schedules tomorrow? Actually, if I can make demands for real, I’d like to clear out my schedule for the rest of the year.” 

He stretches when he stands, ignoring your slightly agog expression as he pats you on the back, smacking his lips sleepily. “Good day’s work, Secretary _____________. Want to grab a beer? Have ourselves a little intra-department party? I’m pretty sure ‘intra’ stands for ‘us two,’ or am I wrong?”

You sincerely hope he doesn’t mean a goodbye party, but with his attitude right now, that might very well be. You shake your head, and he shrugs, like he wasn’t really expecting you to agree in the first place. “No thank you, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He’s already halfway out the door, waving dismissively with his back turned to you. When you peek out of the space he leaves by opening the door, you can see about half the entire department’s watching, not even bothering to pretend to scurry back to their seats as he saunters out of the office. He calls out to you, his voice ringing clear even though he’s already out of sight. 

“We’ll see about that.” 

You come up with a master plan, but not before you scope potential jobs. 

You actually stayed an hour overtime at your desk looking for positions, but all of them pay lower than average or are about an hour’s commute away from where you live, so none of them seem worth it. The search ends when some people from the department come over to say goodbye and see your computer open to SaramIn, at which point they connect the dots and start to panic about their insurance. You shut your monitor off and spend another useless twenty minutes calming Jinhee, who’d started having a mild panic attack. 

In that time, your resentment builds. Why can’t Vice President Na simply get his act together? You suppose that there’s some indescribable burden to being in his position, but between him, a rich heir who owns two sports cars and lives in a paid-for house, and you, a public-transport-using, pays-by-the-month nine-to-five worker, you can’t really understand why he would be having it worse than everyone else who works under him.  If he worked even just half as hard as everyone else did here, he might scrape by. 

You can’t know if President Na’s anger was only short-lived or if he actually meant to downsize the company by getting rid of your department entirely, but you also know that if he’s serious, then there’s nothing much you can do about it, short of terrorizing the Vice President into stepping into bigger shoes.

So, that becomes your master plan.

It isn’t very refined, mostly because you think about it on the bus home, but the heart and spirit are there, and those are probably the most important things anyway. It’s that heart and spirit that motivate you to get up an hour earlier than you usually do, dressing quickly for the day before taking the company car from your place to downtown Apgujeong. You usually don’t take it on days that Vice President Na doesn’t come into work, which is practically every other day, but this time, you’re determined to see him into the office. The ride with Hyunsung, his official company driver, is quiet, save for the question he asks when you roll up to the Vice President’s driveway. 

“Are you sure about this?” 

“No,” you admit. He’d probably seen you chewing down on your thumb, some of your confidence taking a hit when you belatedly realize you could be shot with a huge privacy lawsuit if this doesn’t go the way you plan. But you do know a lot of secretaries that do the morning calls for their superiors, so this should be fine. Not that you’ve ever heard from those secretaries ever again. 

Vice President Na’s laziness seems to extend to all aspects of his life, including the fact that he doesn’t ever change his door’s passcode; it’s still the same numbers as it had been when he first bought the house a year ago and had you install his lock while he was missing in action from work, yakking it up with some farmers up in the Netherlands. He likes to do that — ‘see the world,’ or whatever, even though his wanderlust makes everyone else’s lives very difficult. At least it makes your life easy now, and you step through the door and walk quietly across his unnecessarily large living room. 

You’ve never been in here exactly, and you only realize very belatedly that this house’s design would be very frustrating for a break-and-enter criminal because nothing seems to be where it’s supposed to be. You learn the owner’s suite is actually on the basement floor, so all the climbing of those slippery stairs was for nothing. 

Vice President Na’s bedroom is bigger than your whole apartment, which also means he has a sizable bed and, thus, is completely out of sight under his gigantic covers. The only indication that he’s even still in there is that they’re rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern. You stand by the edge of the bed, on the side he’s closest to falling off of, clearing your throat at the tuft of hair peeking out from under the comforter. 

“Vice President Na? It’s time to go to work.” 

Your voice has been tempered down by years of this professional work, and this is easily the loudest and most demanding you’ve ever heard it. You’re not even sure you can do it again, but the muffled groan from under the covers is all the motivation you need to try. 

“Sir, you have a ten o’clock meeting with Samsung’s representatives for Apple. President Na also asked that we contact Amazon right away to reschedule the Prime Video deal.” 

“How,” his voice comes out first before he does, squinting up at you, completely disoriented. “The hell did you get in here?” 

“Sir, I’m your secretary.” You sigh, skimming over the fact that you’d walked into his big kitchen twice through two different entryways before coming into his bedroom. “I’m supposed to be able to get in here.”

“Except this is a first.” You think he’s about to get up, but he just shifts his weight, rolling over so he can cocoon himself tighter into his blankets. “Goodnight. There are eggs in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“I’ve already eaten, like a normal, functioning human being with a very important job that starts precisely at nine o’clock would.” 

“This seems like a very targeted comment, Secretary ____________. I’m not sure I appreciate it.” 

“Since we’re already having this conversation, I’m guessing you’re conscious enough to get dressed.”

To your relief, he actually does throw the covers off of him, leaning up on his elbows. You try not to balk at the fact that he’s shirtless, although you’re also not sure why this should surprise or bother you to begin with. He doesn’t even seem to mind; he just yawns, wide and unashamed, as he looks over at the clock. 

“It’s seven-thirty. This is insanity.”

“No, this is a wake-up call.” You offer him a neatly folded towel that he eyes suspiciously. “We need to get you in the office on time.”

“There’s really no point,” he sighs, scratching his head idly. “It’ll just be another boring day of talking to people I don’t care about. Someone who cares about it should talk to them. You care about it, don’t you?” 

“I won’t talk to them for you, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because, frankly, I don’t get paid enough to be doing that.” 

He once again stares at the towel like he’s trying to will it to evaporate, but in the end, he only sighs louder and takes it from you, kicking his blankets off completely. You look up at the ceiling, not in prayer but to avoid the more embarrassing fact that he’s only in his boxers after all. Well — it’s embarrassing for you. He doesn’t even seem to care. 

“Something’s different.”

“Usually I don’t wake you up,” you offer the painfully obvious. “Or come here. Or talk to you.”

“Yeah, all that stuff,” he says dismissively, halfway through a yawn. “Did you have a life-changing experience recently?”

“Something like that.”

“Couldn’t it have been one where you decided to leave me alone for good instead?” He grumbles, more to himself instead of to you. It doesn’t matter, anyway; you already see he’s up and fishing socks out of his drawer, so you’re marching out of his room to avoid having to hear more of his complaints (and, quite frankly, to avoid looking at his broad back). 

However, the day thereafter doesn’t go as planned. You thought that waking Vice President Na up for an early day of work might shock him into doing something with the knowledge that it was urgent, but you’re not sure why you didn’t anticipate a scenario in which he’d fall asleep in the car on the way to work and you’d have to shake him into waking in the stuffy parking lot. He spends the rest of the morning out of sorts, ignoring you point blank when you try to brief him on the meeting. The meeting in and of itself doesn’t go any better, with him excusing himself fifteen minutes in by saying the pitch doesn’t seem all too exciting and innovative. You didn’t even know he knew the word innovative and, by the shocked faces of the Samsung people, they were of the same mind. 

By lunch time, you’re more exhausted than you’ve ever been, and a part of you is wondering why you wanted Vice President Na in the office in the first place when you’re already used to the much simpler routine of get up, work, eat lunch, get yelled at, work again. Sometimes, on slow days when Vice President Na is completely out of town for the week and President Na is out of things to yell at you about, you even get to just sit back at your desk and play old crossword puzzles. 

Now, you’re basically handholding him, but the weight that keeps him down is so heavy that you’re being dragged down, too. 

“You mean people do this every single day?” He shuts the folder with a contract that requires his signature that you’d given him just now, not even bothering to peruse the first page, much to your rapidly increasing ire. “This is ridiculous. Working makes no sense.”

“All employees come to work to do that, sir. It’s literally what makes up half their lives.”

“Except it shouldn’t,” he sighs, like this is a true global issue and not a problem of his own making. “Everyone needs to be able to do what they want and live life to the fullest.” 

“Not everyone can,” you point out flatly. “Some people don’t have the luxury of time even for that.”

“Then, they should. The more I’m in this situation, the more it feels like it might be better for everyone to have a little work break for — I don’t know. The next year or so.”

Vice President Na has his arm outstretched, handing the folder back to you. You don’t know if it’s what he says that causes your blood pressure to rise, or if its the completely unconcerned look on his face, or if it’s the fact that he’s holding the folder so lazily that the papers are starting to slip out on your end, requiring you to use two hands to keep them all from falling apart and creating a mess you’ll end up having to clean up anyway. Whatever it is, you snatch the folder from him with a little more aggression than necessary (or that you’d even care to admit). Even though it’s out of place, you can’t help but feel a small sense of triumph at the slight surprise in his eyes. 

“Did I say something wrong?” 

“No, sir.” You pause, mostly because you can tell he doesn’t believe you — Vice President Na is nonchalant, not stupid — and you want to give yourself a little bit of time to grapple with your pride before you admit the truth. “Yes, sir. It isn’t fair to your entire department for you to talk that way.”

“I’m saying the entire department doesn’t have to work this hard. It’s senseless. How are you supposed to live a good life if all you’re doing is sitting behind a desk?”

“Like I said, not everyone has the luxury of living your life. If they want even a little bit of that comfort you enjoy, they have to work very hard for it first.” 

“Then they should at least do something they enjoy. If this department goes down the drain —”

“If this department is abolished,” this is your first time interrupting a superior, and it already makes you want to throw up. “Then people will have a very difficult time finding a job in this market. More than that, a lot of people enjoy working for this company — quite genuinely, in fact. I don’t think it’s right to think that they’ll be happy while they’re jobless and floundering in this economy.”

“So you’re happy like this? You really want this job — this whole working under me situation?” 

“Well…” you trail off, your voice taking on a slightly thoughtful tone. It’s been a relatively long time since you’d entered this job, but you do faintly remember the feeling of excitement at getting this position — the desire to want to learn from the best in this industry, the anticipation of being able to meet and network with interesting and important people. Your first few weeks of work had involved wanting to spend as much time in Vice President Na’s shadow, in case you could pick up some important business tidbits from an entrepreneurial master… until, of course, you realized there wasn’t much you could stand in the shadow of to begin with. “These days, it isn’t ideal. But this job is a really good thing for most of the people who work here.”

“Then it sounds like you have more to gain from me working hard than I do.” 

You can’t contain your disapproving frown, and your voice comes out a little sharper than you intend. “Doesn’t it bother you at all, sir? Knowing almost twenty people could lose their jobs in the blink of an eye? Think about all the people who look up to you and rely on you — they’ll have to suffer because of this. They might never find a job that matches their needs, and a lot of them have families to take care of, too. If you can do something to make sure they have these good lives you keep talking about, why not do it? I know you’re capable of that. You’re capable of doing much more than what you’ve been doing thus far.” 

Vice President Na is quiet for a moment before leans over on his desk, lacing his fingers into a loose combined fist and putting his weight on his forearms. One of his forefingers detangles itself from the pile of digits and curls inwards, beckoning you closer. Your grimace is probably obvious, and you lean in a little warily. He lifts himself off his chair slightly so he can whisper in a low voice, as if you two aren’t the only people in this wide office. 

“If you care about it so much, then ask a little more nicely.” 

Your light breakfast almost makes a reappearance, and you draw back in mild shock. He also leans back, significantly more relaxed than you, looking unperturbed as he settles back against his chair. You two engage in a very uneven staring match, until he gestures for you to proceed, looking expectant. 

“You want me to beg for my job?”

“Not what I meant, but I could accept that,” he hums. “I just think you could throw in a please while you’re guilting your boss, at least.”

Gawking probably doesn’t suit you, but you do it anyway, wondering how you managed to find yourself in this position. This morning, you had been strictly guiding him through what to do, and now you’re paralyzed in front of the Vice President, feeling very foolish for saying so much out of turn. You couldn’t even get through a whole work day before seeing your grand master plan slip down the drain.

But there is, at least, some small comfort in what he said — the part about guilting, which, if you squint hard enough, seems to be implying that this conversation has left him with a small amount of guilt. You don’t think it’s that much, but it’s a miracle he feels it at all, so you take the horribly subtle win and inhale deeply.

“Please, sir.” The words are very thick and reluctant, unsticking from your throat. “This department really needs you.” 

He stares, very unnervingly, without saying anything, but there’s something in his gaze that makes you vaguely certain he’s actually thinking about it. In fact, he actually looks a bit serious, which isn’t anything you’d ever think you’d be able to characterize him by. That impression easily falls apart when he claps his hands, once but very loudly, startling you into jumping a little. 

“Ah, how could I turn down such a nice request?” Vice President Na is grinning from ear to ear, something you’ve never seen him do in the context of the office, much less a few feet away from you. His smile is actually kind of nice, if you don’t think about the fact that it seems to be smug at your expense. “Since you asked, I guess I’ll have to try my best, or whatever it is people do in this damn company. I guess that means you owe me now, Secretary ____________. You’re very welcome.” 

The silence that once again blooms as you stand, motionless, in front of Vice President Na is suddenly interrupted by the sound of chairs scraping back all at once. The floor vibrates a little as the entire department troops out to the elevator area so they can go to lunch. You only watch stupidly as he also stands, shrugging off his jacket and flinging it over the back of his chair. “See you, then.”

“Where are you going, sir?” 

He looks a little surprised that you even ask. “To lunch. Do I have to ask for your permission for that, too?” 

“Are you… coming back?”

“You want to come along with me and make sure I don’t run away?” He smiles even wider, which you didn’t even think was possible. It makes you awkwardly uncomfortable to know he’s taking a lot of pleasure in joking around with you, mostly because you were kind of hoping you’d get him to take things seriously in a serious manner, not in a … whatever this is that’s making you feel like you’ve lost a game manner. 

“A little bit.”

“Ask a little more nicely, then.” 

“Never mind,” you mumble. “Have a good lunch, sir.” 

He snaps his fingers a little comically before turning to the door, flinging it open so he can join the now thinning throng of people leaving the floor. “Thought I almost had you there. Well, if you need me, you know where to find me. Or not.” 

In the end, to your utmost relief, Vice President Na does, in fact, stay inside the entire time he has lunch. You’re not sure if this is the product of you sitting two tables away, trying to will an imaginary chain to his wrist so he doesn’t bolt off or because he’s still feeling a little affected by everything you said earlier on, but whatever it is, it works. He just eats his club sandwich in peace, picking off the crust easily and double dipping the fries that come with it in his ketchup. At some point, he looks up and notices you burning holes into his torso, so you quickly have to avert your eyes in shame. You think he laughs at this, but you can only see out of your peripheral vision at this point, so you can’t be sure. 

You’re supposed to have one hour for lunch, but he eats quickly and gets up before the whole hour is over, so you end up throwing your half-eaten wrap and following him. Again, you’re not sure what’s funny, but he’s chuckling to himself as he holds the elevator door open, waiting for you to run in next to him. 

“Relax, miss secretary. I already said I was going to do my best.”

“No offense, sir, but I don’t know what that looks like, so I have to be careful.”

“Fair enough.” He hums, letting the door close on its own. “But you should still take it easy. You’re pretty t—”

“Tense. You said so yesterday, sir.”

“That’s two times you’ve cut me off in a single day.” He doesn’t sound very annoyed about it; in fact, he’s still got that amused, inside joke tone to everything he’s had all morning. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were gunning for an insubordination report.”

You don’t think that’s fair for him to say, especially since you haven’t really had much of an authority figure to be subordinate to for most of your career in this company, but you keep your mouth shut since saying so is exactly what would be on the first line of an insubordination report. 

When you arrive back at his office, you take the time to discuss what you should be doing from now on. It’s an extremely messy exchange, with you two grappling between terms you can’t agree on. For instance, Vice President Na thinks that it seems only fair that he should really only be coming in after one o’clock, but you’re insistent on making sure he gets to work on time, since most important meetings happen within that time period (a fact he already seems to know but chooses to ignore anyway). You end up agreeing on bringing him in for the standard nine-to-six for as long as he never has to work overtime. You also find it necessary to iron out the fact that if he has lunch outside, he has to actually come back, a statement he once again finds very amusing for some reason, as if you’re the weird one in this conversation. 

And to his credit, he tries to stick to his word. It isn’t exactly a walk in the park, especially not during the first couple of weeks, but you suppose that habits are very difficult to break when they’ve been so easy to acquire and nurture over many years. More than once, you’ve arrived late to meetings to the disapproving gazes of Head Secretary Son and President Na. However, the latter finds he has less to say these days because Vice President Na’s presence in said meetings had, before this time, been nothing but a pipe dream for everyone. 

You also notice he starts taking the time to ask about things he doesn’t understand, as opposed to his initially brash or sometimes completely unresponsive approach, which has turned out better results when it comes to business lunches with investors and potential partners. Even the Samsung people, who are extremely wary of him during the callback meeting, come out of their next encounter with the Vice President looking vaguely more satisfied than they did the last time (the bar isn’t that high, considering they’d left shell-shocked previously, but you’ll still take the improvement).

Of course, with all the time you end up spending with, chasing after, and vaguely lecturing (only when the need truly arises) Vice President Na, you also learn some things about him that you hadn’t expected, like how he doesn’t really like milk in anything he drinks (but especially coffee) and that every third Sunday of the month, he meets his old high school friend Lee Jeno, the son of the guy that owns half the residential high rise condominiums on this side of the Han. Apparently, they play badminton together — he had told you that when he’d caught you wondering about the super out of place little kid’s karate trophy among other more adult, official ones in his living area. The trophy goes to whoever wins the match of the month, and according to the Vice President, he’s been ‘wiping the floor with that bastard’s handsome face for half a year straight.’ Although you can’t verify this by anything more than the slight blanket of dust on it, you think it takes nothing out of your pride to applaud him like this is an amazing thing. It also does you no harm to see him swell with misplaced pride about a kid’s karate trophy. 

You also notice that despite how healthily he eats at the office, he has a bad habit of craving deep fried food in the afternoon, which is why, over the last few weeks, you’ve been accompanying him to the corndog street stall two blocks away, a few days a week. He’s even had to borrow loose change from you a few times to because he always forgets that no street vendor likes to receive crisp, fresh-out-of-the-bank fifty-thousand won bills, but you just let him have it; his heart’s in the right place when he orders an extra one for you without even asking. You realize that he has a fairly good memory for as long as he’s concentrating, and that he likes to spend late nights watching the shittiest horror movies ever known to man (his words, much to your bemusement), and that when he listens attentively to you telling him about the day’s agenda, his left ear twitches a little when your voice hits it. 

Somewhere along the way, you realize that Vice President Na is a charming, outgoing, and fairly capable person, and in doing so, you also realize that he seems to be, for lack of a better word, your style. 

You can’t really believe it either, and you’re not even sure when it started. In between sitting with him in the company car and handing him forty-page agreements he has to look over carefully (very carefully, as you’ve taken to reminding him, so often that he starts saying it before you do now, which has only somehow endeared him further to you and not annoyed you the way you were sort of hoping it would), the small non-work related part of your consciousness had decided that it needed a more complicated situation now that things were going relatively well.

To be fair to yourself, liking him isn’t a huge distraction; most of the time, you’re both so engrossed in something you desperately have to finish that you don’t even have time to think about it. Instead, it kind of catches you off-guard, like when he’s double dipping his french fries into his ketchup, or when he smiles at you (politely to him, probably, but overwhelmingly charmingly to you) before he leaves the office, or when his brow’s furrowed in (a total shocker) concentration as he reads. 

Then again, everything about Vice President Na seems to be catching you off-guard these days. This much is proven by the fact that instead of the normal silence that you’ve grown accustomed to being greeted by when you enter his house, there’s a lot of noise coming from one area that can only mean either that someone had broken in to mug him or for some reason, he’s up before you need to wake him. 

It’s nothing you have to call 911 for, but it still paralyzes you to see him, surrounded by opened jars and a particularly dirty bread knife as he stands in front of his fancy toaster, drumming his fingers on the counter impatiently. 

“If you have a minute to spare, could you bring my laptop into the car?” He asks without turning around. His hand, still holding the bread knife, points towards the bar counter on the far end of the kitchen, where the laptop is still whirring away. 

“Of course, sir. Um,” you gingerly shut the monitor, putting the laptop to sleep and tucking it under your arm. “Were you… working this morning?”

“No, I was playing a riveting game of bridge against the computer AI.” He turns to you, grinning. “Of course I was working, miss secretary. What do you think I’d be up this early for?” 

You try to think of an answer, but nothing comes to mind — Vice President Na hasn’t ever woken up early for anything to your knowledge, anyway — so you just nod and bolt, unwilling to bear witness to his smile this early in the day. When you come back, particularly less red in the face, you find him topping one of two sandwiches with the last slice of bread to complete it. He takes one, as you expect he would, and you stand there, trying to look polite as you essentially observe him eat.

This isn’t something very unusual; ever since the first time you’d done it, you’ve been watching him out of habit. So far, only the motivation’s changed from you wanting to make sure he doesn’t bolt to you simply enjoying the view of his profile when he eats. Of course, he probably doesn’t know this, but he’s also just gotten used to you watching him and probably finds it funny — as suggested by his perpetually amused expression — that you still think, after all this time, that he’s going to make a run for it. You don’t actually mind it; you get to watch him for free, and he has something to laugh about, so everyone kind of wins. 

He’s halfway through the sandwich when his expression turns quizzical. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Eat,” you echo hollowly. “Eat what, sir?”

“A delicious, handmade, gourmet peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich.” When you don’t move, he pushes the plate with the untouched sandwich forward towards you like he thinks you can’t understand anything he’s saying. “What? Are you allergic to something?”

“No, but…”

“But?”

There’s no but; you don’t have a good reason to decline other than the fact that accepting it feels weird, but refusing him when he’s looking at you this expectantly is just as awkward. You rub the back of your neck as you walk over, not missing the look of triumph that crosses his face as you pick up the sandwich and take a bite. It’s good, but you don’t really think that has anything to do with his culinary skills, based on what it is; still, he looks like he’s patting himself on the back for this feat. 

“Thank you, sir.”

“Secretary ____________, I hope you can count this as a momentous occasion for the both of us.” He chuckles. “You get free breakfast made especially for you by your direct superior in the comfort of his own home, and I finally get to learn what all the settings on my toaster are for. Between you and me, I think mine’s the better achievement.” 

You’re still in the middle of eating when you laugh, and you hastily raise a hand to cover it — only Vice President Na catches your wrist halfway through, so quickly you vaguely choke on the bread that’s only partially down your throat.

“I’ve never seen you laugh,” he looks as surprised as you feel, although probably for a different reason. “I don’t even think you’ve ever smiled at me, specifically.”

“Oh.” You need time to respond, mostly so you can swallow but also because you need to collect yourself from your shock. There seems to be a lot of that going around this morning. “Sorry. Should I do that more often?”

“I mean, if you ask like that, it’s kind of disingenuous,” he laughs. “But I like it. I like knowing you’re not just in a constant state of stress because of me. Feels even more momentous than the toaster thing.” 

He loosens his hold, and you manage to take your hand back, now refusing to meet his eye. “I’m not… stressed by you.”

“Not anymore.”

“Not anymore,” you agree, and he looks particularly delighted when he sees the corners of your lips turn up again. “Not for a while. And not that my opinion matters, but you’ve been performing above expectations, sir.”

“You’re right,” he hums, taking the plate and putting it in the sink — a problem he seems to be saving for later. “It doesn't matter. But I like it, all the same.”

You’re willing to chalk the morning off as a wonderful anomaly, especially since the rest of it passes as it normally does, with a generally quiet car ride (you’ve also learned that Vice President Na likes to listen to rap music on days when he wants to avoid falling asleep in the backseat, which is equal parts amazing and amusing) and a fifteen minute briefing of what he has on his plate today. He disappears for the better part of the morning and even the whole lunch hour, but you expect this because he has a business lunch with the representatives for some Norwegian appliance company that’s looking to break into the Korean market. You can’t imagine many people want a state of the art rice cooker alongside their monthly internet bill, but it’s polite for him to go anyway, and the prospective partner seems very on edge about company secrets. It’s one of those meetings you aren’t allowed to come along to, which means that you’re missing out on a few hours of Vice President Na trying to iron details out with a couple of old guys. 

While you eat, you’re once again struck with the random notion that it feels weird not to be around the Vice President. You’ve been working together regularly and in a very close capacity, which basically means that you’re always in his shadow. It’s the life you were kind of hoping to have at the beginning and were deprived of for a good two years. Now that you have it, it feels weirdly natural — so natural that it’s unnatural to not have his voice ordering you around in that easy tone or his aftershave lingering in the air directly above you. 

You throw the tissue you used to wipe the oil from your egg toast off your mouth onto the table, crumpled and wilted. 

You miss him, which is ridiculous considering you don’t even know what there is to miss. Your relationship, while admittedly lightyears ahead of the starting point it had been at back then (again, not a great standard, considering you didn’t even have a relationship before this period of time), is nothing close to the point of being what it should be for one to miss the other. 

And yet, you look forward to seeing him, watching him do something from afar, helping him whenever he needs you. You like the fact that he still sometimes fakes left when you’re accompanying him back to his office, and you do this thing where you pretend to be annoyed even though it makes you happy to know he won’t go anywhere. You like the little sounds he makes when he eats his super unhealthy corndog as if he’s eating it for the first time every single time (see: very unnerving and slightly disturbing but altogether amusing mmmmmmmmmms). In fact, if you didn’t have a vivid memory of telling him off from way back then, you feel like you could easily convince yourself that things had always been like this — that you two had always been together, happily at work. 

You’re not surprised that he isn’t back from his meeting even when you get back to your desk after lunch, but you do feel a pang of dejectedness that lasts for a few more hours — time which you spend lazily looking over a contract he’d signed yesterday that needs a fair amount of amending and re-signing. It’s hard to pretend to care today, for some reason, especially since your mind keeps going back to peanut butter sandwiches and some ridiculous vision of Vice President Na standing in the middle of your tiny studio apartment’s kitchen area. 

Your reverie’s broken when an envelope falls onto your desk, covering the page of the contract you’d been glassily staring at for the last hour and a half. You’d drawn the same circle about twenty times already, and the paper’s all dented from your efforts. When you look up, Vice President Na is staring down at you, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Miss me?” He drums the envelope, the paper muffling the noise of it all. “Oh? I was joking, but it looks like you actually did. That’s twice in a single day, Secretary ____________. You’re setting a very high record.”

You try to tamp down the smile on your face upon seeing him, clearing your throat so that you have an excuse to press your lips together. You guess it doesn’t work because he just keeps smiling, anyway, or maybe he’s just in a really good mood. “Did your meeting go well, sir?” 

“Is Lotteria the national fastfood chain? Too bad I don’t work for anyone because it kind of feels like I deserve some kind of reward.”

“Could we say that this partnership is its own reward?” 

“It doesn’t have the same ring to it,” he sighs. Once again, his forefinger taps the envelope, calling your attention a little more clearly to it. “I know we’re on a tight schedule for this, and I hate to ask this so late of you, but —”

“Of course, sir; I’ll have it in your hands first thing tomorrow.” 

You’re already gathering it up along with your other (vaguely unfinished) paperwork when his whole palm comes down, trapping the envelope and everything else you’d been intending to carry under it. Your hands go up like you’re being held at gunpoint, your eyes wide. 

“On second thought,” Vice President Na muses, a little too serene for someone who’d just scared the living daylights out of someone else. “How about I take care of the Samsung deal you’re looking over, and you can handle the Norwegian contract?”

“I haven’t… really made a lot of headway with it, if I’m being honest.” You’re hoping he doesn’t ask you why because you’re too embarrassed to come up with a lie on the spot and will inevitably have to confess your random attraction to him under these terrible circumstances if he does. Luckily, he just shrugs.

“All the more reason to split the work, then.”

The still mildly stern part of you is begging to point out that he’s giving you a whole new set of documents to look over anyway, so it’s not even like you’ll have less to do, but the larger, more endeared part of you tells it to shut up and mind its own business. “I thought the crux of our agreement was that you’d never have to work overtime.”

“Because I look like such a stickler for the rules, don’t I?” He snorts, waving you in with the same envelope, and you concede.

Working next to Vice President Na isn’t anything new to you; you’ve been doing it everyday for a while now, especially if he needs you to be quick on call. Ever since you’ve realized his presence makes your heart beat a little faster, you’ve promised yourself not to let that fact show at all when he’s around, something you’ve been quite careful about perfecting. 

Something’s different, though, when it’s after official hours. Maybe it’s because the floor is quieter than it is during the day, so there’s nothing you can listen to but the sound of pen scratching on paper and Vice President Na’s steady breathing. The only real interruption is when Hyunsung knocks on the door to ask if the Vice President is going home; the look on his face is panicked and confused, like a puppy that’s just been dropped off at the mouth of a dumpster site, when he’s told that Vice President Na will drive himself home, so he can just leave the keys. 

Maybe it’s also because it’s pretty dark outside, and while you’ve worked into the night a few times, it’s usually alone or with some other poor sap that has even more backlog than you do — it’s never been just you and the Vice President, who seems supremely unperturbed by the fact that he isn’t at home doing… whatever he does at home after work. You can only guess at it (or wish you knew). 

That makes one of you that’s keeping busy, although you know it should be two. The fact that you’re distracted by his presence all of a sudden is only exacerbated by the mutually exclusive headache that the paperwork you’re looking over gives you. You don’t know why you had expected it to be in Korean, but you and your intermediate level English struggle to keep up with all the little things you have to look through. Sometimes, you can’t tell if the clauses are actually confusing or if you’re just the poor product of your middle school education. It strikes you more than once that Vice President Na had gone through this, somehow, himself — talked to people in a completely different language, probably with ease. You can at least be proud of yourself for being right: for as long as the Vice President puts his mind to something, he’s able to do it — perhaps even well. 

What shocks you after an eternity of silence is the hand that extends towards you, forefinger lightly nudging your chin. You sit up straight like a bolt of lighting had gone through you, meeting Vice President Na’s thoroughly and inexplicably amused expression. Your jaw slackens in shock, but his finger just stays there, like it isn’t invading your personal space. Like it just belongs there.

“What are you doing?”

“What—” you splutter, bemused at the fact that you hadn’t asked the question first. “What are you doing?”

“You keep moving your mouth. What — are you praying or something?”

“No, I —-” You gesture at the contract page you’ve been trying to stumble through for the past twenty minutes. “No, I’m just… I’m reading?”

“You’re…” The start of a laugh escapes him, and you really don’t know what’s so funny. “You’re reading aloud?”

“I wasn’t making any noise, I think,” you grumble, sounding a little more defensive than you’d care to admit. 

“You read silently aloud, then.” His eyes twinkle at this information, although why it should elicit this reaction also completely escapes you. “Why? Because it helps you memorize it or something?”

“My English isn’t that great,” you admit begrudgingly, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “Sometimes I need to mouth the words to understand it.”

And he does the most outrageous, inexplicable thing: he gently cups your chin, making sure you can’t turn your head to look away in embarrassment. Now you have to look at him, red in the face and close to exploding. 

“Don’t you think that’s a little too much, miss secretary?”

You can’t ask what; your voice isn’t working. You just open and close your mouth around the syllable, and after a couple of attempts, he starts copying you, evidently having a better time than you are based on the grin stretched across his face.

“What? What? That you’re doing something this cute in front of me is what I mean. You’re obviously going overboard, and I don’t think it’s very nice.”

He retracts his hand as quickly as he’d used it to close the distance between you, and your hand immediately comes up in its place, almost cupping your jaw like he did. It definitely doesn’t give you the same tingly feeling, so that’s an obvious bust.

You and Vice President Na have a sudden staring contest with amended rules: you blink a hundred times a minute at him while he laughs quietly, leaning back on his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It confuses you and kind of enrages you, but you also find your heart thumping away in your ears like it’s trying very hard to remind you that Na Jaemin makes you feel alive. 

“I— I just—”

“Coffee? I could use some coffee. You look like you could use some too.” He stands, buttoning his blazer with one hand like he has someplace important to go. You’re still so shell-shocked that you don’t even try to stand up to help him, a fact which he notices very clearly. “Oh no, I’ll do you this favor. You sit tight and read your contract. I’ll be back. Keep doing that cute thing with your mouth.” 

Vice President Na finds you exactly as he left you: still wondering if you should be offended at his teasing or enamored by his touch and, more importantly, what the hell his deal is. You have a million questions that need answering, but the only thing you blubber out when he comes back is “Why?” 

“Because you’re amazingly fun to tease,” he responds simply. “And because it’s true. I find it extremely cute. I find you very cute, Secretary _____________, in a kind of good girl, cool girl kind of way. It’s a little confusing to me too, but I think this slightly stern but overall gentle aesthetic of yours is actually growing on me a little.”

“Sir, I—”

“While we’re taking a break,” he interrupts you. You guess it’s probably the right time for a break considering there’s no way you can work in peace now. “Do you constantly have to call me that?” 

“What else would I call you?”

“My name,” he suggests, taking a sip of coffee. You ignore the shit, that’s hot that comes out of him as he puts the paper cup down gingerly on his desk, looking a little bit betrayed by his drink. “Jaemin. Many people call me that.”

“People who are close to you, you mean. Like your family or… your friends.”

“Are you saying you don’t think we’re close? Or that we aren’t friends?”

“Sir, I work for you.” 

“So by that alone, we simply can’t be friends? Et al?I think you really are being too much now, Secretary ____________.” He folds his arms across his chest, tutting disapprovingly as he leans back on the edge of his desk. You try not to think too hard about the fact that he does it very close to you, at an angle optimal for viewing the leanness of his form. “After all those times you broke into my house—”

“To get you ready for work.”

“— walked into my bedroom—”

“Only whenever necessary—”

“— gone through my things while I’m half naked in bed like you’re trying to organize a charity drive—”

“Because you need to get dressed, not because I have some perverted agenda —”

“—eaten the food off my kitchen counter, too—”

“You told me to!” You get to your feet, the contract slipping from your lap in your enthusiasm to defend yourself. “You offered it to me!”

Whatever happens next is completely out of your control, and you know this because the room spins without you moving by your own will. Vice President Na must have been an expert dancer in his past life, or something, because after that one dizzying moment, you find yourself leaning against the edge of the table he had been just a second ago. Warm hands are on your waist, tucked under your cardigan, the heat bleeding through your shirt. 

And the Vice President’s smile is inches away from your face, still mischievous but much gentler than any other time before. 

You’re not sure if you’re paralyzed or if you just don’t want to move, but the reason doesn’t affect the outcome: all you can do is stare up at him, once again dumbfounded after a small outpouring of words that ends in some kind of forced defeat. Except this particular surrender doesn’t feel so sore, for some reason. 

“Even when you’re angry, you’re still pretty, you know that?”

“I wasn’t… angry,” you mumble under your breath, afraid that talking louder will scare him off. You don’t even think he’s listening all that much to you, considering that all he does is tuck your hair behind your left ear and completely change the topic. 

“So, tell me, Secretary ____________. Is this still a situation where we’re not close at all?” He pauses for a moment, probably to let you answer, but you don’t say anything. You’re pretty sure your swallowing nervously is the only true sound you make. He seems to be eager to do a lot of the talking anyway, which is absolutely fine by you. “Or have I completely misread all your cute little signals?”

“Well — no, but I didn’t send any signals.” Obvious ones, at least. You’d been pretty sure you had tried to keep it under wraps as much as possible, but you’re starting to realize it’s a little possible you’re not as great at pretending as you think you are. 

“Not on purpose, probably. Although you really almost got me with the one-man show vibe you have during lunch hour.”

“I… didn’t think you knew, if I’m being honest.” Honesty is the only thing you have right now, anyway, especially since Vice President Na has pretty much confirmed, in his own way, that he knows about how you feel. Now you can only wonder if he’d noticed before you even came to terms with it yourself, and the thought of that being a real possibility urges you to grab the still-steaming cup of coffee and douse yourself with its contents. 

“For a while, I was pretty sure you were messing with me. I would never,” he adds just as you say it too, mimicking your astounded tone up to the lilt. “Which is why I started thinking about why else you might be looking at me so intently. You weren’t sitting there objectifying me, were you, miss secretary?”

“Sir, I would never,” you repeat, and he mouths the same words again in his amusement, although silently this time. 

“I think I would have been okay with it if you were. Or would be, even until now. For the record.” 

“I wasn’t.” 

“You sure? No shame in it. Totally fine. Not sure about anyone else, but I’m totally okay if someone else thinks I’m eye candy in the privacy of their own minds. I am, I think, a fine specimen of a human, if I do say so myself.”

“I really wasn’t, sir.”

“You should have, then. Lost opportunities.”” 

“I could argue that I was just worried you’d leave and not come back.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that to you,” he hums. “Not anymore, anyway.” 

The ‘to you’ is what stumps you into another silent spell, but this time, Vice President Na doesn’t attempt to fill in the void. He just starts running his eyes over your face, like he’s trying to read something there or maybe memorize your features, or something. At some point, you start thinking about how this kind of silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, contrary to your expectations and with interesting consideration of the fact that he’s still holding your hips. Apart from the idle skimming of his thumb over the curve of your pelvic bone, he doesn’t move — nearer or closer, which is probably for the best since you don’t know which one you really want more at this point.

Again, when you gather some part of your wits, the only thing you still know how to ask is “Why?”

“Because,” he replies immediately, simply, like the answer has always been very clear and you’ve just been too ignorant to figure it out. “You said that I could, not that I had to.” 

It’s hot. Isn’t it hot? You don’t know what he’s talking about, but your body already reacts on principle, and you have to stand-half-lean there with your entire face burning and Vice President Na’s body heat washing over yours like an electric blanket.

“I don’t know what that means, sir.”

“It means I didn’t do this for my dad or just because you told me off in the comfort of my own office.” He bites down on his lower lip to keep himself from laughing (yet again) at you as he witnesses, from the best seat in the house, your face turning almost purple with the effort of keeping down your embarrassment. “Although that played a bit of a factor in it. I couldn’t tell if it was rude of you to say so much or kind of cute that you did despite knowing you were being rude. But that’s besides the point.”

Good, you think. If he manages to hit you with another cute in this timeframe, you may easily cease to exist. 

“You know firsthand, anyway, what my dad always says. You must take on the responsibility you were born with. You have to do your job. You must remember that you owe your life to my achievements.” He mimics his father’s gruff, booming voice amusingly well, to the point that you can’t stop yourself from laughing. His facade breaks easily, and you think you hear him mumble cute under his breath again, although you choose to ignore it so your knees don’t buckle completely (something that you think would be very embarrassing with you so close to him). “I don’t think he’s ever once said an encouraging word to my face. And if there’s anything I can confidently say I won’t do, it’s doing what people only say I need to do. It’s my life, you know what I mean? I’ll do what I want.” 

“You’re saying you suddenly wanted to work because I said you could?” 

“More like I wanted to see if you were right.” He muses. “I was pretty sure I didn’t have the personality for it. Or the attention span. Or the skill, either.”

“I think a couple of those things are still up in the air, sir.”

“One compliment and you’re already gunning for another insubordination report.” Vice President Na’s voice is a low, casual hum, but you notice the grip around your waist tightens for a brief moment. “At first, I figured I’d just show up to get everyone off my back, but I realized along the way that I’m pretty good at this being at the helm business. I’m sure you’ll agree. Hopefully because you want to, not because you also have to.”

“I do agree.” Your reply is wholehearted, and the Vice President’s smile widens. Your chest swells so much that you think you might explode right in front of him. “Because I want to.”

“Please don’t misunderstand me, miss secretary. I’m not attributing all my successes to your impulsive words.” He teases, although his eyes stay gentle despite his tone. “The efforts were still all mine. However, I’m not too proud to admit I had a very responsible first mate by my side, for whom I am very grateful. Although I hope this doesn’t mean she’ll pluck up the courage to ask for a raise considering how well I pay her. I think. Does she get paid well? Maybe I should ask Park Jinhee from accounting.” 

“She won’t,” you laugh softly, not missing the fact that he’s finally learned her name. “And she’s not really doing this for the salary, even if it is a nice bonus.” 

“What’s she doing it for, then?” 

As a job, this was really mostly about yourself — or it was, in the beginning. You’d terrorized Vice President Na to some degree because of the innate tendency towards self-preservation, and when that felt a little one-sided, you also considered everyone who might lose their jobs if the department got cut. It had been, for the most part, an act of pure desperation, so strong that you were willing to point fingers and raise your voice (only a few decibels, because you’re not a crazy person) at your boss. Now… that wasn’t really part of the equation. Maybe you had gotten used to the fact that the Vice President wouldn’t be going anywhere, so you’d stopped worrying about your and everyone else’s jobs, which all seem to be on a smooth path alongside the captain of the ship.

But if you had to be honest to yourself, part of the reason you’d grown a bit complacent about thinking about the fate of the department also had to do with the fact that you genuinely enjoyed being next to the Vice President. Mornings spent helping him prepare for work were regular highlights in your week, and the looks of approval you received from him every time you helped him finish a particularly difficult task were second to none. Always being close to him, always being the first and last to see him in the day, simply being able to look at him -– silly as that all sounds, they now play an undeniable factor in your desire to wake up and go to the office every single day. 

“I did it for you.” You answer, and because the answer’s honest, it feels completely natural to say. A pause slowly lengthens between you two, though not nearly as tense or borderline uncomfortable as you thought it might be this time around. A slow smile stretches over the Vice President’s face, but his words don’t easily take the straightforward route this time, either.

“Should I take up with the human resources department the fact that you’re outright breaching the terms of our contractual workplace relationship? How am I?” He speaks over, with you again, your voices overlapping. You can’t help it — you laugh at the absurdity of how well he’s come to know your responses, from the word choice to the lilt in your voice that signals some level of affront. When, exactly, did Vice President Na start committing the things you said and did into memory? “You’re seducing me, miss secretary. Before you say you’re not — you are. You are, without even knowing it. You’re winning me over, telling me all these sweet nothings to tickle my heart — I believe in you, Jaemin. I love working with you, Jaemin. I did it all for you, Jaemin, because you’re obviously the best in the whole world, ho ho ho.”

“I never said it like that.” 

“You might as well have.” 

“Should I stop believing in you so that we can avoid a scene, then, or is the damage to your good standing too far gone?”

“Rather than stopping something already in full motion, I think it might be better to make certain amendments to our current agreement.” Vice President Na reaches for the pen tucked into his breast pocket — the gold clip catches the fluorescent light and momentarily blinds you as he brings it up between you. He brings it to one side, then to another, and your eyes follow it, amused but also admittedly a bit hypnotized.

“What kind of trance are you putting me under, sir?”

“The kind that gets you to stop calling me that,” he chuckles. “Among other, more important things on my agenda.” 

You have an excellent view of Vice President Na’s stellar smile from the back of the meeting room. 

The deal he closes three days later goes even better than expected; not only does he bring Amazon into the fold after weeks of (surprisingly consistent) hard work and no small amount of beguiling charm (owing to the fact that he’d offended said Amazon representatives earlier on in his still relatively short-lived career), but he also manages to snag Samsung Electronics’ participation. As an already existing subscriber to the company-provided phone plan, you’re pleased to find out that you’re entitled to twelve guilt-free months of Prime Video as part of a new promotional deal, which you can now enjoy on nights you aren’t working overtime — something you’ve racked up more of as you’ve found yourself striking more of a work-life balance, thanks in large part to the Vice President’s steadily active involvement in all things on the ‘work’ aspect of the scale. Your first goal is to finally get past the first episode of an animation everyone in the department is raving about (but that you haven’t seen more than five minutes of, in actuality, because the horrible subtitles and sluggish 144px stop motion-esque have, until recently, adamantly deterred you from enjoying anything about the story).

Standing a fair distance away from the executives, you wait for the flurry of handshakes and accompanying congratulatory statements to die down; it takes quite a while, considering the sheer volume of people, and the thickest throng has come to gather around Vice President Na. At one point, all you can see of him is the slightly unruly lick of hair that’s sticking out above the rest of the considerable crowd of balding men around him (the sole crow’s feather a mountain range of gray). All their voices overlap, and you’re only able to catch key phrases — brilliant young mind… knack for business! … just like the President… bright future ahead, you know? 

Fifteen minutes of conversation and bellowing guffaws pass before Vice President Na emerges, adjusting the front of his blazer as a result of too much handshaking. Behind him, still speaking to one of the  marketing executives, is President Na, who shoots his son a surreptitious look you’ve never seen him wear in your considerable number of years in the company’s employ  — one of triumph and pride. The Vice President, however, is intently loosening his tie and scanning the room, stretching himself just a fraction taller above everyone else to get a better view throughout. 

You wait, wondering if he’s looking to speak to someone, lost in that host of black and gray suits — the Amazon media director, perhaps, or the in-house designer that also seems to be trying to catch his eye, for some reason (you sense the needy greed for a sudden promotion that seems highly unlikely in such a setting), but even though his vision passes over them, however briefly, Vice President Na doesn’t seem satisfied.

That is, until his eyes land on the corner of the room you and Secretary Son have backed yourselves into to allow the higher-ups room to mingle. 

One beat later, and the corners of his mouth are pulled up — a soft, knowing smile directed in your general direction. You glance at Secretary Son, maybe out of instinct, maybe somehow out of panic — as though you worry she’ll somehow come to chastise you, but she’s too busy trying to re-buckle her thin coat belt with rapid-fire tsks. She seems acceptably preoccupied, so your eyes flit back to the Vice President, whose eyebrows are now slightly raised, the telltale signs of a growing grin now playing on his lips as the front of his teeth begin to peek out from the seam. Another cock of his eyebrows, lifting them higher, tells you he’s waiting for some kind of message — an indication that you see him too, maybe, or… perhaps, oddly, any sign that you’re as proud of him as everyone else in the room is. 

You can’t help it  — you laugh, louder than you’d have originally liked to, a hand coming up over your mouth as Secretary Son’s head snaps up from her waist, bamboozled at your quick but sudden outburst. She throws you a look that suggests she firmly believes your mind has snapped, quite like a stale breadstick in a derelict Italian restaurant, but it’s worth it; Vice President Na looks satisfied at this — though, why he would be, you haven’t a true clue. 

As the managers and members of the board file out of the room, both you and Secretary Son inch closer to your respective direct superiors; you both stand a few steps away as the last of the executives drag their feet, still hoping to share one last handshake with either of the two, until an elderly Mrs. Kwon’s surprisingly firm grip is finally shaken off by a sheepish President Na. He turns to his son, who’s still hosting the remnants of a genial smile on his lips, clearly poised to say something. For some reason, you expect the senior to berate the former, simply out of sheer habit, but he does nothing of the sort. 

“Jaemin-ah,” his voice is gruff but not at all begrudging; it’s a low rumble of triumph. “Who’d’ve thought? My boy… you brat…”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental now, dad,” the Vice President teases, to which the President chortles heartily. 

“Old men like me have the right, much more than anyone else.” You’ve never seen the President wear an expression even remotely close to softness, but you see it in his gaze now; it strikes you, then, that although you’ve always known the two to be related, this is the first time you can confidently say they resemble each other to the cores of their being — a view of happiness, somewhat mirrored in each of them. “I’m proud of you, son. You did everything I hoped you would — no, no… more than that, even.” 

“I’ll take most of the praise, thanks,” Vice President Na replies with his characteristic cheek. For a moment, so quickly you think you may have missed it, his eyes flicker to you. “But I can’t say I could’ve done it alone.” 

“Punk,” President Na snorts, yanking on his son’s earlobe; you and Secretary Son have to avert your eyes with expert speed to avoid being caught snickering at the slightly juvenile “ow, dammit,” that the Vice President groans out. “One big closed deal, and your head’s this big? I better not catch you floating away to a Las Vegas casino after all this.” 

“Give me some credit; I’d at least visit the desert first.” This time, when the Vice President glances at you, his father’s head turns too, and you stand up straighter at the unprecedented onslaught of attention. “Besides, I’ve got someone here to keep me anchored now.”

“Good work, Secretary ____________,” President Na offers you a rare smile that truly has you feeling like the world has turned upside down: the President in an agreeable (almost ecstatic, though you’d never say that out loud) mood, the Vice President doing his job not just in general but actually commendably well, and not a single strand of baby hair sticking up from out of your ponytail. Inconceivable. 

You bow, murmuring a thank you, and Secretary Son quickly follows suit for the formality of it all before she strides over to the President, who’s leaving his son with one last thunder-like clap on the back before he’s leaving the meeting room, still jovial when he catches up with the suspiciously lagging figure of Mrs. Kwon by the door. 

Vice President Na starts to follow suit, walking towards the other end of the meeting room; you quickly scurry behind him, still clutching your tablet, blinking a low battery warning, to your chest. You’ve come to grow accustomed to the ‘secretary’s pace’ over the last few weeks as well — always close enough to help, never too close enough to step on a superior’s toes.

But in the moment you fumble to silence your device, you end up stepping into someone’s shadow; glancing up at the Vice President, you find yourself looking at not the familiar view of his back but that of his side profile (one you’re actually also familiar with, though you refuse to admit to the level of familiarity). He’s slowed his pace considerably, allowing you to naturally fall into step with him, and even this, he expects a response from you somehow — he asks for it with yet another wiggle of his eyebrows. You laugh again, shaking your head, and yet, inexplicably, it seems to be exactly the reaction he hopes to see.

The department floor erupts into applause when the two of you pass through the glass doors; a flash of mollification crosses the Vice President’s features before he’s back to his signature light humor, raising a palm up in receipt of praise. Park Jinhee is clapping with only her left hand smacking the side of her mug, a few drops of coffee streaming down the handle side on impact. One of the team managers rushes forward, eager to shake Vice President Na’s hand, and, riding his high, also yours, pumping it up and down with so much vigor that you mumble a quiet ow behind a strained smile. Only the Vice President’s hand on your shoulder, steering you away, saves you from what feels like possible dislocation. 

He’s still waving at them like this is a pageant and not his day job, even as he guides you towards his office door; you have to use your elbows to push it open and effectively help you both avoid ramming into frosted glass. The applause dies down as your somewhat conjoined figures disappear through the doorway — you first, albeit convolutedly, your heel still holding strong in the job of keeping the door wide open enough for Vice President Na to saunter through before you let it swing shut to a now relatively silent office floor. 

His hold on your shoulder doesn’t let up, though; it’s still urging you forward, towards his desk, and you open your mouth to say something along the lines of I’m gonna break my hip if we keep going this way, but just as your throat conjures up the first syllable, he turns you around, letting you rest light against the edge of the table. 

In a pattern reminiscent of three days prior, Vice President Na’s hand finds its way to your waist, utterly comfortable in a way that mystifies you; he acts like it belongs there, as natural as the smile that’s still playing on his lips. 

“Sir, you realize it’s the middle of the day?” 

“You realize that we had a deal,” he corrects you, brow furrowing in feigned sternness. “Hold up your end of it, miss secretary.” 

“Only if you stop calling me that.” 

“Now, that absolutely was not part of the contract.” 

When you laugh this time, he chimes in; there’s a harmony in your voices that has your posture softening. You feel airier, your heart much lighter, and when you look up at him, you can’t help but flush at his expectant gaze. 

“You realize it’s the middle of the day,” you repeat, carefully, the words suddenly somewhat unfamiliar on your tongue — the next two syllables, most of all. “Jae… min.” 

Odd as it is, you’re rewarded with the pleased look that takes over his features; he takes a moment to exaggeratedly revel in this new occurrence. 

“Better. Much better. You could still be a bit more comfortable with it, I’d say, but… baby steps?” 

“Please re-prioritize your day, si— Jaemin.” The terse tone you’re going for is brutally marred by your blunder, which has his shoulders shaking from laughter. “Someone could very easily walk in.” 

“Who’s going to fire me?”

“I can think of one person.”

“You heard him. I’m proud of you, Jaemin. You’ve completely exceeded my expectations, Jaemin. You are the light of my life — my favorite son, Jaemin, ho, ho, ho.”

“Sir,” you sigh. “You’re his only son.”

“We had a deal,” he repeats, letting the return to habits slide, and there’s a laughably childish air to his words. “I’ll… file an insubordination report. Breach of contract as well. Tsk, tsk, miss secretary. Not on such a momentous occasion.” 

“Some might classify this as threatening behavior.” Your eyes are soft, though, when they meet his humored gaze. “If you want a reward… ask a little more nicely.”

A soft snort — his fingers dig lightly into your waist, and the next second, he’s lifting you off your feet and settling you lightly atop his desk. his palms never leave you, even after you’ve been placed; they’re increasingly warm beyond the fabric of your top. 

“____________,” he murmurs, saying your name so naturally that you could almost believe he’s referred to you as nothing else for as long as you’ve known him. “Kiss me.” 

Your own hands find their way behind his neck, but he does most of the work in closing the gap anyway; you’re not even sure who, between the two of you, gave that first sigh of longing, of relief. Perhaps it was both of you, all at once. 

Jaemin still tastes like the coffee you’d given him this morning — not a trace of richness, but a bittersweet and earthy twang that’s signature post-Americano. There’s even a hint of mintiness from the nervous handful of Tic Tacs he’d had just before the meeting started; you find that out the moment his tongue swipes against yours, leaving behind the invisible bite of menthol. And then there’s you, a clean taste that settles against his teeth, subtle first but growing stronger until you’re satisfied with the notion that you may linger there for some time — even after you pull away, slightly breathless.

“Congratulations to me,” he breathes out, trademark grin flashing bright again. “So what happens if I close next month’s Disney Plus deal?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer; his hand’s already skimming down, over your hips, following the path of your thigh. Your hand reaches out on instinct to stop him, but he’s oddly more aware of his surroundings than you give him credit for (or maybe, you’re just that predictable to him). He meets your palm, fingers lacing into yours and allowing him to lift your wrist to his lips. There, you feel the warmth of his kiss again, and he uses his hold to bring himself even closer, until he’s able to press his face into your neck. 

“Sir—”

“Jaemin. You call me Jaemin from now on, remember?”

“Sir.” You’re adamant. “It’s work hours.”

“You’re not tense.” 

He doesn’t move his head; in fact, you feel him burying his face further into your shoulder. In this position, there’s no real way for you to pull away — there’s also no real desire for you to do so, anyway. 

“No, I’m not.”

“Good.” Warmth again on your skin — his lips leave an invisible mark just above your collarbone. “I like you best like this.”

“What? Not tense?”

“Happy,” he corrects for accuracy. “Happy that you’re with me.” 

You fall silent, not because you’re not sure of what to say, but because you don’t need to tell him that he’s right. 

Moments later, his fingers find their way into your ponytail; the index hooks into the elastic, bringing your hair down. You feel his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, he’s inhaling your perfume again. 

“Green tea. Something floral. Jasmine? Maybe a little bit of citrus.” He lifts his head but stays close, warm breath washing over you. “It’s so you. Fresh. Pure. Beautiful.” 

The gap between the two of you doesn’t last for too long thereafter; he kisses you again, and your heart lifts to find that your taste still lingers somewhere there. It’s longer because it’s slower — less playful and more exploratory, until he pulls away to a much more breathless you. How he finds the air to talk even after is miraculous to you. 

“Be mine, miss secretary.” 

You blink — once, twice, at his serious expression, wondering if it will break and give way to more humor. But he waits, unwavering, until the last piece of resistance you’ve clung onto is washed away — the last thing that made you, for a second, deny that you were in love with him. 

His smile slowly mirrors yours as it grows. 

“Like you could ever get rid of me, Na Jaemin.” 

[chokepoet]

Kittens & Perverts (PG-13)

GIF by @kitherondale

Summary | A month after Logan’s passing, Roman stumbles onto an abandoned kitten and seeks the help of his assistant in caring for it.

Genre | Angst, The Fluffiest Fluff

TW | animal sickness, mentions of death (no actual death), panic attacks, drug mentions, slight allusions to an eating disorder

Word Count | 3.9k

A/N | This is for all my soft hearted bitches that just need that doe eyed lil’ shit to feel held. Even if just by a hand.

I had just walked out my door when I received a call from a very frantic Roman.

“I found a kitten. What the fuck do I do? It’s like, fuckin’ shivering and oh god- I think it? Coughed? Do cats cough?” His voice gets slightly quieter as if pulled away from the receiver. “Did you just cough?”

After having me find, in his words, the Mayo Clinic of emergency vets, he sent a car after me to meet him there. The entire drive was spent trying to calm him through the phone. He kept sending me horrific screenshots of every worse case scenario he found on Google. When I entered the waiting room I found him pacing with wide eyes and fidgety hands. He’d wound himself onto the verge of a panic attack.

“It’s got fucking pneumonia. Hooked up to IV’s and all this shit. They’re like incubating it- I think? With this big ass oxygen tank. Did you know they did that for cats? Like iron lung ‘em?” His hand roughly drags back through his hair. “I dunno if some sick fuck just left it there ‘cause it was ugly as shit with lil green goo comin’ out its eyes- aw, man, you shoulda seen it. The poor little fucker was like- like straight outta Cronenberg’s wet dreams, just- oh man, fuckin’ nasty.” He laughs to himself but it’s more of a stuttering rush of mirthless air. “And I’m supposed to feed it with these like freaky fucking heroin needle things apparently? I don’t-“ Placing both of my palms on either side of his cheeks gently, I tried stilling him.

“Hey- hey look at me. Breathe with me, yeah? In through your nose for a count of 4, hold for 7, out through your mouth for 8. Just like your blowing out birthday candles.” Face bunched up, he shoves me away.

“Fuck off! Birthday candles? The fuck are you on about? I’m fine. You know whose not fine? The fucking cat! It’s so tiny and-“

“Roman! Just fucking breathe with me real quick, okay? Just for a sec-“

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you? I’m breathing fucking fine! Are you deranged?“

“No I’m not fucking deranged but I’m about to shove a vial of ketamine up your ass if you don’t just fucking trust me and breathe with me.”

Exacerbated, he finally follows me through the breathing exercise for three rounds. Albeit while rolling his eyes. The tension in his face had fallen slightly. Though, his shoulders remained tense as ever.

“Better?”

“Fuck you.” He shakes his head and refuses to meet my eyes. “Yes.” His reply reluctant and slightly cartoonish with annoyance. He’d been having bouts of anxiety and panic attacks ever since his father passed. He was always like this whenever I’d guide him through it. Embarrassed and frustrated. Depleted.

He sank into one of the seats lining the wall with a long sigh. Head falling back for a moment before pulling his knees up and anchoring his heel to the edge of the metal chair. Hugging himself. I take a seat next to him and criss-cross my legs beneath me.

“Is he gonna die?” His voice now small and hushed as he intently stared at a floor tile. I felt the ghost of Logan grip my heart and squeeze.

“Honestly?” His big brown eyes flicker up at me. Searching, scared. “I dunno, Roman.” He quickly stares back to the floor tile. “What I do know is you did the very best you could for the lil’ guy.” He scuffs.

“Yeah-well, my best has historically done fuck all so…” he mumbles and I gently nudge him with my elbow but he doesn’t look up.

“That’s not true and you know it.” He shoots me a look that tells me he does not in fact know it. “That kitten wouldn’t have had a chance without you. You gave it a fighting shot at life, Rome. That’s worth something.” Just then a vet walks through the waiting room doors. Roman quickly stumbles out of the chair to stand. I join him and cautiously press the palm of my hand to his back for support. He doesn’t brush me off.

“It’s a good thing you brought him in when you did. If it had been any later, I don’t think he would have made it.” I steal a glance at Roman, who swallows before clenching his jaw. “He seems to be responding well to the oxygen and antibiotics. You all should be able leave with him after he’s been stable for a little while longer. I’ll start filling the scripts for his medications here soon.”

The warmth of the vet’s reassuring smile was in stark contrast to the color draining from Roman’s face. He nods slowly and blinks as he processes the responsibility of this kitten’s health being placed onto him. As the doctor leaves, Roman climbs back into the cold metal chair like an anxious gargoyle. I pull the vet aside before he can walk back through the doors and ask him to go over care instructions with me. He offers me a packet instead. Flipping through it, I search out a supplies list.

I knew Roman was far too out of his depths to retain any of the information. Valid, considering he referred to a nursing syringe as a heroine needle. Upon walking back, I find he’s made the full transformation into human stress ball. Full moon be damned. He looked like one pull of an imaginary rubber band and he’d fall apart all over the floor.

“Hey, I’m going to run to the store and get everything we need. I’ll set it all up at your place so we’ll be ready when you come home.” I tried using we instead of you to let him know he wasn’t going to be tackling this alone. I don’t think he noticed.

“You’re leaving me here?” His eyes were wide and horrified. “I can’t- I don’t- what if-“

“You’ll be okay Roman. You’ve got thi-“

“Like hell I’ll be! I most certainly do not got this. What the fuck!” Sighing, I sit beside him as he continues to gape at me.

“The vet has everything under control. All you need to do is sit here, try to relax, and think about a name for the little guy, okay? You don’t wanna have to deal with shopping for all this shit once you have him.” The lines between his brows were deeply creased.

“Can’t you just send a-“

“Roman. Stop.” He does, though a silent plea remained etched in his features. “Just let me do this for you, alright?” His eyes shut as his head falls back against the wall. This was important and I didn’t really trust that anyone else would get everything needed. Having to deal with a forgotten item later tonight sounded like a hell I wished to avoid. “You’ll see me again at the apartment. My phone is at full volume. You know you can call me the second I leave this building and I’ll answer.” He grumbles, refusing to look at me. “And I promise to have that boba tea you refuse to admit you like waiting for you.” One eye opens and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Sugar-free?” He didn’t need to know that the boba had been soaking in brown sugar before reaching his cup. Too elated that he felt some sense of joy in something food related and knowing full well he’d never touch it again if he knew. He still rarely allowed himself a cup of it as is, let alone finish it all. I didn’t have the heart to break it to him, so I never did.

“With extra boba.” His lips defy him as a small smile escapes. Groaning loudly and dramatically, he lifts his head.

“Fine.” He jerks his wallet out of his pocket and hands me his black card. “If that thing fucking croaks on me while you’re gone, I’m blaming you.”

As I walk out the doors I catch a quick glance back to find him, eyes closed, doing those breathing exercise.

Sure enough, the second I’m in the car my phone rings.

“The fuck all do you even have to get? Do pet stores sell heroine needles? Ask Kendall, I bet he’d fuckin’ know.” The entire shopping excursion was spent with the phone cradled between my ear and shoulder as I picked up supplies. As soon as one call would end, it wouldn’t be a few minutes later that it’d ring again. “Do I have a humidifier? I’ve got that fuckin’ facial steamer. Is that like the same thing? I feel like- no, you know what? Just pick one up while you’re out. Someone on Reddit said it helps with pneumonia.”

Upon arriving to his apartment, I open the fridge to sit the promised boba tea inside. Lonely amongst the near barren shelves of wilting lettuce and protein shakes. Trying not to think about it too much, I return to the task at hand. I had successfully gathered all needed supplies, plus a plush heated blanket that I hoped might warm both their spirits. He rarely left his room most days so I figured it’s the best place to set up everything. As I spread the blanket across his bed, my phone rang.

“In route with Jerry.”

“The fuck you doin’ with Gerri?”

“Check your texts.” Clicking the notification, I’m met with a photo of Roman and the kitten. It’s small form curled up under the palm of his hand, nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

“That’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” His chuckle reverbs through the speaker.

“He is kinda cute, right?” You’re both kinda cute.

“The cutest. Please tell me you named him after the cartoon and not that Gerri?”

“Of course I named it after the fucking cartoon. Why would you even- yeah. I named a fuckin’ kitten after Waystar’s legal counsel.” His voice dripping with sarcasm even though he totally did do just that.

“You fucking would.” I can’t help but laugh. “And you say I’m deranged?”

“Yeah, yeah. Call my therapist.”

“Why? You’re already on the phone with ‘em.”

“Well you’re doing a shit job.”

“Clearly.” I began setting up Jerry’s bed. A nest of soft blankets over a heating pad in a small box. “Well shit’s hard with a sick fuck like Roman Roy as my client.”

“I can tell ya somethin’ else that’s hard.”

“I’m calling HR.”

“Ooo, three way?”

“Hanging up now.” His laughter reflects off his floor to ceiling windows as I cut the line.

While finishing filling the humidifier, now resting on his side table, I heard the front door open. Roman’s light footsteps click across the pristine hardwood floors.

“Aye! Lil’ man’s hungry, did you get the goods?” I’m soon enough greeted by a softly mewing Jerry in the same spot as he was photographed in nearly an hour prior.

“Yeah, your boba’s in the fridge.” Roman rolls his eyes before scrunching his nose up and sticking his tongue out at me.

“Hardy-har har. You’re hilarious.” Sticking my own tongue out at him, I give him a wink. “Seriously, did you get- the fuck that come from?” He waves a limp wrist towards the bed.

“It’s a heated blanket, I got it while I was out. Just thought you two could use it. And yes, the formulas in the kitchen.” Roman eyes the thick white blanket before waltzing over to run a hand over it. His lips threaten a smile but he fights it off.

“It’s… nice.” He clears his throat.

“You know, I haven’t gotten to officially meet Jerry yet.” Tilting my head, I gaze upon the little creature with a small smile. A tabby that reminded me of my first cat. I carefully reach out my pointer finger to stroke his head. My smile grows even wider. I was grateful Roman had found him and that he was okay. The fist of worry I kept hidden in the pit of my stomach began to unfurl. My cheeks warm as Roman’s gaze studied my face while I pet the kitten held against him.

“You can hold him.” Our eyes meet and there was something in his that made my chest flutter. He looks down quickly. “I mean-if you wanna or whatever.”

“Yeah? You sure? Y’all seem pretty cozy.” Roman rolls his eyes before carefully handing Jerry over to me. I cradle him over my heart while rubbing his side with my thumb. I can’t help but lean down to lay a soft kiss atop his head. “You are just the sweetest lil thing in the whole world, you know that?” I murmur into his fur before pulling back with a smile.

“Oh he fuckin’ knows it. He had all the nurses in a tizzy. Had to fight ‘em off with my humongous dick.”

“Oh Jesus, Roman. Do you ever just shut the fuck up?”

“Nope.” Roman smiles as he reaches to pet Jerry. His finger brushes my hand and our eyes fall to one another. The corner of his mouth twitches along with his finger. The air begins to fill with static as we stood falling into each other’s gaze. There was maybe half a foot of space between us. Out of nervous habit, I bite my bottom lip and Roman’s eyes immediately flicker to my mouth. Jerry mews against my chest.

“Should we go get the formula ready?” My voice comes out quieter than I intended, just above a whisper. He blinks a few times before meeting my eyes again.

“Huh? Y-yeah.” Clearing his throat, he quickly turns on his heels and heads out the bedroom door. I follow with a blush on my cheeks and a smile on my lips.

Atop Roman’s bed, he lay on his side with me mirrored beside him. Jerry was stretched out between us with a full belly pressed to the heated blanket, sleeping peacefully. Roman had one hand propping his head up and the other holding his boba tea. My arms were crossed under one another as I used them as a pillow. Both of us watching the rise and fall of Jerry’s breathing.

Feeding him earlier was an ordeal to say the least. Roman quickly became overwhelmed. Only confident in his abilities as a fuck up. He was twitchy, anxious, and swear-y as he made a mess of the kitchen. Glancing up to his face, I notice the circles under his eyes seemed darker. He looked utterly exhausted as he chewed on the straw of his drink with a furrowed brow.

“Hey, Rome?”

“Mm?” He hums addressing me but doesn’t look up from Jerry.

“Do you wanna try and get some sleep? I can stay up with Jer-Bear and make sure he’s okay.” Eyes finally meeting mine, his brows stay pulled together.

“Fuck no. I’m not tired.” He lied through his teeth; quickly and firmly. I had just seen him yawn not five minutes prior. My brows raise.

“Uh-huh…” I look him over. He was still dressed for the day, though without shoes. His tie, dusted in formula powder, hung loose around his neck. His sleeves were rolled to his elbow. Once gelled hair now flung in nearly every direction.

“Hey! Stop fuckin’-“ He waves the plastic cup around. “Checkin’ me out in front of the child, ya heathen.”

“The child?” I laugh quietly while propping my head up in one hand and stealing his drink from him with the other. He gasps dramatically with a hand to his chest. “Alright, cat daddy.” His brows raise as I take a sip.

“Cat daddy?” He smirks suggestively. “What are you then? Cat mommy?” Chewing on some boba pearls, I shrug with a smile.

“Seems fitting.” He goes to steal his cup back, causing his hand to fall over my own. He doesn’t remove it. Just stares at them clasped together. His touch feels electric. The familiar static returning to the air. Roman’s thumb slowly begins to brush my knuckles. Back and forth, almost shyly. I let out a shaky breath and his eyes suddenly meet mine, startled. He pulls the drink from me and I let my hand fall. The phantom of his thumb sending small shockwaves through to my bones.

Refusing to meet my eyes, he focuses them on Jerry instead. His fingers quickly and rhythmically tapping at the side of his cup. The hand once holding his head was now scratching at his jaw. A bundle of nerves before me. I yearned to soothe them and missed the warmth of his touch. The lonely ache blossoming throughout the skin of my palm made my head feel fuzzy. I then feel my last remaining brain cell sprout something akin to courage. Reaching out, I grasp the top of his drink and take it away to place on the side table behind me.

“What the fuck? I wasn’t finished…” He trails off as I look back to him. All furrow browed and handsome. Cautiously, I reach for his hand and lace my fingers with his. His eyes immediately drop to them interlocking with a sharp inhale. He falls tense. My stomach flips as I fight off the flaming arrows of nerves shooting down my arm. Just as tentatively as he had before, I start to gently rub my thumb against the side of his hand. He doesn’t respond; his hand feeling limp and dead beneath mine. Dread pools down the back of my throat.

“S-sorry.” Pulling back, I try to unthread myself from his hand. Suddenly his fingers come to life and clasp around mine. Gripping tightly as if his body was silently pleading with mine to not let go. Don’t leave. His eyes finally meet mine and his brows twitch. A wash of different emotions flash across his features. Behind those stormy brown eyes, I could see the waves of doubt and fear threaten to drown out the rest.

What we were doing could be considered small. Insignificant even, sure. We were simply holding hands. Yet it felt like something big for some reason. Maybe because neither one of us could recall the last time someone held us. Even if it was just our hands.

It felt intimate.

He didn’t want it to stop but he didn’t know what to do with the feelings it was bringing up either. I pull our hands towards my face and lean forward to meet them. Softly biting down on his middle knuckle then smiling up at him. His mouth twitches before slowly smiling back.

“You’re so fucking dumb.” He laughs softly, slightly bewildered.

“Watch it or I’ll bite it off.” His smile only grows.

“Do it, I fuckin’ dare ya.” I bite down onto his knuckle once again, harder this time. He drops my hand immediately, only to thread his own through my hair and pull me into a bruising kiss. Both of us smile against the other’s mouth. He nips at my bottom lip when I pull away with a laugh. I lightly shove his head playfully before throwing his words from earlier back at him.

“In front of the child?” The near constant and crushing weight of his stress seemed momentarily absent as we giggled in bed like schoolchildren. “Ya heathen.” Jerry had continued sleeping soundly between us. Careful not to wake him, Roman begins brushing a finger down Jerry’s back, ever so gently. “You can be really sweet when you wanna be, you know that?” His eyes meet mine in an attempt to look stern. Though, the smallest hint of a smile still lingered.

“You tell anyone about this and I’m chuckin’ ya into the Hudson with cement shoes.” With a wide grin, I return to my earlier positioning. Arms curled beneath me to lie atop. The day was finally catching up and my head felt heavy. “You realize there’s pillows directly above you, right?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen a pillow a day in my life.” My eyes were struggling to stay open as I watch the rhythmic rise and fall of Jerry’s back with Roman’s finger stroking gently.

“Smartass.” The next thing I know, Roman’s hand has slid beneath my cheek to lift my head. A pillow is nestled into the space between soon after. I hum approvingly and he mumbles. “Thanks… for today.”

“Happy to help.” I rub my face into the pillow as if it could wipe off the sleep threatening to overtake me. In a weak attempt to stay awake, my mouth begins to ramble. “I got pneumonia a lot when I was a kid. I’d have to take these breathing treatments with an oxygen mask.” Letting out a soft chuckle, the memories flood back to me. Absentmindedly, my finger begins drawing circles against the blanket as I sleepily look to Jerry’s face. “But since I was a child, they tried to make it less scary so the mask was in the shape of a fish head. Whenever Jerry was in the hospital, I just pictured this tiny kitten wearing my little fish mask.” My eyes flicker up to Roman. He was wearing a small smile. “I dunno… it just made me feel better for some reason. I guess like he’d be okay because I was okay.” As the words tumbled out in a mumble, Roman’s eyes seemed softer. My cheeks started to warm with a blush so I shyly tuck my chin in and look back to Jerry.

“That’s really cute actually.” My eyes rise back to his. The tips of his own cheeks seem to turn almost pink under my gaze. “Corny as fuck, but… cute.” Clearing his throat, he looks back at the sleeping kitten before him. “I’m calling you fish face from now on.” The corner of my mouth tugs into a smile as my eyes fall heavy with sleep.

“You did good today, Rome.” If I had the energy to look back to him, I would have caught the pinks of his cheeks turning crimson. Saw his mouth twitch in a losing battle between a smile and his lips. The smile won.

The blinding light of morning had me waking with eyes squeezed tight. A steady electric hum met my ears and I tried to mentally deduce where it could be coming from before giving up. Fighting off the violently bright assault to my vision, my eyes finally part and focus. A cloud of steam billows through a sun ray to greet me. My gaze follows the plume towards it’s source. A soft electric hum. The humidifier.

The next sight to greet me fills my heart with something so sweet and so warm, it overflowed. The feeling overwhelmed my every being and threatened to burst through my chest and coat the very walls. Taking its disembodied hands to pull the corners of my lips upwards as a soft snore escapes the sleeping form beside me.

Roman looked even messier than he had the previous night. Lying on his back with one wrinkled sleeve pulled down. It appeared to have milk dampening the expensive fabric. The formula powder, once just on his tie, was now kissing across the scruff of his jaw. Somehow, it looked to be in his hair as well. His shirt lie halfway open, unbuttoned. A tiny ball of fur lay against the bare skin at the heart of his chest. There, Jerry slept underneath Roman’s cradling palm. The two of them warming the other peacefully.

My cheeks were aching but I couldn’t stop smiling. The humidifier’s buzz seemed to morph into a familiar high strung murmur inside my head.

You fucking love me, don’t you?Dumbass.

I haven’t written fan fiction in ages, let alone for Succession. I’m high-key fucking terrified of the response lol But this was so much fun to write and turned out extremely wholesome so I had to share. Please excuse any spelling/grammar/formatting fuck ups. I did all this in my notes app and haven’t shared any writing on here since like… 2018? I think?? Anyways, to whomever might be reading this, I really hope you enjoyed it. ♡˚ ✧ ༘ ｡ ˚ ⋆

[misterbitches]

joke knew from the beginning what he had and other people didn’t. me personally i’d keep my contacts with the pawn dealers because those aren’t the real enemies tho they’re acting like the petty managerial class i guess. fun (not) fact poor ppl have their shit pawned the most so i’ll allow it.

the show is very literal and there’s that fantastical element. obviously a single ring doesn’t give you power. i think the ring thing was to symbolize shifting money around? not sure and you know i kinda tune out when it comes to that plus it’s ugly but more people can explain the tightrope between the exaggerated and melodramatic and the realism whatever.

anyway his nice house, his dad’s nice job, his education, their cars. even the option to go to jail is so funny bc he could have just. not. gotten a lawyer. whatever. instead he spent his time being dyslexic and wanting to expropriate from the real thieves which are bosses and traitors (capitalism). i wish i knew more about thai movements to be able to tie it into a broader point but i know enough about what capitalism does. imagine this: there is no work in your home town so you must go elsewhere to do manual labor, leaving your family behind. that’s what extraction does but not purely internal—though “never colonized”, to say thailand has been untouched by western power would be silly and untrue by fact of being where they were. and obviously imperialism and monarchy and honestly what seems to be actually semicolonialism which seems a ridiculous marker but alright. the point is the british the french and eventually america all had their grubby little hands there and the monarchy supported it tho the monarchy is not their main enemy today—it is the military (imperialism lmao). (which now that i think about the parallels i guess the show is trying to say that which obviously with the bird flying close to the sun…to which i say no but it tried at least. that system doesn’t function the way the military does…get rid of hierarchy…)

this is the nature of exploitation. toi ting is dark, her dad is dark and an alcoholic; jenny is trans—none of these are central to who they are in the story but a part of them. Why would more poor people skew this way; what system of domination necessitates the darker and “deviant” seen as unproductive and unable to assimilate? what influences and exacerbates these ideas?

and even them talking about english. surprisingly jack knows and joke doesn’t. was joke a poor student or did he just not feel like trying? (obviously he struggles w school but my pt is…he also could not put in effort bc he struggles and is young and has money and will be fine) why was jack such a good student? just asking myself stuff like that.

I fundamentally clash with the idea that we owe anything to these evil people i really do. You see people trying to survive and struggling and grappling with their morality and these sick fucks STILL wont let go. They expect us to just lay down and die? To not fight? And that we are the same as them? Once we get free that we’ll do what they do? And this is where jack is wrong and where joke’s self loathing could be so transformed but i don’t know if the show can see that bc that is not the world we live in and the art that is accepted unless we make it so and usually thats thru other channels.

Just once i’d like us to be able to see that actually yes shit like this, who joke is, is righteous, moral, and good. it’s everyone else that has to understand that! he shouldn’t have to change, the world should and do something along with him about it! Like those angry townspeople are! even the way rosé placated them with bullshit indicates an INABILITY to get out of it without forcing them. They could simply solve the problem and they won’t. So we will make them. That’s it! And all labor fighters everywhere have turned violent and resistance and human flourishing go hand in hand. the need for that resistance, what binds us, that all comes from our labor, our work, being exploited and that’s what the contradiction cannot abide by

and if Jack is out for revenge are we going to acknowledge revenge as a motivator for freedom? morality of oppressors is not real morality. the morality of the resistance is one; it’s complex, dark, and nasty but also full of anger and with that love. it wrestles with the tradeoffs and discomfort but it tries to correct course. the difference between these two groups could not be wider so why pretend like the intent, method, and outcome are the same? What the fuck does it mean to come by anything honestly? joke is to me very deeply not wrong and for as long as we have it it’s refreshing to see a character who needs to do something that is integral to his way of life. that is an alienating dangerous thing

so that’s my real issue with the show: so much of joke growing is about leaving liberation in the past and growing up as if it’s a fantasy. like he was ever not putting himself in danger. but what’s interesting is how unsure i am that they are going to to reject the premise of violence and crime necessary to resistance/liberation entirely. It’s SO WEIRD bc it’s like ok is this jack’s rollercoaster? I hope so? Or am i so stung by the norm that i see this pattern and it isnt coming out? Maksksjuurhrhhebebwjqoeofidgeheb

[fly-chicken]

Im here today to talk to you about one of my special interests;

Señor Danny Trejó

This man has lived such a life at age 79; and is still kicking, but I think people don’t really appreciate all this man has been through to be who he is. I genuinely believe his biopic needs to be made bc oh my goodness.

CW: drug usage, incarceration experiences, tough home life, murder, stabbing, death penalty, violence (feel free to lmk more and I’ll add as pointed out)

Also to note; this is a historical summary. Aka the facts with as little of my opinion as I can manage (while considering that I do have a bias), I do not condone the violent acts mentioned. That being said I do sympathize with many actions being a product of circumstance and that this is a man trying to own his past while using his present to make a better future for himself and others. And THAT is why I respect the hell out of him

Ok let’s start this; spoiler alert I look like

By the end

Ok so Im gonna have to categorize this baby; a note, most of this is from his Wikipedia page and subsequent cited sources

Personal

-was born in (1944) as the child of an extramarital affair; his mothers husband was away fighting in WW2 at the time

-He’s been a fan of the LA Rams since their early days (1946) and some of his earliest memories are from sneaking into games as a child

-he fled LA with his family to Texas as a small child bc his father was wanted for stabbing someone. His father turned himself in a year after moving back to LA

-he purchased his childhood home and as of his 2020 biopic, still intermittently lives in it.

-he completed his high school diploma during his stay at Soledad correctional facility (likely during his time in solitary)

-among his many jobs between prison and film; Trejo helped construct the Cinerama Dome in California (now where many of his films have been screened at today) with a construction company as a labourer, a gardener and part time owner of a lawn company

-Trejo has been quoted to still have fears that his life is all just been a dream and that ‘hell wake up in prison with someone urging him to “go get some chow”

-Trejo has been a contributor to several books relating to prison life

-trejo published a cookbook in 2020 and his memoir in 2021

-As of 2020 Trejo owns 8 restaurants; including a taco restaurant, a cantina and a coffee and donut shop. His rainbow cauliflower tacos made the LA times fav recipes of 2017

-He has been married and divorced 4x with 3 children (however he helped raise 2 additional children with his second wife)

-Trejo is a registered Democrat

-battled liver cancer in 2010, moved to be closer to his mom in 2011. She passed while filming the Muppets most wanted in 2013. Although sad, Trejo recalls he didn’t truly break down until Kermit offered his apologies in character (due to his macho personality)

-In 2019 Trejo witnessed a car accident and helped rescue a small ychild from that very wreckage (trapped in the car seat in an overturned SUV)

Prison

-was first arrested at age 10, first incarcerated at age 12 at Eastlake Juvenile Hall

-was in various prisons within the California prison system from 1956-1969 (conflicting accounts say one term may have been till ‘72)

-notable stints include; three years at Camp Glen Rockey in San Dimas for stabbing a sailor in the face with broken glass, a stint in Los Angeles County in 1961 where he met Charles Manson (who Trejo describes as a “dirty, greasy, scrawny white boy” who was an allegedly talented hypnotist), Soledad in 1968 where he hit a guard with a rock during a prison riot on Cinco de Mayo. Due to this he was sent to solitary confinement and faced capital charges and the death penalty. He also completed the 12 step program at this time.

-His most memorable stint was in San Quentin in 1966; his heron use was exacerbated here. Here he was a debt collector and drug dealer; often engaging and witnessing acts of violence and occasional murder. He also picked up boxing in this stint and became both a champion of the lightweight and welterweight divisions throughout his other prison experiences.

-his final prison stint was five years of a ten year sentence, most commonly believed to have ended in 1969 (aged 25)

-he was known as the gossip queen of his cell block in several prisons

Drug Usage and Recovery

- Trejo had been using Marijuana since age 8, heron by age 12, and cocaine by age 13; all introduced by his uncle Gilbert

-Trejo overdosed on first heron fix (also under his uncle’s supervision)

- participated in his first drug deal at age 7

-completed the 12 step program during his time in solitary at Soledad. He has been quoted being sober since completing this program, and is celebrating 54 years in recovery

- Trejo became a substance abuse counsellor in 1973, and is still actively working to help substance abuse cases today

-in the 1980s Trejo worked in Western Pacific Med Corp, assisting with the establishment and operation of sober living houses. He also lived in the houses at this time

-He was called to help assist with the cocaine usage amongst teenagers on the set of Runaway Train (1985)

-Trejos work as an actor was meant to help further his work as a rehabilitation counsellor and he claimed it helped him as clients would recognize him as an actor

-While filming scenes at San Quentin for Blood In, Blood Out; trejo helped a prisoner (Mario Castillo) through the 12 step program and remained in touch after his release. Today him and Mario remain great friends and both speak around the country in both juvenile detention centres as well as rehabilitation centres about their experiences

Film

-his character Machete was created FOR the Spy Kids film

-the creator of the Spy Kids franchise is his second cousin

-Danny originally got into acting after meeting a boy in a sober living house who explained he worked a day job as an extra to make 50$ a day (in 1980); between the “easy money”, availability with his schedule and publicity he could provide to the Western Living House Org, Danny decided to find an agent for background rolls

-After being asked to help with cocaine issues on the set of Runaway Train, Trejo was recognized by the screenplay writer, Edward Bunker. Bunker has been a fellow inmate with Trejo in San Quentin and was also a fan of his boxing work. Bunker helped hire Trejo as a boxing trainer on the film and negotiated Trejos pay to be closer to ~$330 a day, due to his additional help on set and general knowledge/experience

-Bunker also helped land Trejo a role as a background actor in the prison scenes in Runaway

-Penitentiary 3 (1987) was his first billed role, during which he met one of the members of the Galbino crime family (one of the 5 mafia families in New York)

-in 1991 Trejo turned down a role offered by Edward James Olmos due to a call from the don of the Mexican Mafia advising him to take a role in Blood In, Blood Out (1993) instead

-During the filming of Blood In, Blood Out; Trejo experienced PTSD while filming his scenes in San Quentin. Especially when filming the scenes in C550, his previous cell from his time incarnated there

-Whike filming Anaconda (1997), Trejo was able to negotiate a higher salary when filming in Venezuela. As Trejo enjoyed leaving the hotel to socialize in his off time…during a possible coup. A particular incident with a group of teenagers with AK-47s brandished at Trejo over his combat boots, helped Trejo negotiate the higher salary to REMAIN at the hotel in his down time

-Trejo contracted Hepatitis C shortly before filming Spy Kids and concluded treatment and recovery just before its premiere (however had gotten so I’ll that his cast noticed his weight loss and demeanour in a different project filmed during spy kids post production)

-Trejo produced his first film in 2014

-To date Trejo has 445 acting credits on IMDB (between 1985-2023) and 84 on screen deaths (12 TV, 72 movies) according to cinemorge (+4 are music video deaths, +1 video game death)

-in total that would make Trejos risk of onscreen death per project roughly 20% per project (89/445)

In Conclusion

[suomeen]

Chapter 5: Finnishing the Year

As the year was coming to an end, we finally moved into our new apartment in a 5-story municipal building. The house is rather simple, though it has all one might need, with a storage space outside and a laundry room in the basement. There are Finns living there but a lot of the apartments are owned by the city to house refugees or immigrants so there are a lot of Ukrainians, as well as people from Arabic countries and South East Asia.

The apartment is spacious, has 2 bedrooms and a larger living room. When we first arrived, there was basically nothing in it. Just beds and closets and a starter kit of cheap cutlery, plastic plate and glass, and a few pans. A bit later we also got a few chairs and bedside tables, as well as a kitchen table. The beds are very uncomfortable but it’s better than sleeping in the corridor and waking up from explosions. It was almost strange to feel so safe.

Sharing a tiny room with your mother in your 30s is not exactly ideal. Having my own room is probably what I miss the most. In a situation like that, you soon realize that privacy is a luxury. The inherent lack of privacy was exacerbated by the fact that without much furniture, carpets or curtains, the acoustics were way too good. You couldn’t make a sound without the whole apartment knowing. The bathroom is a fucking echo chamber. To make a private call, people go outside. You can always see someone hanging out in the yard with their phones. And its not great when it’s cold as fuck outside.

The city itself has a population of just 60k. But then Finland is not a big country with only 5 million people overall. So, a city of over 50k is sizeable. It’s not exactly small in terms of area either, as most of the houses have just 1 floor and the buildings are rather sparse. It looks like a forest anywhere you go. The problem is our block is quite far from the city center so to get literally anywhere you need to walk at least 40 minutes. You can take the bus but it costs 3e and doesn’t go everywhere and only at certain hours. No buses after 6 pm and on Sundays. The city is designed for cars. Or, at the very least, bikes. If you walk to a shop through an industrial zone, you’re probably not gonna meet a single person for miles. At least our house has a big supermarket right next to it.

When we arrived to settle in, there was already another dweller. A young woman named Lina who took the other bedroom. She was a German teacher, polite but sociable. We hit it off surprisingly well.  Our first order of business was to try and make this place feel at least a little bit like home the best we could and navigate this wondrous new territory.

The NY eve was wild. Sure, we used to have fireworks in Kyiv, but they went off at midnight and only lasted for about 5 minutes. We don’t have them since the war started. Fireworks sound just like explosions, you know.  Here, the fireworks began at 6 PM and went on till after midnight. There were hundreds of them going off all around us. they never stopped. It was insane. As the day wrapped up, the 3 of us sat down in the kitchen. We didn’t even have proper drinks because we learned too late that you can’t just buy alcohol in Finland. The supermarkets don’t sell anything over 5%. For that you have to go to one of the Alko shops and there are just 4 of them in town. Besides, the alcohol is also very expensive. We drank a few cans of cheap beer and called it a night.

[acknowledgetheabsurd]

[January 21, 1950] Darling, this is the time when all the warmth you've given me is starting to wear off. This is the time when I already have to resort to "photos" to find your beautiful face. Write. Alone, your letters manage to temper a little the cold of absence. I love you. I love you so much.

[January 22, 1950] I went to bed after having had a hearty dinner a second time, and I'm waiting for you. You haven't lost anything by missing Measure for Measure, believe me. I'm happy, very happy, with what you tell me about your work. I'll try to be less precise from now on so as not to exacerbate your crisis of autonomy. But you, I beg you, do as I do. Sometimes you have a poetic inspiration that opens up my stomach. I then evoke memories; for example, when, on the way back, in the car, you gently spread your free hand over my knees... and little by little... I gave in. Do you remember? Be gentle, my dear love, be at peace with all of yourself. I'm being sweet and caressing tonight. Sleep, my love. Sleep. I love you. I'm waiting for you.

[January 23, 1950] Darling, I just received your letters from Friday and Saturday. I expected them to be what they are. You're a little lost, aren't you? For some days now I haven't been talking to you in the same way? Yes, it's true; for some days now I've been feeling dry and arid like a desert, and mirages have become odious to me. But fear not, it is not serious. But I have dreamed too much since you left, I have desired you too much too, and I am emptied of my own substance.  Everything seems to be slipping away from me in a sort of frantic race towards the wave, and I don't know what kind of abstraction, and I despair of feeling so empty of joy and sorrow. Your image flees and with it life and I walk from morning to evening in search of my beloved image like a shadow searching for its body through immense desolate and icy expanses.

Yes; the wait is difficult and tiring. I'm exhausted, that's all. Don't worry about it. I wouldn't be able to find a title for your book of political essays. Forced Testimony sounds good from the point of view of the idea, but it's the word "forced" that I don't like. It's flat. I absolutely agree with you about The Exchange. In fact, I had a long discussion with Marcel [Herrand] who said that it was the best work by Codel. I don't think Gorky is a great writer. I understand your revolts in front of M[ichel] and J[anine Gallimard]. When I imagine that I could have been forced to live a long time, perhaps all my life with them my head is spinning. Yes; I accepted "Who are you?" out of fatigue and I'm sorry and angry. I would still have to make up my mind one day not to give in to that anymore.

I have not stopped talking to you with all my heart for one day and if you didn't feel it, it's simply because that day he was a little dead. But today, this morning I feel it beating shyly inside me again. I am still in bed. There's sunshine outside and my room is full of light. There you are, full of words of love and call and finally! Once again the song of "lentils and olives" comes into your mouth. No, darling, don't be afraid. I live only for you. Just forgive me for not always being alive. Take me with you, hold me tight. Courage. Patience. Write. Write, I beg you. I love you. I kiss you endlessly. See you tonight.

Maria Casarès to Albert Camus, Correspondance, January 21-23, 1950 [#141]

[crimeronan]

Ok so I’m into the dreamer trilogy and haven’t read the Raven cycle...what is Declan’s characterisation/journey there?

THIS MIGHT BE THE BEST ASK I’VE EVER RECEIVED. IMAGINE I’M STANDING WITH MY ARMS SPREAD USING DIFFERENT VOICES AND HAND GESTURES TO REENACT THIS STORY FOR A RESENTFUL CAPTIVE AUDIENCE

also declan’s TRC storyline is like. equal parts horribly fucking sad and unbelievably fucking hilarious so. i will try to strike a Balance

FIRST OFF.  there is exactly one (1) declan POV chapter in the entire series. it happens toward the end of the last book. up until then, everything we know about him comes from the observations and narration of others.

he is also a very minor character.  his importance grows throughout the series, but almost all of his actions happen offscreen.  it’s not until the last book that we know exactly how much he’s been dealing with the whole time.

when he’s introduced in the first book, he appears as a plot device.  here is a two-dimensional horrible controlling hardass who doesn’t give a shit about anything but his future political career.  look at his fake, smug fucking grin.  how did someone like ronan end up with a brother like him??  doesn’t matter.  it’s a convenient excuse for ronan to live with his best friend in a drafty warehouse, which means more room for YA hijinks!

declan’s introduction scene is Embroiled in Capital-D Douchebaggery. according to the narration (from gansey and adam), he loves to fuck women and then never call them back, cozy up to powerful people, and bitch about how ronan’s ruining his life by being sad about their dead parents.  SOME people can just get over their dead parents, ronan!

this intro scene is also Extremely Funny i 100% recommend reading it even if u don’t read the actual series.  ronan makes a nasty comment, declan goes “why are you the way that you are” and tries to salvage his date, gansey utters the phrase “man whore”

then later that night things go like. actually bad.

declan shows up at the same pizza place where ronan is with his friends.  this scene is gansey pov.  gansey runs out to the parking lot to find the two of them Very Literally Trying To Kill Each Other.  you don’t see that violence in cdth - there’s only the TINIEST shadow of it when declan confronts ronan over matthew - so i Cannot Express Enough that someone is going to end up hospitalized at BEST. ronan’s already slammed declan’s head on the car, declan’s already grabbed ronan and beaten the shit out of his face, like.

you do not get good old-fashioned Declan Lynch At His Actual Worst in cdth. u might be thinking, THAT guy???? doing THIS????

oh yeah. things are real bad between declan and ronan.

after gansey breaks up the fight (and gets punched in the face for his trouble, albeit accidentally), declan tells ronan that their dad would be fucking ashamed to see him now & that he’s washing his hands of it & basically if ronan wants to go off and fucking die, he can.

this is like. just a couple months after the magical suicide attempt referenced in cdth

in the aftermath of that scene it becomes clear that ronan absolutely unequivocally 100% will kill himself if he has to live with declan. hence. why he’s living with gansey instead.  gansey spends that whole night petrified that the declan altercation will lead to another attempt, and for Good Reason

so like, that’s how we first meet declan. he’s an uncaring wannabe corporate asshole who does not give a fuck and who only exists to exacerbate ronan’s mental health issues.

but then the opening of book 2 gets real interesting.

book 2 is where we start learning more about the lynch family.  we learn that ronan’s father was a dreamer who sold his creations on the black market, we learn that that’s why he was murdered. we learn that ronan’s a dreamer too. we learn that there are very powerful people looking for the greywaren, an artifact that takes objects from dreams. those powerful people just don’t realize it’s a person, yet.

so here’s the assassin who killed niall lynch.

he goes to declan’s dorm.

with everything we know about declan, the kid should be completely unprepared.  he can box, but the assassin knows that, so there’s no real advantage.  he’s alone, and he doesn’t have an escape route.

declan pulls out a gun.

this is an unexpected turn of events.

unfortunately he ends up getting beaten half to death with the butt of said gun, because he loses the ensuing physical struggle for the weapon.  the assassin is like, i need the greywaren.  declan is like, i know it exists but i don’t know what it is.  i’ll find it for you.  i’ll get it to you.  then you’ll leave me the fuck alone

now with everything we know of declan at this point - his attitude toward ronan, his general demeanor, and this new knowledge that he knew about the black market - there’s one obvious question.

will declan sell ronan out if he finds out about the dreaming.

and like, okay. their relationship is antagonistic in cdth but it is NOT what it is in trc. believe me when i tell you that at that point, when you’re reading, you can pretty reasonably go, “oh, god.  oh god.  oh god please no one ever tell declan what the greywaren is.  oh god.”

declan has some other interactions with ronan and the gang throughout the book, mostly where he’s just a hardass who tells ronan to stop causing trouble.  adam’s the only one who notices that declan is scared.  like bone-deep shaking to the core petrified.  about Something.

probably getting beaten to within an inch of his life by the man who murdered his father.  that’s the reasonable reader conclusion.

so imagine how everything changes when you find out that declan already knows.  that declan’s known about ronan’s dreaming for longer than ronan has.  that declan knew exactly what and who the greywaren was, and he lied to a man who was ready to torture him for information, and he got away with it.

suddenly a lot of things recontextualize.

“keep your head down and stop making trouble”? people are gonna NOTICE your magic bullshit, ronan, we do not have time for this!

“stop hanging with that loser druggie friend of yours”? you mean the loser druggie friend who sells on the magic black market and doesn’t care about protecting himself or anyone else?

“i got super weird for no reason about ronan sleeping close to adam”? i don’t have fucking TIME to be homophobic i’m busy with your POTENTIAL TO MANIFEST NIGHT TERRORS IN FRONT OF WITNESSES IN BROAD DAYLIGHT

“i’ll find out what the greywaren is and bring it to you”? i’ll die. i’m making a bargain to die. i’m never giving you the greywaren and i know you’re going to kill me about it and that’s fine as long as my brothers are safe

ronan doesn’t know that he dreamed matthew.  declan knows.  he’s known the whole time.  declan tells ronan in book 3.  and then things recontextualize even further, because ronan’s death is also matthew’s, and matthew IS close to declan in trc.

but declan never tells the goddamn truth unless it’s his last option.  he doesn’t tell ronan that he knows about the dreaming and he doesn’t tell ronan what specifically wants to hurt him and the lack of communication fucking destroys both of them.

in the last book, ronan realizes declan loves him.

more than that, he realizes declan’s loved him the whole time.

this is when declan finally tells the truth.  things are getting bad, plot-wise, and declan is scared, so he comes clean.  he tells ronan that niall specifically tasked declan with protecting ronan from the market.  he begs ronan to run from the danger.  “let’s pour gasoline on everything dad left and start over.”

this is also when ronan realizes that declan’s childhood was very different from ronan’s own.  and that niall and aurora lynch were not the same people to declan that they were to ronan.  and that their father’s decisions are what’s driven the wedge between him and declan all this time

(he’s still struggling with the cognitive dissonance of this in cdth. i don’t think he knows how to adjust his perception of declan to fit this new information.)

aaaaand the final scene with declan makes me cry every time i read it so instead of summarizing, here’s the important part:

Ronan delivered a sharp tap to the object, and a small cloud of fiery orbs sprayed up with a sparkling hiss.

“Jesus, Ronan!” Declan jerked his chin away.

“Please. Did you think I’d blow your face off?”

He demonstrated it again, that quick tap, that burst of brilliant orbs. He tipped it into Declan’s hand, and before Declan could say anything, jabbed it to activate it once more.

Orbs gasped up into the air. For a moment, he saw how his brother was caught inside them, watching them soar furiously around his face, each gold sun firing gold and white, and when he saw the spacious longing in Declan’s face, he realized how much Declan had missed by growing up neither dreamer nor dreamt. This had never been his home. The Lynches had never tried to make it Declan’s home.

“Declan?” Ronan asked.

Declan’s face cleared. “This is the most useful thing you’ve ever dreamt. You should name it.”

“I have. ORBMASTER. All caps.”

“Technically you’re the orbmaster though, right? And that’s just an orb.”

“Anyone who holds it becomes an ORBMASTER. You’re an ORBMASTER right now. There, keep it, put it in your pocket. D.C. ORBMASTER.”

Declan reached out and scuffed Ronan’s shaved head. “You’re such a little asshole.”

The last time they’d stood on this roof together, their parents had both been alive, and the cattle in these fields had been slowly grazing, and the world had been a smaller place. That time was gone, but for once, it was all right.

The brothers both looked back over the place that had made them, and then they climbed down from the roof together.

[acenancy]

The Ace x Nancy x Tamura of It All

I’m here as a hardcore Nace shipper (see the URL) to throw my two cents into the Ace x Nancy x Tamura discussion.

Some of you straight up hate Tamura and that’s cool, I get it, no judgement, but I personally like him a lot as a character. And I LOVE the connection he and Nancy have. Their repartee is entertaining, they share a passion for solving mysteries which is key to being Nancy’s friend, and their very different life experiences help balance each other out. 

You know, since one of them is grounded in reality and the other is navigating through life in a supernaturally charged hellmouth.

That being said, I hope they grow closer during S3 WITHOUT becoming explicitly romantic. And I think that may be exactly what happens! At most, I think that while solving magical mysteries, Nancy and Tamura will engage in a fun little flirtationship  that will lead to genuine friendship. His partnership with Nancy would be solidified this way as well as his honorary membership to the Drew Crew. This could serve three purposes: 

Forcing Tamura to accept the supernatural elements of Horseshoe Bay, thus weaving him more intricately into the plot.

Creating tension between Nancy and Ace 😏

Exploring and adding depth to whatever sort of relationship they’re trying to establish between Tamura and Ace.

I see all of this playing out fairly simply: while Nick and George are busy juggling real life and a wedding, while Bess devotes her time and energy into researching her family history and finding love, and while Ace prioritizes Amanda, Nancy finds herself without proper backup. So! Perhaps unintentionally, Nancy gravitates to Tamura. There's crimes and mysteries to be solved and since her friends are not fully available to her, who better to turn to than the guy who’s job it is to investigate these things? And so begins the Nancy and Tamura buddy cop comedy that is both dreaded and highly anticipated depending on what social media outlet you’re using.

Though let me repeat: BUDDY COP. 

I really don’t think we’re going to have an Ed and Lorraine Warren situation on our hands with these two. Truly, if the S2 finale is anything to go by, I think S3 will allow Nancy to grow into herself outside of a romantic or sexual relationship. She’s not running from herself and into someone else’s bed anymore. She’s embracing and learning to love herself. I’d even go so far as to say Nancy’s love interest next season will be...Nancy lmao. 

As for Tamura, if they decide to give him a romantic interest, I think they would either have his ex-fiancée reenter the picture or maybe even do him dirty and stick him with Temperance for plot reasons. A doomed Tamura x Temperance romance would actually be fun to see, in my opinion, and would be a great way to open Tamura’s eyes to the supernatural. That’s just me spit-balling, though. Whether it’s because of Temperance or not, I think Tamura is finally going to have to accept ghosts and witches and magic are real this season. It’s just a requirement for working with Nancy Drew.

MOST IMPORTANTLY, we have to address the Nace of it all. Sorry to Tamura but I do believe you’re being used as an obstacle in True Love’s way next season. I think fandom’s general consensus is that the more time Nancy and Tamura spend together, romantic or not, the more jealous Ace will become. While I agree, I think Ace’s jealousy will stem from somewhere a little deeper than just seeing Nancy with another guy. 

Take Gil, for example. Ace was sort of jealous of Gil, but more than anything he was wary of him and concerned for Nancy’s wellbeing when she was with him. Unlike Ace, Gil never had anything to offer Nancy except for sex and a getaway car. He sure as hell was never her number one person. In fact, he wasn’t even Nancy’s number five person. There was never a reason for Ace to be envious of him.

Tamura, on the other hand, can prove to be just as much of an equal to Nancy as Ace is. As chief/lead detective, he also has power and influence that Ace and Nancy do not, and access to people and resources that Ace does not have (unless he can hack into them). Tamura can help Nancy bend and break the law without consequence if need be, too. And, although naive in regards to the mystics of Horseshoe Bay, he is just as smart as Nancy and has, on the rare occasion, even been one step ahead of her. Tamura is an asset, to say the least. Together, he and Nancy make a formidable duo.

That’s what will make Ace jealous. More than the prospect of romance between Nancy and Tamura, I think that Nancy finding another intellectual match is what will rub Ace the wrong way. They’ll find themselves at a brief moment in time where Nancy will turn to Tamura for assistance before anyone, including Ace, and Ace will realize he absolutely hates that someone who is not him is Nancy’s partner in crime now.

Maybe Nancy won’t notice, but Ace will probably realize his love for her is not of the philia sort. I’m sure Amanda also will. And? Maybe Tamura will see it too.

Which brings me to one of my favorite dynamics of the show: Ace and Tamura’s.

I’m not gonna sit here and spin my crazy conspiracy theory that they’re brothers. Though that idea will always hold a special place in my heart, slowly but surely I am accepting that Ace’s long lost brother really is Grant. I’m being a total grownup about it. I swear.

Nevertheless, I do think they’ve been trying to build some kind of relationship between Ace and Tamura since before Tamura even met Nancy. What sort of relationship? God, I wish I knew.

They meet each other first, which doesn’t necessarily mean a lot, but it’s worth noting that they’re on each other’s funny little shit lists before Nancy even enters Tamura’s picture. It’s also Ace and Ace alone that hears from McGuinness that Tamura will be replacing him in the same episode. Then, of course, we have that crazy Shabbat dinner in 2x03 that exacerbates their antagonistic relationship further. Then there’s their snarky banter and all of those totally unnecessary side-by-side shots of them saving Noah in 2x10. Apart from Nancy, Ace is the only member of the Drew Crew that we’ve seen Tamura develop a real connection with, even if it is an unfriendly one. And, as of now, their relationship doesn’t even have anything to do with Nancy.

So where are the writers going with this hilarious and hostile bond between Ace and Tamura? Has all of this really just been buildup for a romantic rivalry? Hey, maybe! I really can’t figure out another reason why the writers have gone out of their way to create their dynamic since the Brother Theory has been disproven. But something tells me this may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

And when I say “this”, I mean Tamura taking a step back from Nancy once he realizes he may just be filling in the love of her life’s shoes. Because that’s where I think all of this is going. Not necessarily anywhere romantic between Nancy and Tamura, but somewhere more friendly between Tamura and everyone.

At the end of it all, Tamura is going to finally embrace the supernatural, he’s going to become an ally to Nancy, Ace, and the rest of the Drew Crew, and, when the timing is right, he’s going to hop onboard the Nace ship with the rest of us. 

I HOPE.

Side note: this is just where my head is at. I truly respect all of your opinions and ask that you respect mine too. If you agree with what I’ve said and want to talk, let’s talk! If you disagree and want to talk, we can talk too! Please, just don’t get nasty with me. This is a television show about fictional characters at the end of the day, and I am a real person. Much love to you all. ❤️

[f1]

Norris was heavily dosed up to ease pain of COTA bumps | 2022 United States Grand Prix

Lando Norris says he had to take medication during the United States Grand Prix weekend to ease the pain caused by the bumpy track surface. The McLaren driver finished sixth in yesterday’s race but admitted he was “heavily dosed up on headache tablets” due to the bumpy nature of the circuit. “I struggled a lot with that this weekend,” he told media including RaceFans after the race. “Have you seen how hard my heads hits? I’ve got internal bruising on my head or something, so it’s really not nice.” Norris said he isn’t sure whether McLaren’s car gives a rougher ride than others. “I don’t know if it’s better for us or worse than other cars. But it’s something I struggle a lot with. “When I take the tablets it probably doesn’t make a big difference in the end but it’s something I struggle with.” The bumpiness of the Circuit of the Americas has been a problem for years. The track owners made the latest in a series of improvements to the track surface ahead of F1’s return last week. However the stiffer nature of the cars built to new 2022 regulations exacerbated the problem, said Norris. “Some bits were less [bumpy], so I’m very happy they did that. “But they resurfaced half of it. That half is a little bit better. Not as good as it needs to be, especially in these cars, I think in last year’s cars we wouldn’t be complaining. With this year’s cars we complain about everything.” Advert | Become a RaceFans supporter and go ad-free More works needs to be done to improve the surface again for next year, said Norris. “Half it was was re-done, I’m happy with that, but the bits which were not re-done, I think if you just go and walk on the track, you can see we’re tearing apart the circuit. There’s massive gaps, there’s massive holes, it’s just not the standard it needs to be for Formula 1.” Norris was satisfied with his performance under the circumstances. He fell to 15th place when he made his last pit stop which left him with a lot of ground to make up. “I thought more people would box,” Norris admitted. “So when he said I had 20 laps to go, I’m like 18 behind Fernando [Alonso], I was like, ‘oh, no’. I didn’t think it would be possible to do especially because I had to overtake four other cars. So it was tough. “But the thing DRS was huge today. We had such a big headwind on the back straight as you had DRS you could gain six tenths or even more in one lap. So it helped me, made my life a little bit easier. But I think if I made one too many mistakes, it wouldn’t have been possible.” He caught and passed Alonso for sixth place with two laps to go after an exciting scrap. “Even when I got to him, it wasn’t like I went straight past,” Norris explained. “I got a bit stuck, he pulled away a little bit. Then he made one mistake in turn 11 and I managed to get past him there. “It was tough, we had some close ones, I looked in my mirror and it looked like we were going to make some contact. But if there’s one guy I trust more than anyone on track it’s Fernando at the end of the day. He’s the last guy I want to race against with two laps to go but also the most fair and respectful.” Advert | Become a RaceFans supporter and go ad-free 2022 United States Grand Prix Browse all 2022 United States Grand Prix articles via RaceFans - Independent Motorsport Coverage https://www.racefans.net/

[whitehotharlots]

A true story about rehab from 2007

Names and places changed, dates slightly fuzzy, yada yada

This all starts with Chris.  Chris might be a good example of how things are objectively broken.

Two summers ago, Chris and his girlfriend moved from everyone's old hometown, Alton, to everyone's current home, Garden City.  I had known Chris briefly when I still lived in Alton, which was up until about 8 years ago.  In high school he was friends with my sister, a year behind her, I think, only he had some legal trouble and didn't graduate until two years after her.  The first arrest came during his junior year, when police found some marijuana in his car while he was in class.  "Apparently Alton is a utopia," he said years later.  "No robberies need solving, no cars need ticketing, no fences need mending, fuckit nobody's house must've been dirty because if there was anything else even remotely worthwhile that those cocksuckers could have been doing they wouldn't have taken a drug dog through the high school parking lot."  

The ironic part was that he was, honest-to-god, holding it for a friend.  Hadn't touched the stuff until then, hadn't even drank more than a beer or two.  Cops came in and pulled him out of class.  Cuffed him right there in class, in front of everybody.   From what I've been able to piece together that marked a very strong loss of innocence for young Chris.  No rules were worth following, after all, if The Bastards could punish you for nothing.  This was greatly exacerbated by the fact that, according to several of the best lawyers Alton had to offer, the search of Chris' car was unconstitutional as it was not actually parked in the school parking lot, or even on school grounds, at the time of the search.  The juvenile court judge would hear none of it though—all the police had done was break Chris' constitutional right to privacy.  He had committed the much greater crime of having an eighth ounce of marijuana in his glove compartment. 

His claim of having his rights violated incensed the judge, who sentenced our poor Chris to 72 hours in county jail and 12 weeks of rehab.  Were it not for his successful, stable family, he would have been sent to juvie. 

It was his first offense.  He was 16. 

Jail, he said, wasn't that bad.  He got to do it over a weekend. The guard was an old lady and even though she was kind of a bitch she let him bring in his homework.  She said she was surprised to see someone his age in here, with the adults, but whatever he had done it must have been pretty bad or else he wouldn't be here, would he?  They kept him away from the drunks at night and the only other people who came into the "pen" (his word, not mine) were guys who got bailed out within a couple of hours and were too pissed off about their own bad luck to give him any shit for his. 

What really fucked with him was rehab.  It didn’t matter that he'd never smoked a single joint (or even a cigarette) at this time:  he was an addict and by gum he had to admit to being an addict before the obese, shit-smelling overseer would sign the form saying that Chris had attended his sessions.  Every weekend for three months he was legally forced to lie.  Yes, he said, he was an addict.  Yes, even though it made no sense in any grammatical or even symbolic context, he was forced to say "my name is Chris and I'm a narcotic."  His personal habits were picked apart—why was his hair so long (it wasn't that long, really)? Why did he wear the same pants on Sunday that he wore on Saturday?  Who were these "Dead Milkmen" that his T-shirt spoke of?  Ohh… and surely this is a good-tempered, Christian punk band, right?  No?  Well you see right there that's a part of the problem.  Have your mother sign a note saying you've thrown out all of their CDs and any other enabling you might own.  No—you can't sell them, you must throw them out. 

"We had to go in a day and a half every weekend.  All day Saturday and then Sunday from noon until 4.  It took me five weeks, when I was starting to get comfortable, before I asked if I could come in Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday.  It worked out better for me that way, since the place where I worked wasn't open Sundays.  The fat guy just opened his mouth and would not close it.  'When would you go to church?'  he said. By then I knew enough to laugh and say 'oh yeah what was I thinking.'"

A few of the people had actual problems.  One guy got caught with meth, was beating the shit out of his wife and his two little girls, and seemed genuinely remorseful.  Another guy had to drink a sixer every morning or else he'd get the shakes so bad he wouldn't be able to drive to work.  But most of the people there were more or less normal and had either fucked up once or else been fucked over once—got into a bar fight while legally drunk, blew .02 over the legal limit at a roadblock, smoked pot once every few weeks and got narced on by a snitch, that kind of stuff. These people were split over how much they believed the bullshit they were being fed.  Those who believed, as the official literature did, that being hungover once in your lifetime or ever drinking more than 4 beers in a sitting two or more times in a month are both signs of hardcore alcoholism, they became repentant and preachy. 

One such lady was a thin, tan, well-dressed soccer mom who would snitch on the others when they didn't pay close enough attention to the instructional videos or else would appear in any way to not be taking things seriously enough.  If you were bad you got demerits, credit card-sized pieces of construction paper upon which frowny faces and intimidating biblical verses were printed. The overseer would also scribble something down in his notebook, which must have had some kind of official weight because it was on his person at all times.

Most people have an innate desire, however illogical it might often be, to please authority figures, and so Chris and the rest of the doubtful "addicts" thought the embarrassment of getting their reprimand literally handed to them was punishment enough for resting their eyes or letting a stray giggle break loose when the acting in an informational film was especially bad. Chris made only one such mistake.  During a lecture, the overseer kept making the point that it wasn't the drugs that people get addicted to—oh no, it's the high that keeps you coming back.  Chris smiled—remember at this point he still probably hadn't ever been high, not in his whole life—because it seemed like such a stupid, nonsensical thing to say, because even though he was only 16 he could appreciate moments like this, when the moronic essence of a big, scary process could concentrate itself into a single sentence. 

"It's not the drugs:  it's the high," the man said.  He was very clean shaven, dressed like a detective in a 70s cop show, his hair was combed so straight it was like wire, his glasses were round and cruel looking and he had this, this look on his face, this air about him like he thought he was a genius.  He nodded a little bit after the repetition of his idiotic point. Proud—he was actually proud of the things he was saying, proud of his position, proud of getting to fill the heads of desperate or else unfortunate people with nonsense.  And this made Chris smile—not laugh, just smile, and the soccer mom pulled on his ear really hard, so hard it made his eyes water, and then she raised her hand to snitch on him.  The proud overseer was still proud, looked like a king in an old movie, and with the most serious air Chris had ever seen, the fat man called him up before the entire room.  His eyes were still watery from the shock of having his ear nearly yanked up and so he looked down, towards the ground, so people wouldn't think he was crying.

"You ashamed of something," the fat overseer asked.  Chris didn't say anything. "Look up," said the overseer.  Chris kept looking down.  His chest moved in and out heavily and his fists were clenched, and he wasn't sure but he may have been crying normal tears by this point, but they were out of rage, not sadness.  Or—no…really what's the difference between those two, and it's impossible that the immense hopelessness of his situation and the utter retardation of his surroundings hadn't saddened somewhat.  If it were just rage making him cry then he would have also lashed out, punched the overseer or at least called him a name. No. No, the hopelessness must have stung enough to make him sad.  But his tears were out of rage primarily, and out of nothing even close to shame.

"Look up.  Now."

He did.  His jaw was clenched and his eyes were tightened into red little slits but he looked more defeated than mean, more helpless than threatening.

"I want you all to look at this face.  Soak it up.  Take it all in.  Done?  Give you another second.  Okay, now you're done.  This, people, is what failure looks like.  Some of you will see it again, right here.  This is what it looks like when you don't take yourself seriously, when you don't care enough about yourself to appreciate the chances that are being given to you."

He extended a demerit card towards the Chris’ face.  It was accepted without a whimper.

Weeks later, it came time for Chris and the gang to "graduate" from their classes.  By this point, Chris had gotten drunk several times (even puked, once) and tried to smoke pot a few times but it hadn't done anything to him.  Maybe he was just too drunk to feel it or he wasn't inhaling right, who knows.  Anyhow he figured a few bong hits wouldn't hurt before he had to show up to the ceremony, right, since he hadn't felt anything yet.  And, man, it was a blast because he was high as a fucking kite at the graduation, must have shoved 20 inches worth of the party sub into his mouth and downed at least 7 flutes of sparkling grape juice.  

His mother and stepfather—both stinking rich, by the way, disheartened by the lad's sudden fall from grace and more than a little pleased to see him making such a fast and exemplary recovery with the aid of such a caring and competent program—were dressed to the nines.  His mom was making time with the addicts.  This was her wont, the irresistible, flirty friendliness that drove her from the dregs of society (Chris' biological father) all the way to where she was today. While this was going on, Stepfather gracefully let loose to the riffraff around him all those little signs that showed that he was a kind man, but of great consequence.  He'd talk about sports while stretching him arm just so, just far enough to let his fancy watch fall into view.  He'd offer to lift heavy objects as an excuse to show off his bed-made tan, his gym-toned arms and back.  All of your jokes made him smile, but only just long enough for you to get a glimpse of his perfectly straight, snow white teeth. Both of them kept making their way over to Chris, who had stationed himself near the concessions table, to whisper into his ear how proud they were of him for pulling himself around and hint bluntly at him still receiving for his birthday a new car.  All the while, through this bleary, more-or-less with it haze, feeling content and calm with his surroundings and his high, Chris kept thinking about how much he had it made.  Everyone was a sucker, it seemed, but him.  Really, wow.  Everyone is stupid but me.

The soccer mom cut quickly around the room, stopping alongside each cluster of people and telling them that something important was about to happen,  it was time for everyone to walk into the little classroom where they normally met.  "You're not gonna want to miss this" she said, looking right into Chris with a mean little smile on her face that she knew would scare him.  Oh god, Chris though, she knew that he was high.  What was she in here for—ooh shit man, you've heard her talk about it 100 times.  Vicodin, right.  Vicodin and wine, passing out while one of her kids started a fire.  That's right.  Calm down. She wouldn't have known what someone looked like when he was high on pot.  Mom and Stepfather couldn't even tell and they saw Chris every day.  Calm down.

Chris shoved a few more bites of party sub into his mouth.  His mom laughed and said "getting better must make you work up an appetite, huh?"  Stepfather laughed.  Chris couldn't say anything, not even by the time they had walked all the way into the classroom and sat down on little folding chairs, because there was so much sandwich in his mouth.  Things began to quiet down within a couple of minutes. The overseer, smiling, poked his head out of his office and waved to the small crowd.  People clapped a little bit.  Chris noticed that "AWARDS RECEPTION" had been written on the blackboard with colored chalk, the letters alternating blue to red, blue to red.  A stack of certificates sat on the table up front.  The overseer waddled to the table and gestured towards his office and a large, black policeman walked from office to the entrance.  He looked all business.  There was another one who poked his head out from the office and then the overseer was still smiling, like the soccer mom he was wearing big, mean, fake smile and Chris sunk into his chair and moaned a little bit because he knew he was about to get arrested, again.  Arrested in front of his parents. 

Mom asked stepfather what the policemen were hear for the stepfather said—ahh the great rational bastard, it was all Chris could do to stop himself from hugging him—that since this was an official presentation, court mandated and all that, they must have some cops come and witness it.  That's all it was.  Nothing to get too upset about.  Still—gotta stay calm.  If the cops took no notice of Chris then they wouldn't take any notice of his being so incredibly fucking high. 

"Well," the overseer began.  Chris was hyperobservant and noncritical and he realized for the first time how long it took the overseer to get through sentences, because of all of his fat.  He'd pause every few words and take in a deep breath from his gut.  When he spoke it was in these bursts that were effeminately condescending but still bulky and powerful.  Like, if being told you were bad by a sharp-tongued gay man didn't hurt you then maybe being yelled at by an abusive gym coach would. Only he wasn't a gym coach and probably wasn't gay, either.  Talked about his wife and kids all the time.  This was an act.  He had measured out this persona for himself.  This was some kind of cruel professionalism.

Jesus, Chris thought to himself.  Pot fucks up the way you think about things.  How long had it been since they sat down?  How long since he'd been scared by the cops?  When was the guy going to start talking—ohh, wait he's already talking.  Might want to listen:

"And this is what this program is supposed to achieve: smiling faces.  Not just the smiling faces of those who are on roads to recovery—their own personal roads—but of their families and their friends.  The selfishness might end here.  The pain they have caused you, that they are sorry for, might end here.  But it's up to everyone here to make sure that all of these faces keep smiling."

He paused—too long.  Wanted people to clap for him.  They did.  Then they finished.  He continued.  His tone was different.  He had sounded like he was reading off a card.  Now he sounded more like he normally did, during classes.

"But it would be… hypocritical of me to let everyone who came here leave here, especially… if I knew that they would be making people start… to cry sometime soon.  Two of our friends will not be graduating today."

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

"The first… Rup-ERT Donwiddle."

Ahh.  Okay.  That guy—white guy, lots of scars—never even showed up after the first day.  He wasn't even here.  Chris sunk his head into his lap, like he was stretching or about to puke, while the overseer mumbled about how Rubert had squandered his chance for recovery and blah blah blah. 

"Rufus failed… due to lack of initiative.  He didn't come.  But every time we have this course, it seems… there is someone who does come…  but who shows such disrespect that he might as well not have"

The overseer's tone changed, again, abruptly but not in a way that seemed unplanned.  He was talking somewhere in between the rehearsed tone he'd used earlier and the mumbling, jumbled tone he used during regular meetings.  The air shifted around Chris.  It felt like strategy, men moving into position in order to accomplish some kind of task or anticipate some kind of resistance.  The bigger cop stood by the door that led to the outside, blocking it.  Meanwhile the guys who had missed the most class and been handed the most demerits began to shift in their seats a little bit while their wives looked at them in white fear, the sterile blank walls felt like they were closing in—that's what  expression actually meant, when it actually feels like the room you are in just got smaller, more oppressive—and the big fat fuck who ran the place worse the biggest fatfuck smile Chris had ever seen and he if had dropped dead of a heart attack no one with a mind or soul would have gotten up to help him.  In spite of all of this, the synchronization was such that Chris couldn't work up any fear.  He was too busy admiring the evil of the whole process. 

Chris took to talking to the soccer mom, a few months later, as part of some revenge scheme that never quite materialized.  He had first planned on sleeping with the woman and ruining her marriage.  When that didn’t work out he thought about maybe figuring out the vulnerabilities of her home and passing that knowledge on to some unseemly sorts who, god willing, would have raped, robbed, and kill her.  He didn't do that, though, for the same reason he didn't speak up during the meeting when the police were blocking off the door and overseer was smiling the very worst smile the world had ever seen:  because the woman's evil was so immense that he could barely process it, could do little else, in fact, aside from sitting back and admiring it.  What he learned from her, after she had opened up to him and filled him on all the details, was that if you didn't pass the rehab course it counted as either a violation of your parole or else as a violation of your court sentence, so your failure was akin to skipping bail trying to escape from prison.   That's to say it was a Very Serious offense, one that could put you in prison for a long, long time.  And what the overseer hadn't told to anybody but the soccer mom, who was his favorite, was that his policy was that out of every class there had to be at least one addict who failed to pass in spite of showing up, one person who because of this or that reason simply did not deserve to consider his or her self cured of their addiction.  That's what the demerits were for. Whoever got the most failed the course.  You couldn't tell the whole class about this since then the people who got the most demerits early on would have stopped coming all together.  On top of that, if you got into a situation where a few weeks in one guy had racked up 20 or 30 demerits, then that more or less lightens the stakes for everyone else.  They'll start mouthing off or falling asleep since they know they'll never make up enough demerits to catch the worst guy, and then by the end of it you'd have been better off not doing any sort of demerit system at all.  No—no, the trick was to keep it a surprise.  That had two positives:  one, you catch the guy by surprise and make sure he gets what's coming to him.  Two, you put the fear of god into the others who are all sitting around watching.  That's when they got taught what happens if you don't respect the things you should.

All Chris knew at the time of meeting was that the balding factory worker, Hank was his name, was getting pulled up really unnecessarily roughly by the cop, had his arms thrown behind his back, and was getting cuffed and pushed out of the room while his teenage daughter was screaming in abject terror and his wife was burying her head in her hands and then the two women sat there while the smiling overseer berated Hank, talked about how he needed to learn how to accept help and how this was for the good of him and his family and You two ladies should stop crying, it's pointless, what you need right now is strength, loyalty, and conviction.  Hank had blown .02 over the legal limit at a road block.  He insisted he hadn't had a drop to drink in months, not since his first DUI, that he couldn't perform the heel-to-toe sobriety test successfully because of a fully documented injury he had sustained during Desert Storm and that the alcohol on his breath—which came up on only one of the 5 breathalyzers he was given—must have been from gum or mouthwash or cologne or something.  His parole was zero tolerance, though, and so he found himself at the meetings.  Every week he told the overseer that something he had said was bullshit.  He wouldn't say "My name is Hank and I'm a narcotic," he said, because that is just fucking stupid.  He wouldn't apologize for hurting anybody because he hadn't hurt anybody.  He wouldn't lie for the sake of lying because goddamn it that's not what this country is about.

And for that he went to prison.

Coming face-to-face with the reality of just how cruel and unfair the system is can, especially for a teenager, lead to a distrust so strong and all encompassing that it borders on despair.  This distrust can, sometimes, be healthy and inspire you to try and change things.  More often, it can grow into full-blown hatred, a maniacal desire to change things or to right wrongs that leads you to do something rash or destructive.  Still more often, it leads to a sense of defeatism, a feeling that you can't win since the system is so fucked so why the hell should you even try.  At least, that's what I gather from hearing Chris talk about it.  That's probably what I would have done if something like that would have happened to me.  I would have given up and failed.

And for the longest time Chris had given up and had failed. He drank and drugged and destroyed.  This made him a blast to hang out with.  This was when he still lived in Alton and I would see him once every few months, when I was at home visiting my family.  My sister moved to Garden City to attend the university at which I now teach.  Most of her friends soon followed suit.  He was left behind.  As I am self-absorbed to the point where I don't care about my friend's lives except for when their stories are particularly miserable or amusing, I don't know much about this time period except that it saw Chris turning things somewhat around.  Not by much.  He still drinks far too much.  But he's in school now—he's at the school where I teach, actually, although I've never had him for a student. 

[supremeinlilac]

Count  (NSFW)

Pairing: Pre Apocalype!Wilhemina x Fem!Reader

Word count: 3125

Warnings: Caning, bondage, slight degradation(?), just filth I guess

A/N: This is my first time writing anything nsfw (i wrote it before mirror, mirror), so please let me know if there’s anything I can do to improve it. I’m a whore for constructive criticism :)

Tag list idk?: @extraordinarilycelestrial

Anger bubbled through your body as you trampled through the gate at the front of the house you shared with Mina. The porch lights were on, meaning she was already home, despite having left work about an hour after you to catch up with work in the quiet of her office . Jeff and Mutt had been at you all day, chipping away at your patience as you tried your hardest to ignore their stares and inappropriate comments and complete the report you were currently working on.

They had continued even after your polite remark insinuating that you had a lot of work starting to catch up to you, and that they had caught you at the worst possible moment. Mocking and teasing “oooooohs” followed you when you finally slammed your hands firmly onto your desks and asked through gritted teeth that they let you be.

Usually you would relax with Wilhemina over lunch and bitch to her about them and their intolerable attitudes, but today she had been extremely busy as well and kept her office door locked the whole day, much to your disappointment. You found your lunch with a hastily scribbled note that read: when your periods finished, I’ll help relieve that tension you have going on,, J which you scrunched up and tossed in the general direction of the bin, huffing and clenching your jaw to stop yourself from marching over to where the pair of them were sat, mouths set in smug grins watching you from across the room, and slapping one of them across their faces.

To top off all that shit, your car had broken down 10 minutes away from your house on the drive back, which was a 30-minute walk back in the biting wind. Without, unsurprisingly at this point, your coat, which you’d left in the office in your haste to leave. You had no choice but to do just that as your phone decided that today would be the day it would give up on life and refuse to turn on.

Long story short, you’d had just about enough.

You dropped your keys trying to find the right one that would open the front door. You audibly exhaled in a loud impatient groan, wanting nothing more than to collapse onto your bed and lie there until the anger dissipated. Slamming the door closed behind you and throwing your bag down beside the coat rack, you ran your fingers through your hair before stomping up the stairs, ignoring the call Wilhemina gave you from the kitchen.

Flopping down on the bed, you released a long yell that was muffled by the pillows your face was buried in. Still feeling anger after the first yell fell short, you allowed yourself a second scream, hands in your hair now, bunching at the scalp, so unbelievably pissed off that you failed to notice the door click softly closed behind you.

“And just what do you think you are doing?” her voice cut through the silence which now hung in the bedroom, making you jump but remain in the same position, now sulking at your unfortune of the past 8 hours. “Where have you been?” she spoke again, ignoring your lack of response at her first question. Her fingers drummed impatiently on her cane, which was clutched tightly between her two hands; her lips drawn tightly together as she rigidly stood and observed you on the bed.

You decided in that moment that you needed something to take your mind off the day you’d just had, so you clenched your jaw shut and closed your eyes, smirking into the pillow. You knew what you were doing to the older woman stood by the door, but you were in one of your moods, and feeling far to stubborn to give her the satisfaction of your submission.

Wilhemina’s eyes narrowed as she slowly advanced towards the bed, cane tapping threateningly. “Don’t you dare be bratty with me Y/N, don’t think I won’t punish you simply because you’ve had a bad day. Now I’ll give you one more chance to tell me what has got you so annoyed”. You slowly turned around from your position on the bed, a heat settling in your stomach at her tone as you faced her, legs crossed and an innocent smile on your face as you remained silent.

She didn’t even give you time to be surprised, a single yelp escaping your mouth as she lurched forward, gripping your jaw in her hand bruisingly and forcing your head up to look at her. She wore a smirk that made the heat fall straight to your centre, making you overly aware of the throbbing now between your legs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you pet” her thumb brushed your lower lip and you eagerly took it into your mouth, suckling on it and watching her eyes with your own. Removing it, she wiped it off on your cheek before tutting loudly, “take your clothes off; leave your panties on”.

Your brattiness now long forgotten, you scrambled off the bed in your haste to please the woman before you. The incessant tapping of her cane spurred on your actions, clothes discarded as you stumbled around before standing patiently beside her, arms by your side, the cold of the room prickling your skin as you shivered under her gaze.

She leisurely walked around your fidgeting form, nails dragging across the skin of shoulder behind her before she stopped behind you. You fought the urge to turn to face her, feeling her breath lingering on your shoulder. She deliberately smoothed her flat palms up and down your arms, chuckling at the involuntary reaction your body has at her touch. Leaning forwards and bringing your earlobe between her teeth, she pulled slightly and you couldn’t help the soft moan that left your lips at her action.

As soon as her touch came, it was gone. “Bend over the edge of the bed, hands behind your back.” She commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument on your part, as you did as she requested, sinking to your knees and lowering your torso onto the bed, your bottom up in the air. You felt something smooth and cold slip round your wrists, a ribbon most likely, and restrain your wrists tightly together. Her movements paused, allowing you to test the bonds which failed to give when you tried to escape them.

“Is that okay babygirl?” she checked, stroking your cheek lovingly waiting for your response. When you gave her the go ahead, nodding and letting out a breathy “yes”, she allowed herself to slip back into dominance. Pacing back and forth, she allowed you to suffer in the anticipation for a while, until you whimpered and fidgeted where you lay. “I’m going to give you 10 spanks” she paused, her smirk growing watching you tense, “with my cane. And you’re going to count for me.”

Your eyes widened in surprise and slight fear; she’s never used her cane on you before, only ever using it as a threat when you were pushing your luck and being too bratty for her liking. You couldn’t lie, the thought had also aroused you to no end, being punished with the very thing she relied on so heavily; but you knew Mina was never soft with her punishments. “But you’ve never used the ca-” she cut you off quickly, not in the mood for any backchat now she’d made up her mind what you deserved.

“Do I need to gag you baby? Or are you going to be a good girl for me and be quiet?”

Her sweet, mocking tone made you squirm under her gaze, you shook your head against the sheets. You didn’t want to exacerbate your punishment further, not that you ever held your bratty attitude long when in her commanding presence. Mina smiled, she loved that you so quickly fell in line for her, allowing her as much of the control and power she seeked.

“No, we couldn’t have you gagged could we? Then I wouldn’t be able to hear you counting little one. You will count for me won’t you?” you whimpered, eyes finding hers over your shoulder as she closed in. “I always loose count otherwise, and I’d hate to have to start again” she drawled, the corner of her mouth twitching as she raised her chin, eyes not leaving yours.

“I’ll count” you gasped, her hands coolly massaging your shoulders, drawing out the suspense of the impending caning. She knew full well what she was doing, confident that her patience could hold out extensively, all while you would get impossibly worked up and needy.

“Good girl.” Patting your shoulder, she withdrew her hands and returned behind you, out of your line of vision.

She brought the cane down onto the skin where your thigh met the curve of your ass, your body jolting forward unexpectedly, and you gasped at the feeling, which at first felt hot, blood rushing to the site before the twinge of pain kicked in. “One” you spoke confidently, cheeks flushed as you found yourself eager for her to bring the cane down on you again.

She paused, allowing the anticipation to hang heavily in the air as she ran a single finger slowly down your spine, revelling in how your body shivered under her light touch. She waited just long enough for your guard to come down and you to let out a small breath of relief, before swinging her cane back down onto your cheeks, wood biting at the skin as you let out a yelp of surprise.

Your voice was more raspy this time, the number spoken quickly, your arms straining against their confines, aching to soothe the skin that were now hot where she had landed the strikes. After the third hit, you couldn’t help the shame that ebbed at your mind that you were involuntarily enjoying Wilhemina punishing you; almost as much as she was turned on by the power you allowed her to hold over you. The coupled feeling of both pain and pleasure sent sparks of electricity through your body, as if suddenly being lit by a flickering flame.

Four and five came down on your skin in the exact same place as the third, catching the raw line that marred the skin of your butt and eliciting a hiss from your lips. You counted, voice smaller now as you bit your lip to avoid unwarranted sounds from escaping. The sixth hit was the hardest so far, and your hips bucked backwards involuntarily, not going unnoticed by the older woman who’s eyes darkened and a smirk graced her lips. You weren’t expecting your girlfriend to use such force; or the fact that this was turning you on more than you ever thought it would. Your vision was starting to cloud at the sensation, mind hazy as you focused on the deep throb between your legs.

Her nails digging slightly into the tender flesh of your ass was the only reminder you needed, choking out a strangled “six” before returning to biting the sheets beneath your head. All you could concentrate on was the feeling of yourself trickling shamelessly down the inside of your thigh, praying to god that Mina couldn’t see how this was affecting you. “That was your last warning sweetheart” she cooed, cool palms soothing the sore flesh beneath them in slow rubs.

The final four strikes came in quick succession, Mina not even giving you time to compose yourself in between the hits. This meant you subconsciously let out a low moan at the force of her last cane strike, which was considerably harder than the rest, sending your body forward further into the bed.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you” she scoffed, and you could practically hear the smirk that adorned her features. She ran two fingers up the length of your inner thigh, collecting the juices and holding them up to the light. You bit the sheets between your teeth at her actions, suppressing a moan that threatened to bubble from your throat at her mocking tone.

At the lack of a response, Wilhemina quickly brought her open palm sharply down on your thigh, the sting pulling goosebumps up along the length of your bare back, nipples rubbing uncomfortably against the sheets as you squirmed. She fisted the hair at the nape of your neck tightly, pulling so your ear was aligned with her mouth, her hot breath tickling the shell of your ear as she spoke.

“When I ask you a question, I expect a response baby girl” she drawled, voice low and raspy, making you shiver and let out a shaky breath. “You know I don’t like disobedient little girls now do I?”. You shook your head quickly, eyes screwed shut as her voice went straight to your core, making you squirm in her grasp. She tugged again, warningly. “No god- No Ms Venable, I’ll be a good girl I promise” you spluttered out, moan catching in your throat as she relaxed her grip on your hair, bringing her hand round to your throat, squeezing experimentally.

“It’s a bit late for that- don’t you think little one?” her fingers flexed against your throat, feeling the muscles contract as you swallowed deeply at the feeling. “But since you were such a good girl and took your punishment so well for me, I think I could give you what you want”, you nodded desperately, tears in your eyes as a result of the pain and pleasure of the caning. “Please” you squeaked, no longer caring how needy you sounded to the older woman, only wanting her to give you what you wanted so badly.

Her eyes darkened with lust, pressing the slick fingers to your lips as you gladly took them in, circling them with your tongue as you moaned, the taste of your own arousal on her fingers made you physically ache for her touch, you were now too sensitive to do more than fight the urge to rub your thighs together to relieve the pressure that had built up there. She withdrew her fingers teasingly, coaxing you to turn onto your back while she hovered herself over your fidgeting body, arms either side of your head, propping herself up.

Capturing your lips in a heated kiss, her teeth nipping and pulling at your bottom lip harshly, as she allowed her fingernails to slowly rake down your stomach, red scores in their wake. A sigh left your lips as she grazed over your core, body reacting involuntarily with your hips bucking up to meet her hand.

“You’re dripping wet for me.” She drawled, voice low and dripping with arousal as she taunted you. “My little slut getting so worked up while being punished, tsk tsk tsk” she tutted as you groaned at her words, heat flooding to your core.

She trailed two fingers through your folds, collecting your arousal before slipping them into you slowly. Allowing you to adjust to her fingers inside, she kissed along the curve of your jaw, sucking a deep bruise on the underside of it, starting to pull her fingers back out of you and setting herself a quick pace that had you whimpering beneath her.

You bit you lip to quieten the breathy moans you were releasing at her fingers curling inside you with each thrust, and the feeling of Wilhemina’s hot breath on the delicate skin of your neck. “You don’t need to be quiet, little one. I want to hear your sweet little noises.”

You let your head fell back on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as Wilhemina brought her thumb to circle your clit, adding pressure causing you to jerk up into her and let out a loud moan of pleasure. She quickened her pace inside you, adding another finger and hissing as you clenched around her fingers. “God you’re so tight” she husked in your ear, nipping at the lobe and trailing bites down to the swell of your breast.

You gasped at the feeling of her teeth grazing the hard bud of your nipple, tweaking it between her teeth. You arched your back into her touch. She sucked on your nipple, tongue swirling the bud and pulling back to blow cold air onto the sensitive skin.

She flicked again at your clit, smirking against your other breast at the way your body shivered under her, a little squeak falling from your lips, breathing becoming laboured.

“I’m gunna- oh god- Please, please can I come Mina” you moaned, feeling the familiar wave of an orgasm creeping up on you, tension knotted deep in the pit of your stomach. Her face left the swollen nipple she’d been biting and returned to hover over your face.

“Come for me baby.”

Her fingers continued to stroke against your insides as the orgasm ripped through your body, clenching around the fingers buried inside you, eliciting mewls to drip like liquid from your open lips. The waves kept intensifying as Wilhemina persisted; drawing your orgasm out for as long as she could to prolong the pleasure that rippled through your trembling body.

She let you catch your breath, still trembling beside her after the powerful orgasm she’d given you. Taking the fingers she’d withdrawn from your centre into her mouth, keeping eye contact with you as you let another moan escape your lips at the sight of her tongue circling the digits. Hand coming to curl behind your neck and bringing you towards her for a gentle kiss, allowing you to suck the lingering taste of your arousal off her tongue.

Her nails lightly scratched the skin of your scalp, prompting goosebumps to prickle over your skin despite the sheen of sweat you now wore. “Now baby girl. What are you going to do the next time you have a bad day and get all annoyed?” You whimpered, anytime she used an authoritative voice or questioned you like this making you weak with arousal.

“Answer me.”

“Not be a brat and – oh” you gasped as her hand found your throat, fingers flexing and squeezing in warning. “And tell you why I’m annoyed” you blurted out, cheeks flushed pink at the control the older woman had over your body.

“Good girl.” She patted your jaw twice, smiling, before moving to lie back against the cushions next to you. “Because you know that I can make you forget all about your bad day don’t you honey?” you nodded at her, eyes glazed over in admiration at how she could unravel you with only her words and make you forget whatever was on your mind.

“Now come here and apologise to me properly”

[ceilingfan5]

Out of This World

congratulations to my 500 followers giveaway winner @terezis, who asked for “alien taako accidentally kidnaps kravitz”

and thanks to everyone who participated!!! 

“Where the hell are you going at this hour?” Kravitz’s roommate Sloane asks, looking up from the egregious snuggling she’s got going on with her girlfriend. On Kravitz’s couch, no less. 

“Didn’t you see that light? I have to go investigate! It could be- It could be any number of things! A meteor, a spatial anomaly, maybe even a-”

“Helicopter?” Sloane’s voice is dryer than the toast he had for dinner. Kravitz doesn’t let it dampen his mood. 

“It could be something truly mysterious, and I can’t abide letting well enough alone.”

“You never can,” she sighs. “Well, be safe out there. Don’t forget your keys.”

“Mhm,” Kravitz says, jamming his feet into mismatched shoes. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Super won’t, so don’t die or get kidnapped or whatever.”

“I’ll be perfectly fine!” 

And Kravitz, who has no sense of predilection or self-preservation, thunders down the stairs and out into the streets with his fifty dollar flashlight and a passionately misplaced sense of adventure. 

He startles a few street cats, coos at a racoon, trips over trash, and just past the apartment complex, he spots it again. That powerful blue glow. It’s in the wrong direction for some kind of event or party--it’s closer to the farms at the edge of town than it is anything that ought to be blue in the middle of the night. And then, as Kravitz gets closer, he hears a hum, a soft, thrumming, nearly musical hum, and he sees it, he fucking sees it-

A spaceship. 

He cackles in unbridled validated glee and then slaps his hands over his mouth, dropping his fancy flashlight with all the lumens money can buy, reflecting on its way to the ground in three pairs of glowing gold eyes and a mouthful of sharp, sharp teeth. 

Something like a cross between static electricity and cement-hard water from doing a belly flop hits him, and he doesn’t see it anymore. 

  He wakes up in a space so white that it’s blue, searing his eyes with the brightness. His whole body is sore, but in a heavy way that almost feels nice. He blinks slowly, his eyelids sticking like windshield wipers on an old car during the first snow of the season, and something--someone? humanoid appears in his hazy vision. They have four arms and a long, golden brown tail, gilded with a smattering of freckles that reflect in the light like the bottom of a river untouched for centuries, and then, those six frightening, beautiful eyes, staring right into Kravitz’s soul, blinking asymmetrically, and twice. A nictitating membrane. Bafflingly cool. Kravitz tries to sit up and his head protests dramatically, and the figure swears--in English. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, what am I going to- how am I going to explain this- shit, shit, shit- Don’t do that, lay down, stupid adorable creature...” Two of those four hands gently press on his chest and he lays back down, mouth hanging open. 

“Who are you?” he asks, even though he could have opened with any number of questions, perhaps namely what do you want with me? 

“Oh, fuck, is my translator working? That’s a bonus. Oh, ancient skies, what a fucking mess...I can’t believe I- I’m going to be in so much trouble-”

“Because I saw you?”

“Well- yes, and also because I stunned you, and brought you aboard, which, believe it or not, has exacerbated- that’s a weird word, why is your language like this?--It’s made shit so much worse, because I’m dumb as hell and twice as fired. If not executed.” 

“Can I look around?”

“Babe, your listening comprehension isn’t great, is it? I’m gonna be in so much trouble for you even catching a glimpse of this- motherfucker, I should have stuck to cows, cows are classic, can’t go wrong with cows-” The alien, because, that’s- this person has to be an alien, there’s no other way, the set is too expensive and complete, the technology glittering at the edge of his vision is too complex, the makeup team would have to be intense?? The alien wrings two of their hands, and then the other two, fidgeting nervously. They pick grass off of Kravitz in a way that’s almost affectionate, and Kravitz has a hard time compiling all the facts, here.

“What’s your name?”  

“Taako,” Taako says, absolutely miserable. “But you shouldn’t know that. I should put you back--or kill you--but I don’t know if I can, I mean, look at you! Four little limbs and two little eyes! And you’re so curious and...cute.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” Kravitz can’t help it. He’s always wanted to kiss an alien, and, presented with the road to that opportunity, he finds himself taking it with no hesitation. “What can I do to get you to not kill me today?”

“I could wipe your memory, I guess...”

"Not ideal."

"Not ideal, no, it does sort of tangle all your business up there a little." Taako frowns, which is a very strange thing to see a person with six eyes do. His lips are purple and they look...incredibly kissable, even drawn up in a frustrated little bow. Kravitz had probably better focused on not getting lobotomized, but he's as gay as he is a nerd, so he always would have been fucked in a situation like this. 

"Maybe, uh, maybe," he says, casting about for a solution, any solution. "Um, what, why are you here? What's going on with the, the cows?" 

"Well, we're studying your planet, obviously?" Taako walks away from Kravitz, pacing anxiously, and Kravitz takes the chance to sit up. It makes his mouth go dry and his head even more cottony, but he blinks blearily at Taako and smiles a little. "We're trying to learn how things work, how your society works, you know, see if you guys can handle the real shit, see if- You've got these incredible bonds, and I mean, my home sort of has those, but it's not the same, and- it would be real powerful if we could bring that kind of thing home."

"Guess you're not finding those bonds in cows, huh?" Kravitz has his out, and it's a good one. He can't stop grinning. He hopes Taako doesn't think it's a threat display. "Well, if I promise not to tell anyone about you, and you promise not to tell anyone about me, I could tell you some hot Earth facts, anything you want to know?" 

Taako bites his lip, folding both pairs of arms and pausing his pacing, and he looks at Kravitz, incredibly tempted.

"Anything?" 

"Anything. And if I don't know it, I'll look it up." Kravitz holds up his phone, and the reflection of it glints in Taako’s huge, hungry eyes. He grabs it and turns it on. 

"Oh this is good, this is very, very good. But-" 

"But you wanted to know about bonds, right?" 

"Right. And I promise I'm not trying to pry, but you keep thinking about kissing? And I want to know what that is." 

Kravitz swallow hard, knocked on his ass twofold. Taako can read his thoughts? Taako wants to kiss him???

"I can show you how, if you want," Kravitz says, embarrassed but also thrilled beyond all recognition. "Unless you think you're, you know, poisonous to me, or something-"

"It's probably fine?"

"It's probably fine!!" 

Taako walks over to him, tail flicking anxiously behind him. He's beautiful. Kravitz has finally met an alien, and he's beautiful. 

"We just- with our mouths?" 

"Exactly, just. Do what feels right." 

"Okay, I can, I can do that. And nobody is going to know, nobody will find out, it's fine-" 

Kravitz kisses him and Taako kisses back, sloppy and awkward and wonderful and Kravitz grabs the lapels of his uniform and pulls him closer and Taako makes a happy little trill and all six of his eyes flutter closed. 

They pull back to breathe, Taako panting a little, and he looks at Kravitz and nods. 

"I'm not going to kill you. Or. Scramble you, or whatever." 

"Nice," Kravitz says, grinning like an absolute idiot. "Can I tell you all the cool things I know about Earth?" 

"Maybe one more kiss. Or five. Can I have ten? Ten seems like a good number. Fuck, this is way better than cows!"

"I should hope so!" Kravitz laughs. 

[haylanmakesstuff]

Day 36

While still at Olympic I earned a special badge, Olympic Ocean Steward. This badge is dedicated to Mary Finley, and to any anonymous donors who are strangers to me. You may have seen my story shared by a mutual friend, or found me through EDS/HSD hashtags, but it takes a sincere type of kindness to put your hard-earned money towards someone you don’t know asking you to donate for a rare disorder, fundraiser, charity of any kind. Thank you.

Today we got up very early in order to make it into the Hurricane Ridge area. This is usually the most popular part of the park, and I also knew there were road closures, so we were sure to go early and on a weekday; the best way to see the parks when they are less crowded, but also to leave less impact as a visitor to these busy places. I mean, look how serious I am, with this view in my pajamas.

It worked; we waited just about 10 min or so to get in and there was lots of parking. We walked some of the paved trails in this area; far flung views of snowy topped mountains, wildflowers still in bloom, and on the other side of the ridge we were treated with the San Juan Islands, and Canada across the sea.

Even though it was “less crowded” for a weekday, we found ourselves wanting to get off the beaten path some. Just outside of the parking lot there is a dirt road called Devastation Road; although I couldn’t find out why it has such a gnarly name, it looked like it was going to have stellar views. There were definitely less people in general, and we were right about it being beautiful. At the end of the road, we had a little picnic for lunch. I also proved that Husbands clothes are all so big I can fashion anything into fully, warm pants for the gusty chilly winds. Did I have my own in the car? Yes. Is it more fun to do this? Yes.

Instead of choosing a hike in the pretty alpine area at the end of the road full of cars, we opted to go to a hike we had seen on the way in that had just one car at the trailhead. The sign at PJ lake had said it was only .9 miles, and I had remembered from reading that it was 600 feet of elevation loss/gain. But we wanted to hike, and I was feeling surprisingly good today. The lovely weather on most of this trip has made me suspicious that my condition is definitely exacerbated by the Texas heat and humidity. You see, I hadn’t experienced a regular Texas summer since I started working seasonally in some capacity in 2013. In 2016 I was in Big Bend Country, and that may as well be another state, the humidity is so low, and the elevation was high. When the pandemic struck in 2020, I didn’t take a seasonal job and was immediately reminded how utterly terrible summer is at home. Did working in Hawaii, Wyoming, and Oregon all those years delay my diagnosis? I’m thinking so.

We met the hikers in the single car at the trailhead just a few hundred yards into the trail. They were kind of wrecked, but very friendly. We chatted for a few moments and then we had the whole trail and lake to ourselves. I could not be more grateful that I was feeling so well, because this hike would have absolutely ruined me otherwise. In fact, although it was short, this was definitely one of the harder hikes I’ve done on this trip. Some of it was so steep that I was shocked the National Park Service even designed and maintains it as an actual trail. It was clearly built for the use of mountain goats. But, great weather, beautiful scenery, no humans, we put on our mountain goat suits. A nice surprise and reward was this magnificent waterfall! I’ll call it Knee Breaker Falls.

The lake was just uphill of the falls and was totally worth all the careful scooting downhill we did.

We could see trout all throughout the clear water, jumping up to feast on bugs constantly. Late season fireweed still bloomed on the banks, crowded by pine trees and flotsam. A fairytale waterfall trickled down a cliffside.

It feels weird to say that the way down was the easy part, but I really, really hate uphill hikes. It is so hard for me, and really always have been. I am glad to understand *why* better now, but I was worried since this was going to be extreme. And here is the real surprise: I did…great! What the heck happened!? Was I fueled by natures beauty, or maybe the negative energy of park visitors?  The last time I did this well on a hike, and I am not kidding, was probably 2012. That’s the last year I remember hiking feeling like “myself” without struggle. What was special about today? It’s the perfect mix of fitness, sleep, food, everything, that you can’t ever do on purpose. You can’t copy it, you can’t make it happen. What a rare and special thing this hike was. To get to the top of a difficult hike, even if it’s only 9/10 of a mile, and feel…fine. I’ve had more trouble walking to the bathroom at my house than this hike. I might be dreaming.

Given the fantastical situation, we thought we’d play our luck and see if we could still get into the Sol Duc Hot Springs Resort, still in the park but over an hour away. We did! Luckily it was outside, and we got to soak for an hour. It was almost too much for me with a heat sensitivity and I wasn’t even in the hottest pool.  The A+ ranger at the fee booth gave us the heads up that the salmon had just started heading up the Sol Duc River earlier that day, so we thought we’d test our luck again by going to look. And don’t ya know it, there they were. Shiny and determined fish driven by instinct, amazing sensory perception, and probably insanity, flinging themselves up torrential waterfalls like their life depends on it. Ironic, since after they make it and complete fertilization, they will fall apart and die.

Do you know how hard it is to get a picture of jumping salmon at dusk? Harder than getting a photo of a Junior Ranger Badge in a cave!

They were mostly terrible at it, and in about an hour we only saw 1 salmon that made it up one tier of the falls. There was one who failed so spectacularly, its whole body wacked against the rock, sounding just like a clown hitting an unsuspecting circus visitor in the face with a dead fish.

This is the only river where salmon spawn almost every season; at least 4 different types of salmon come from the ocean up the Sol Duc, and each species at a different season. How lucky were we!

My favorite thing I learned, that seems almost magical, is that these fish have so much delightful nitrogen in their bodies when they die, it released a super-charged amount into the forest and animals, making rich and fast growth. The cycle of life is pumped up to the extreme in these areas because of these salmon that use memories and chemical signals to make their way miles from the ocean back to where they were born, to keep an amazing cycle of life going.

We finished our evening with a picnic in the dark before heading home. This was one of the best and most memorable days of my trip so far. Not only did we see and do so many amazing things, but to have the rare day of clarity and little pain is one of the most valuable things in the entire world. Getting to experience this with my best Husband friend is so meaningful, it’s beyond words.

Haylan

[darter-blue]

In honor of sebstan... More naked Bucky? 👀👀👀 here are some peaches for you 🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

Hahaha, I see how it is.

I have some peaches for you too, @possibleplatypus

Some more naked Bucky for you, because naked Bucky is the best Bucky...

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

Steve uses himself as a shield between Bucky’s naked body and the threat at the doors.

Okay, threat might be a stretch. But Steve can’t stop himself from trying to keep Bucky unseen. To keep all of the glorious skin on display, the sweaty, smooth, delicious skin, pressed right up against his back.

It’s irrational. It’s ridiculous. But Steve can’t help it. Whatever part of his brain is supposed to be feeding him sanity has gone to sleep, and all that's left is a resounding message to keep Bucky safe, keep him sheltered. Keep him Steve’s.

‘Natasha, can you get back to the jet and bring Bucky some clothes?’ Steve says, calm, controlled. No hint of panic in his voice.

It’s put him off kilter, all of this. Steve isn’t usually one to panic. Never has been. Pre-serum, pre-super soldier, pre-freeze Steve had always been a do first, think later kind of guy. His days as Captain America have no doubt exacerbated that, but by and large it's a facet of his personality he was probably just born with.

He remembers the last time he had panicked like this.

Bucky on that street, his mask flying free, his face like marble, and Steve’s heart in his throat. He was alive. He was there. And Steve nearly lost him. Again.

Come to think of it… every time Steve has panicked in his life, it was at the idea he might lose Bucky. In the tent with Colonel Phillips. Finding Bucky strapped to that table. The train (Jesus, God, just thinking about it has his blood freezing in his veins), reaching out, reaching but not far enough… failing… Bucky falling… (shake that thought away, Steve, get rid of it)

And now. Well. This panic is real, but the reason is all wrong…

‘Steve, we need to get out of here,’ Bucky says quietly from behind him. The words are for Steve only.

‘You couldn’t have maybe radioed for them before I made my way down here?’ Nat says, hand on hip. She aims her gun, glances to her right - firing at yet another oncoming Hydra agent - and then back to Steve and Bucky with one perfectly sculptured eyebrow raised. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have time for that now, Rogers.’

‘I did!‘ Steve says, too loud, ‘You heard me ask.’ And most of the Hydra agents have to be dead now don’t they? He has no idea where they all keep popping up from. ‘I’m sure we have time,’ Steve insists. Calmly. Calm, calm, calm. ‘There’s a spare flak vest and there’s pants… there’s… aren’t there flak pants too? In the storage units where the weapons are?’

‘Steve, can’t you hear that?’ Bucky asks, keeping his voice that same level of quiet, tone reasonable, speaking the words right into Steve’s ear, ‘Helicopters.’

Steve shivers. Not at the idea that Hydra are flying in reinforcements, but at the way Bucky’s lips touch the shell of his ear. The proximity of Bucky’s naked body to his own. He has to close his eyes to the sensation, and regrets it instantly when he opens them to Nat’s smug smile.

He holds his actual shield a little closer to himself.

Bucky leans closer, ‘We can work it out on the jet, it's okay.’

‘Come on,’ Nat says, popping her gum, ‘It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, Rogers.’

Steve’s face must do something scary, because suddenly Nat’s smiling harder and holding her hands up in a show of surrender, ‘Not that one specifically, keep your panties on, Steve.’

Bucky huffs a breath of warm air onto Steve’s shoulder as he tries to hide his laugh.

‘Stevie lets just go, come on, I’ll stay behind you.’

It could be the way Bucky says ‘Stevie’ like a caress, or it could be the touch of Bucky’s hand to Steve’s waist, but whatever it is has Steve relenting.

‘Okay,’ he says over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of Bucky’s wet hair and his bare shoulders, swallowing, ‘Okay,’ he says louder, turning back to Nat, ‘Let’s go.’

They move quickly, synced as always, feet stepping in unison, faster and faster as they get to the doors and see the jet hovering.

‘Get your asses on this fucking Jet!’ Sam yells out, not bothering with comms now that he can see them. He’s flying, taking out Hydra agents as they pull up in black cars, Nat fires cover rounds as Steve and Bucky follow her to the Quinjet.

Bucky turns and deflects a bullet with his arm, and Steve turns with him to shield him from the agents coming up behind them. Nat has the hatch down and stands at the foot of the ramp, turns her cover fire to the new threat and lets Steve and Bucky pass her into the Jet, Sam flying in and closing the hatch as Nat backs calmly up along it.

Clint is in the pilot seat, and already has them airborne.

‘Choppers incoming,’ Clint says, ‘hold on.’

And Steve plants his feet to keep balance while the jet easily evades the threat.

Bucky is still behind Steve, but he’s no longer pressed to his back. And Steve turns to see him standing tall and unconcerned in the middle of the jet. Gun in one hand, knife in the other, hair still hanging in wet waves, dripping down the olive perfection of his bare shoulders, down the vast, hard expanse of his naked chest, over dark nipples, down the starkly defined musculature of his stomach, getting lost in the hair that leads down to his groin, hair that thickens above the very hard cock standing erect despite the audience.

‘Nat?’ Steve’s voice breaks as the word stumbles out of his mouth, ‘clothes?’

‘Damn,’Sam says under his breath and Steve would turn to berate him, but he can’t take his eyes off Bucky.

Bucky rolls his eyes at both of them and turns to check on the helicopters becoming nothing but specks in the distance.

As Bucky turns, Steve’s eyes travel down past the mouth watering gift at Bucky’s groin, to the equally delicious thick thighs, and up to the beautifully round cheeks of his ass. Smooth and firm, so tight... and Steve has that same urge to reach for them, bite into them, worship them with his hands and his mouth and his tongue and...

‘Uh…’ Nat’s murmur comes back at Steve from the weapons locker.

He reluctantly tears his eyes away from Bucky and looks to Nat, who is rifling through the equipment in the open lockers.

‘So, umm…’ she says, looking up at Steve, pulling empty hands free from where they have been searching, ‘it seems like maybe we don’t have… well… anything.’

‘What?’ Steve says, incredulous, ‘No, no, no.’

‘It’s fine Steve,’ Bucky says, the knife somehow gone and the gun discarded to one of the empty seats, useless without its bullets anyway. He rings the sweat and residual water from his hair and then shakes it out lifting his arms to push it back off his face and causing Steve’s entire body to vibrate out of his skin.

Steve can hear Sam’s sharp intake of breath, can practically feel Nat leering.

‘Looking good, Barnes,’ Clint says from the front, affable smile on his face.

‘Fly the plane, Clint!’ Steve says sharply, and Clint laughs and mock salutes him before spinning in his seat.

‘I’ll grab some clothes when we get back to the compound.’ Bucky’s shrug is genuine. He is so comfortable standing there, hands on hips, head tilted at Steve. It gives Steve absolutely zero room to argue.

He turns to Sam, who flinches at his glare.

‘Alright, alright,’ Sam says, backing up to where Nat is still standing at the back of the jet, ‘I’ll just hang out back here for a minute.’

‘Steve,’ Bucky says, and stalks towards Steve slowly, reaching out a hand to Steve’s chest, ‘Just relax.’

And Steve would like to, but his body is incapable. And Bucky’s hands on him are the opposite of helpful.

‘I’m okay, I’m not hurt, you found me.’ Bucky speaks the words slowly and calmly and they seep in under Steve’s skin, ‘You got me.’ He steps in closer and lowers his voice. ‘You have me, Steve,’ he says again, his eyes alight and his smile small, intimate.

And Steve lets his focus hone in on that sentence. Lets it wash over him like a promise.

He has Bucky.

‘You have me too, Buck, you know?’ Steve whispers back, ‘I’m yours.’

And Bucky just smiles wider, lifts his other hand to Steve’s cheek, runs a thumb over Steve’s cheekbone and says, ‘I know.’

[wings-of-a-storm]

Same anon with another general thought here, but I don't think enough people are talking about how crushed Benji must be to know that not only is he not allowed in Victor's home because of Isabelle, but that also Isabelle was right off the bat so accepting of and friendly towards Rahim. Not even Victor seemed to give it much thought, and I get that he was happy that his mom was "doing better", but he really should have considered Benji's feelings on the matter more and noticed how hurt he was.

Hello again! Another wonderful general thought to ponder. A very complicated one though, as it turns out, as this particular situation is full of nuance and mental health minefields…

When you’re that overwhelmed by external stress (and it intermingles with your mental health), you can’t think or behave on a level you would normally have the energy and clear-thinking to be able to do. And Victor’s situation with his mother is impacting on both boys. Both are distracted by their own stress and trying to stay above water in their own ways, which makes some of their reactions very self-focused.

Victor’s stress is pretty evident because we have his point of view and are living in that pain with him.

Benji’s is more subtle but the clues are there to piece together.

For me, it is pretty clear that Benji has had to compromise a lot of himself in their relationship so far due to the more dire nature of the stressful situation Victor is currently going through. Normally, that level of compromise could possibly be maintained in the short-term for someone who is at a healthy-enough headspace in their own life, but I don’t think Benji is there yet. Not just because he is a recovering addict, but because of the root cause of that addiction -- his own journey of coming to peace with his identity.

Events happened in Benji’s life -- like his violent car crash -- that reshaped him into someone who survives internalised hatred about himself through mule-headed determination and idealism. Like, Benji is very idealistic about living an authentic life and expecting others to be better in society. And most of the time it is well-meaning, if not misguided, idealism, such as telling Victor he shouldn’t compromise with the basketball change room because he should only ever hang around people who accept him for who he is.

And so much of that attitude has probably come from the trauma of that car crash -- it would have affected his tolerance level in life. He realised he almost died before ever getting to freely be who he is and the horror of that realisation completely shifted his priorities in life. He isn’t going to let anyone or anything get in the way of him living as his authentic self.

Derek’s influence would have only re-enforced that perspective, as Derek is also someone who is very much in the mindset of ‘I’m going to be exactly who I am and screw heteronormative bs.’

For over a year, Benji was able to live his own freedom and solidify his identity. It was really important to him to be able to do so. But then along came Victor who isn’t at that stage yet and that created a big imbalance in their relationship, through no one’s fault.

When Benji and Victor first got together, we saw Benji intuitive enough to display that concern -- that it might be tough to date Victor since he is so new to accepting his sexuality and hadn’t even said the words out loud yet, whereas Benji would have to relive being stuck in the closet. But even worse this time, because he had already had his car accident epiphany and would feel extra suffocation. But Benji decided Victor was worth all of that and he’d be there with him every step of the way through his coming out process.

For several months, Benji had to compromise who he was, relive a shame that literally took a drunken car accident to break through (more or less), and watch the person he really cares for feel rejected by his mama over and over again. Living that sort of cycle, even within a perfect summer bubble, takes its toll over time. It slowly erodes your patience and strength, exacerbates old wounds, makes you feel helpless… And for someone with such incredibly strong ideals as Benji, it is even tougher to sit on the sidelines and be unable to change anything. Benji has no control over that situation at all, when normally a sense of control helps manage anxiety (especially for a recovering alcoholic).

But Benji is dedicated to Victor and willing to (temporarily) compromise a lot of the steps he made to get to where he is today so that he can be Victor’s support. Where S2 starts, we see Benji still trying to stay strong in himself and be as patient and supportive as he can be for Victor. Cracks are there though because he has his own baggage that he’s constantly having to push aside.

Victor absolutely deserves that support and his situation takes precedence, but it would be a little unfair of us not to acknowledge the toll it does take on a partner. Both parties’ mental health matters.

And then, through all that compromise and unspoken toll on Benji’s end, Benji gets to hear how another gay teen is treated almost flawlessly by his boyfriend’s mother. It really is a lot of salt in the wound -- this other teen got to just show up at the Salazar house and be treated courteously, whereas Benji put so much effort into giving Isabel space and time and tried so darn hard to bond with her, only to be rejected at every attempt.

It would start to feel like the problem is with him; that’s he’s not good enough as a person (and feeling good enough as a person is clearly an insecurity Benji is still fighting through because we saw how much it meant to Benji in 1x05 when Victor told him he thought that who he was as a person was pretty darn good).

Rationally Benji might be able to acknowledge that it will always be easier for a mother to accept a gay friend than a gay boyfriend, but with the baggage of internalised hatred Benji already had growing up, rationality is so easily subsumed by negative thought patterns. So his control slipped and he couldn’t hide his hurt and bitterness when Victor told him about Rahim’s success. I really can’t blame Benji for having that initial reaction…

On Victor’s end, he is going through a lot himself. So so much. And when you’re in that amount of stress, it can be hard to look up out of that maelstrom and notice someone else’s stress. There’s just so little reserve left of your own to offer someone else when you’re depleted and trying to keep your own head above water. So for Victor, surviving that stress and pain meant focusing solely on his own situation. That, I also absolutely get.

It’s just really unfortunate that they’re both so exhausted that neither could spare extra energy to give the kind of support each other needed in that phone call. Victor needed to hear acknowledgement of how well his mother was doing, which Benji didn’t give at all. And Benji needed acknowledgement from Victor that it hurts that Rahim gets a free pass while Benji has to walk through fire for the same thing (except so far it has just been a lot of fire and no headway).

And to make things even worse, when Benji pushed through that hurt to apologise for his negative reaction, Victor had no intention of returning the sentiment for his own lack of support. He somehow didn’t see why Benji would be upset even after Benji pointed out the double standards with Rahim’s treatment. So we have uneven needs being met… Which is why Benji stumbled again so soon in the same encounter and couldn’t contain his bitterness once more. If Victor had recognised he also needed to apologise, Benji would have felt more seen and acknowledged and regained some positive energy to give back to Victor. But alas….bad cycles.

So yeah wow, I guess in summary to your ask, both boys played a part in each other’s hurt, both boys could have handled themselves better, and yes, I think in an ideal world Victor should have been able to take a moment to look up and really see where Benji’s own mental health is at. Because it was obvious that Benji was struggling with something -- if Victor was able to take a break from his own pain and have the reprieve of a clearer head, he would see the correlation between an increase of passive aggression from Benji and him suffering from something he isn’t voicing out loud to Victor. But both boys’ mental health isn’t that great at the moment and they are only human so monumental stuff ups are going to happen on both sides… :(