#flattered to be called the professional on him! i just think he's neat

[shakertwelve]

Hey hii hello hiiii what do u think was Marquis trigger backstory? Since ur the professional on him and we don’t know shit about him(besides his apparent vampirism lmfao)

Interested in your marquis backstory thoughts because his power implies a lot but I can’t quite put it together - there’s SOMETHING that he feels the bones breaking each time and doesn’t show it but idk what. Forced to play into a role even as it causes agony? Macabre leaning? What’s goin on there

SO the first big thing about marquis's background is that i really don't think he grew up with any wealth or comfort at all—his cape persona is a performance that he's putting on to get as far as possible from his much more humble origins, imo. heathcliff stuff. obvious tension of identity there that fits with a changer power and also makes sense with his pain tolerance, which suggests he's had a lot of experience bearing through pain without any help, and the way he talks; he often sounds like he's picking his words deliberately and even trying to give off an air of sophistication, but he never actually uses any words that are especially fancy or obscure. ward messes with this a bit by making him act like an actual cartoon vampire sometimes, but i think i'm still pretty close to the mark.

at one point he mentions that his father was a doctor, but i don't think the man he's referring to there is his biological father—his wish for the brigade not to put amelia into the foster system makes me think he himself spent some time in the system and didn't enjoy it (pretty plausible, especially considering this would've been in the 70s and 80s) before he eventually ended up with the man he thinks of as his father, which is why he's hopeful that amelia will be alright if she's with a good family from the start.

if anything i think he probably grew up more like rachel than anyone else in the cast, but while rachel dealt with being treated badly by human society by forming connections with her dogs instead, marquis never totally gave up on the idea that he could prove himself to be worthy. his dedication to being a "noble" villain, to me, seems like it comes from an almost childish sense of fairness; he has to believe that if he makes himself respectable, people will recognize it and respect him, if he holds himself to a higher standard he won't just be treated as another criminal, if he chooses his words carefully enough he won't be misinterpreted, and if he trusts his daughter to the dallons they'll rise to the occasion and take care of her. it's something he notes makes it difficult for him to understand amy once they're reunited, because she lacks that same internal drive; she's already seen that no matter what she did, she was never really treated like she belonged in the dallon family, so she can't make herself care enough to try anymore. my guess is that it's different for marquis because he had a father figure he actually looked up to, who (in marquis's memories) was a self-made man who was respected on his own terms, and if his father did it right, he can, too.

in a literal sense, his power is the ability to contort himself into any shape that could possibly be wanted from him, but he has to keep breaking himself over and over again to do it—and he does! his shard doesn't even need to throw in anything to protect him from the pain, because he's already willing to do anything just to become someone who can be accepted like he wants. trying to describe the exact moment of his trigger would take more speculation (i could sketch out a timeline but i'd really just be making up the details), but i think those are the underlying issues that are already cooking in his head when it happens.

[howlsofter]

Nextdoor i.

part two , part three

John Wick moved in last year but you’re just home for the summer. He hires you to dog sit for him while he’s on business trips but it doesn’t take long til you’re pushing the limits of your “professional” relationship.

Words: 4.6k

Tags/warnings: nsfw, age gap, John is 28 and fem protag is 22, weed, masturbation, nothing too intense in this one, more plot building and some yearning

My mom introduced me to him in his drive way. Waved him down and asked him to wait. She hurries into the front door and yells my name up the stairs.

I’m in bed, cozy under a soft blanket and just a little high from the gummies in the side drawer. Her call echoes into my silent room and I huff, shoving my phone into the soft covers and scrambling up to grab some sweatpants. I decide my tank top is acceptable for whatever she needs help with and I rush down, knowing she’ll just yell again if I take too much time.

I slow my footing as I hit the door, seeing him standing there in a dark suit. He was tall beside my mother, clutching a black bag and giving me a small wave. I walk out to where my mom has already returned, waving back to him shyly and brushing the hair back from over my shoulders.

He was handsome, dark hair parted in the middle and falling past his ears, a scruffy but neat short beard. I stop with some distance between us, even more nervous now as he looks down at me.

“This is my only daughter,” she nods to me and I step up, meeting his outstretched hand.

I try to clear my throat as discreet as possible. “My name’s Jamie,” I try not to stammer, gripping his larger hand in a solid shake then returning my arms to my sides awkwardly. His hands were soft, firm, and rough against my clammy ones. Drowning in fear like I’m attending my first job interview.

“Actually, she’s only here for the summer, but she loves dogs,” she tells him like I know what they’re talking about.

He looks to me as she speaks, eyes flickering down at what I’m wearing. It was quick, I only caught it because I was staring him down. His tie loose and hanging from work, too button undone and hair just a little messy. He didn’t look too old, maybe not even thirty. Definitely 26 or older. Out of my dating range, most likely, but a girl can fantasize.

“I have to leave on business often, but I have a dog named Daisy and my previous sitter moved back home for the summer.” He tells me, opening his stance as he speaks.

“Ahh,” I drag the edge of my Birkenstock against the hot concrete, looking at his slick black business shoes, “I see… you paying?”

He chuckles, looking to my mom, “of course. Generously. I’m John, by the way.”

“Then I humbly accept.”

“Why don’t you text so I have you saved, and when I need a sitter I’ll hit you up.” He opens his jacket, flicking out his business card between two fingers and giving it over to me. I glance at it then nod, tucking that hand behind my back and swinging backwards onto my heels.

“Cool, I’m free like anytime so…” I shrug.

My mom swoops in to save me, “well, isn’t that just perfect? I hate to take up too much of your time Mr. Wick, you have a great evening now.”

He smiles to my mom, so genuinely he could be one of her own.

“You’re never a bother, Dixie,” he responds politely, she shoos him as she begins stepping away.

“You love to flatter me,” she chuckles, calling behind her. I follow my mom in, stealing glances of John walking up to his front door, tucking his jacket back to retrieve his keys from his front pocket.

“Handsome, isn’t he?” My mom teases me once the door closes. I replay our interaction in my head a thousand times over, did I seem too weird? Too young? “Hellooooo,” my mom coos, walking to the kitchen. I’m following her blindly, shaking my head to clear my thoughts.

“Yeah, uh, he was nice.”

“He’s been renting out of there since the start of the year, a widower, I hear.”

“How’d she die?” I ask too quick, my mom pulls out the baking sheet.

“I don’t think it’s anything interesting, she was sick or something.”

She loves to gossip, my questions are expected by her. Why wouldn’t I want to know the details of everyone else’s lives?

“Recently?”

“Two or three years ago… maybe? Such a shame, I don’t think he’s too old.”

I swallow and excuse myself up to my room.

Two the three years, that’s more than enough of a grieving period, I think. He seems gentlemanly, maybe the type to never marry again.

Entering my room, I realize I’m still holding his card. I flop onto the bed and grab my phone, holding the card out from my face in wonder. Its basic, white background, sleek black lettering.

John Wick

His number was on the back with his official title. It doesn’t mean anything to me, but it sounds important. I open my messages app, copying the numbers in carefully.

I compose several starter messages.

Heyyyy

A far too devious amount of ys, I delete them and try to stay casual.

Hey it’s Jamie the neighbor, lmk if u ever need a sitter

Good enough. I send it before I can overthink, immediately exiting the app.

I thought he might reply to acknowledge me, but my phone was dead all week. I purposefully avoided him outside. It was easy enough, he was hardly in the front yard. A strict schedule. He’d leave early in the morning, sometimes even earlier. Probably for breakfast, or coffee, more likely. He seems like a man who would drink a black coffee in the morning and skip lunch.

He comes home at the same time every evening. 6:04pm sharp. I watch him sometimes, I can almost sense it now. Peering out my window at 6:03 to his black Ford Mustang, he climbs out with more work to bring home each evening.

It’s extremely boring here. My old friend’s parents have moved away so no one else is home for the summer. My old plug is though. He never moved. He’s in the same nice house he’s been renting since I was in high school.

I tell my mom I’m running to Target.

For what?

I’m stir crazy. Maybe some socks.

She leaves it and I’m picking up an ounce. I do stop by target first, for the lie and for fun. I some socks with spiders swimming with pool floaties.

My mom loves them when I show her. I wait until they’re in bed to slide outside and grab the weed from my car. I bring it up inside as slow and careful as possible. It takes me minutes to open and close each door, cringing at every squeak. I set about a gram aside and grab my small bag of paraphernalia. Slipping onto the back porch I relax in my mother’s backyard area. She has flower and a tree out there, an outdoor table and some chairs. I unpack my grinder and rolling papers and get to work on rolling myself a nice little joint.

I pack everything up before I’m sparking my lighter, lounging back in the chair and looking up at the sky through the tree.

I take a few long puffs, holding it into my chest before exhaling the cloud of smoke into the branches. A few more drags in and I hear it. A patio door sliding open and the soft clicks of excited dog paws scampering across the backyard pavement. I lower my hand to the side of my chair like they could see me through the fence, holding my breath too. My joint continues to burn slow, seeping up in a small stream of thc.

It’s John’s yard, I’m praying he just lets the pup out but his footsteps aren’t hard to identify in the silence of our yards. I curse under my breath, heart beating quick.

Weed is legal in New Jersey, but the thought of John knowing it’s me is what’s so shaking. He won’t let me watch his house now for sure, he probably thinks I’m some young irresponsible trouble maker. I’m in college, I’ve never gotten in trouble, I just like to smoke weed.

Putting it out won’t stop the smell, I decide, hesitantly hitting it again. I hold the smoke in for as long as possible before blowing it in the opposite direction of John’s. I am at mercy of the wind, so I can’t force the scent in any which direction.

My phone lights up on the table and I freeze, seeing the contact I had labeled as Mr Wick light up in my notifications. I have to be in trouble with him. I breathe out the smoke I’d been holding for awhile now, grabbing up my phone to where I could read the text.

I’m leaving tomorrow, 11am. If you meet me before I can show you where all her stuff is.

Relief. I wait a minute, so it doesn’t seem like I was too available. I don’t know why I’m playing these games when he’s on the other side of the fence. I can hear him following his dog around, his footsteps heavy on the grass.

Yeah I’ll be there like 10:30?

I reply carefully, I keep going over it, not sure if I sound normal or not. I send it anyways and he replies almost immediately.

Great, thank you.

I’m still nervous, like he’s going to come over and reprimand me. The soft click of his sliding door assures me that I’m in the clear and I can finish off my joint in peace. I save the roach and sneak back into my room, stashing it in my sealed metal water bottle before I’m crashing into my bed again.

My mattress is soft, it’s so familiar and comfortable. I press one of my pillows in my chest, laying still and thinking about how stoned I am. My limbs are heavy and sensitive, just like my eyes as I slide them close.

Falling asleep immediately always felt like a waste of a high.

My emerald green throw tickles my skin as I slide into the covers. I settle in restlessly, the covers cradling my body delicately as I begin running my hands under my shirt. My core is warm but my hands are chilled from the wind. Body already trembling, I flinch away from it. I hate the feeling, but I find myself continuing to run my hand over my ribs as they heat up, the curve of my hip bone and just under the dip of my waistband. It feels good, my skin is just as soft as my finger tips, I press over my panties, just for a moment and squeeze my thighs together. A hum of pleasure verberetes through me and I think - it would feel better if John was doing this. Those strong looking hands, tall figure arched over me. His middle finger would feel endlessly better stretched up into me than two of mine ever did. My leg muscle tenses thinking about, pressing my heel into the bed. And that deep voice he uses when he speaks, would he be silent during sex, better yet, talk to me, low, sultry. In his fucking business suit, telling me how good I’m being.

I’m still not really touching myself, unmoving, it feels so dirty but I can’t stop my mind.

Finally, I yank my hand up, tucking myself into bed and pulling up a YouTube video.

I show up at 10:30 sharp, wearing a hoodie and some workout shorts. I didn't want to dress too nice since I have nothing else going on all day, but wearing a tank top again felt desperate.

John seemed like he had been idly waiting, I wonder if I should’ve been ten minutes early. I see him through the glass of the door as he strides over to allow me in.

His eyes skim over me as I pass by him, just for a moment. It's hot outside, he wants to ask me the question I always get.

Aren’t you hot in that?

The clothes are oversized; I push the sleeves up slightly, or they'd be hanging past my wrists. They're probably his size. John shoved his eyes away from me, towards a side hallway to the garage.

"The dog food is out here,” he begins leading me out. “He gets one scoop, and then just a can of wet food mixed in.” He shows me the dog food container and the cabinet where the wet one is. Guiding me through the kitchen, explaining that he doesn't care if I eat anything in the house, but he doesn't keep many snacks.

His house is the same size as mine, but the minimalist decor makes it feel bigger. There’s hardly any decoration, a few pictures. The furniture is black and new looking, his tv is large and takes up the entire side of the wall across from the couch.

In a pause, he turns to me and asks, "How old are you?"

My expression changes before I can catch it, startled. "22." I answer quickly. It’s such a normal question but for some reason the tips of my ears are burning.

John bites back a smile. “I only ask because," he gestures to a small area with a bar set up, whiskeys and assorted spirits lined the shelves, "you can help yourself. You're only next door, anyways, so I don't have to worry about you drunk driving home…" he almost begins to ramble, "so." He cuts himself off, pressing a hand to the table.

"I have cameras in the living room," he uses his other hand to point to one. Right beside a propped-up picture frame was a black home camera. "I just have it to check on Daisy when I'm working. It doesn't record, but if I check it, it lights up. It's the only one besides the doorbell."

I take mental note, and he gives me a key to the backdoor. "Last thing. I know you are staying with your parents, so if they start to annoy you, feel free to spend the night here. I have a spare bedroom upstairs.”

I thank him and leave out the front door with him. Waving him off after giving me the rest of daisy’s schedule.

It’s easy, daisy is a sweetheart and John texts me where’s his extra towels are. He hot tub hooked up to his back porch, it’s nice and clean but he said he hardly uses it.

Lucky me.

Day two of watching the dog and I’m spending the night. Creeping around the house like he’d click on the camera any minute. My large shirt covers my bikini as I go through my tote bag on the island. I try to touch the least amount of things as possible. It’s not hard, there’s not much to mess with. The camera isn’t pointed towards the kitchen, it angles to half the living room, the side of the couch, getting a nice potion of the backdoor where daisy likes to splay.

I already made sure the hot tub was out of view. He said I could use it but the thought of him catching me is embarrassing.

It’s the evening already, the sun setting back and the heat receding. Daisy sits at my feet as I make sure I grabbed everything I need from my house. Once I feel content, I take my bag and spare towel and head to the back, Daisy following on my heel.

She lays down in her spot as I peel off my tshirt, reaching into my bag for my joint and lighter. There’s an ashtray back here, I take mental note. Nothing of his smelled of cigarettes. A few steps in, I prop my phone up against the side of the hot tub and the wall, playing a new YouTube video while I continue to sink into the warm water.

I spark up and relax, listening in to my 3 hour long video essay mindlessly.

I wonder what John’s room looks like, is it just as empty as the rest of the house? It’s a rental but you’d think he’d want some semblance of of himself. Would just sheets smell like him? What did John Wick smell like? I haven’t been close enough to notice. His living room smells… new. Clean, like some just vacuumed.

When the hot tub gets boring and I’m sufficiently stoned I put on some music instead and climb out. I hate being wet, grabbing up the white fluffy towel and wrapping it around my torso.

I spend a nice amount of time rubbing on Daisy. She’s such a good girl, waiting patiently for me the whole time. It also gives me time to dry, so I’m not sopping wet when I do go back in. I go ahead and shower in the spare, keeping my hair dry. I change into comfy clothes, a new tshirt and some sweatpants, and I exit the bathroom.

I walk the halls slower, taking in the few frames that are there. Daisy, mostly. I look for his ex wife, but there’s none hanging up. I can guess where the master bedroom is from the layout of my house, arriving at his door with caution. It’s shut closed, menacing. Carefully, I reach out and turn the black metal off the handle. It gives way easy, slowly swinging open even after I release it.

His bed is large, a black fluffy looking confronter tucked into the low bed frame. Multiple black pillows sat up at the top. Still no decor, I slip in, my heart rattling in my chest. His closet door is mostly open, sunlight strewn into the bedroom illuminated the business suits hanging up.

Without further consideration, I fall onto the firm mattress. It gives way under me, soft, cradling my body as I stretch out. I moan in relaxation, digging my face into the material. It smells like man. A subtle cologne, salt, cedar maybe like shampoo. It’s so comfy that I close my eyes and choose to stay. John probably does this exact thing after work. Or maybe he’s occupied in his study hours before he’s wrapped up in bed.

I inhale deeply and push myself up, lingering around near his master suite bathroom. He has no bathtub like my parents, but he has a large rain shower. I don’t dare step in, it feels so off limits, leaning into the frame. It’s white and plane, it almost felt like a hotel bathroom. A luxury hotel.

When I’ve had enough, I retreat back to the spare room. The sheets smell like cotton fresh detergent and the blankets are soft beneath my body.

I urge to touch myself again, I wish I could in his bed. No. No. My thoughts are sinful, the guilt turns me off and I’m back to YouTube videos and heavy marijuana sleep:

I only spend the night the night twice. The second time on Thursday. He wouldn’t be back til Sunday so I was in the clear, it gave me time to wash my sheets. I follow the same slow routine, relaxing in the back with a joint, stringing out on his bed comfortably.

I had put all my stuff up, packed so I don’t have to worry about it in the morning and I can focus on cleaning. I pull John’s pillow into my chest, it smells even more of sea salt. It’s a more specific scent, so him, pheromones maybe that make hum quietly to myself.

Being high just boosts my bubbling hypersexuality I seem to suppress.

I could picture him fucking me into this bed. I would scream into this pillow, inhaling him every time I gasp for another breathe. I bet his cock is as pretty and well kept as he is. Cut, for sure, and long maybe. I’d let him use me to relive his stress after work, or maybe he’d be too tired and he’d fuck me sloppy and needy for release.

I don’t move from the bed. So comfy in my little ball and stuck in a cycle of distracting thoughts.

I started awake when I hear Daisy bark, disoriented as I peered around John’s room. Fuck, I had not meant to fall asleep here. I scramble up, rushing to the stairs to see John, pushing through the front door. I didn’t want him seeing me come from his room. I shut the door quickly, turning the handle before it closed so it would make less sound. I hurry to the guest room and toss some pillows around and pick them back up just as John as making his way up the stairs.

“Oh, sorry, wasn’t sure if you’d be here.” John speaks from the hallways, he can see you through the open door as you put the last pillow back in place.

“Mr. Wick, I’m sorry, I’ll clean up right now.”

“No, it’s okay. They sent me home early but I forgot to warn you. I’ll take care of it.” He approaches the guest room, leaving his suitcase at his closed door.

“Hey, uh,” he raises his shoulders intensely, biting his lower lip. His pause grows my anxiety. The threat of being caught looms, and he hadn’t even opened his door yet. “Next time you,” he coughs, “smoke. Could I buy some off of you or something?”

Oh. My mouth curves up into a smile. Mr. Wick wants to buy some weed off of me?

“Yeah, how much would you want?” I ask, sitting up straighter. It’s odd, suddenly having this hold over a grown man. I could scam him so easily.

“Like… a gram, maybe. Not a lot.”

“You know,” I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, wondering if I’m crossing some unspoken line. He crossed it first, I think, asking your worker for drugs is not very professional, “you could just smoke with me next time? If you want.”

His eyes dance over me for a moment, trying to find the line I’m stepping on.

“Sure, if that’s okay?”

“I offered.” I reassure him. He nods, moving past the subject and stepping back.

“I’ll let you finish up whatever, let me know when you’re heading out,” he turns out and finally heads in his bedroom. My sudden high drops into my stomach, fuck, I left his pillows fucked up.

I ignore it, pretend everything was perfect as I finished stripping the guest bed and throwing him in the wash. He tells me he’ll finish the rest, eyes lingering on me downstairs in the kitchen. I try to return the key but he tells me I should just keep it for now, he’ll probably have to leave again soon. He’s quieter now, watching as I gather up all my things and wave myself off.

That night I text him, balancing the joint on my knee as I typed out a short offer for him to join me. I wasn’t sure if he’d be asleep by now, 11pm, he must be tired from his early flight. I had taken a midday nap to fill my time.

Despite my speculations, John replies telling me I can come over. I sneak out the back yard and walk to John’s front door. He’s waiting to greet me, black sweatpants, a white undershirt. His hair is wet from the shower and he’s wearing some funky socks. He pushes the door open enough for me to walk in and I accept, gliding past him. I’m also in my sweatpants and a big tshirt, as always. We’re almost matching.

“I rolled us a joint,” I tell him proudly as he pushes the rolling door to the outside. I don’t waste much time, easing myself into the chairs out by the hot tub and pulling the joint from my sleeve. My lighters in my pocket, I toss it onto the glass and it makes a soft clicking sound as it hits.

He follows me out slower, giving a minute to pet Daisy before he settles beside me. He picks up the joint, pulling it closer to his face to examine it. He inhales that gas and hands it back to me, “excellent roll,” he commends with a chuckle.

“Thank you, sir,” I put it between my lips, cupping away from the wind trying to light it evenly. I’m mostly successful, but it’s going to canoe at some point. I huff it a few times and lean back in the chair, pulling my legs up criss cross. John takes it from me, he’s leaning back too in the metal chair, legs pushed out.

He takes a breathe of it in, exhaling with a small cough. He suppresses more, clearing his throat before hitting it again and passing it back.

“Do you mind if I play music?” I ask and nods. I set my phone up and shuffle one of my Spotify playlists.

“Was Daisy good for you?” He asks, Daisy lays out by his feet.

“She’s perfect, I think you already knew that.” John laughs a little harder than I think he would if he wasn’t high, reaching down to scratch Daisy.

“I haven’t smoked weed since college,” he admits after a beat of silence.

“How long ago was that?”

More silence as he thinks, “about 5 years, maybe.”

Not as far away as I thought, I take another hit, it hasn’t started canoeing, go me. He’s 26 at the very youngest, but he seems pretty high up in his corporate job and there’s the chance he started college late, so maybe 31?

“I’m 28,” He said I like he could hear me thinking, “almost 29.”

“Old man.”

“I knew you’d say that,” I pass it back to him.

I talk about movies. John only plays them on flights but he hardly pays attention. TV shows? He hasn’t watched tv in three years.

Since his wife died. I fill that part in on my own.

I want to ask about her but I know it’s a touchy subject. He doesn’t even keep photos of her up.

“What do you usually do now?” He asks when it’s too hot to hit, a little roach. I set it on the glass.

“I usually stash them for a roach bowl when I’m out of weed,” I admit. Probably kinda gross now that I think about it. “Then I climb up in bed and,” touch myself, and think of you, “watch YouTube til I pass out.”

“I napped earlier so I’m not tired yet.”

“Same.”

“I don’t usually nap.”

“I do.” He chuckles and shakes his head.

“I wish.”

“Do you want to watch a movie then?”

I show him Kill Bill. He settles on the unused couch first, carefully pressed to the side to give me more than enough room. I settled on the couch with my legs folded into me. I leave a few inches between us, stealing glances at the way he’s strewn out beside me. He’s a large man, at least six foot but lean and strong looking. He has to work out, I can see his arm muscles flex as they’re crossed over his chest. He’s actually enjoying the movie, I was hoping he would. He got up to grab popcorn and I eased into our shared space carefully.

It’s easier when he comes back with it, I don’t give him the room to place it between us so he sets it on his leg near me. I let my eyes crawl over him every time I reach over to grab some. I could slide over into his lap right now, slide my hands under that tight white shirt. Help him relax.

I’m too high to dare, my hands are shaky just thinking about it. John notices when I go to grab more but he doesn’t say anything.

I do allow myself to shift closer, trying to do it unnoticed. I pressed my thigh against his. He doesn’t move but I catch his eyes darting to my leg, moments later.

I beg him with my eyes, to touch me, pull me closer. He doesn’t dare.

We get through the whole movie without me poucing on him, I yawn. Still high but not as much as earlier. He thanks me and I leave for the night. Going home I felt empty, he’d let me almost touch him. I climbed up in bed and I’m immediately rutting up against my hand. I wonder if he’d touch himself thinking of me, not that I’ve given him much material in my comfy clothes.

Maybe if I could get him into that hot tub. I imagine him, shirtless in his swimsuit. Damp and pressed to his thighs, pushed down to his hip to expose his cock, just above the warm water. I press two fingers into myself, flattening out on the bed and moaning under my breath. I want to grind against his thigh, come on his fingers. I come quick, and hard, laying shaky and exhausted in my small bed and going to sleep.

[merakiui]

Scaramouche X Yan! Reader??? Idk why I just think that it'd be an interesting concept considering his personality??? Also can I be known as Sailor Anon when I request??? ^^♡

I LOVE YOU FOR THIS!! Finally I can talk about mouchey! I’ve been wanting to brain rot over yandere or non-yan mouchey for so long now. And you can definitely be known as Sailor Anon! I love it when anons ask to be named. It makes me feel so happy to see regular anons in my inbox! T_T <3

cw: yandere, abuse of power, masochism/sadism, implied abuse, unhealthy thoughts/behaviors/relationship, implied murder

I really like this concept because it works so well with Scaramouche’s personality. If we’re going about this in a way where he doesn’t have any yandere tendencies, then it would still be just as catastrophic. Scaramouche probably relishes in the attention; all of that twisted love boosts his ego and makes him feel even more prideful. He’s so used to putting others in their place and now here comes you, fully determined to have him all for yourself. He welcomes your feeble attempts with open arms. Try your best to win his heart and if that fails to work then good luck trying to kidnap him. He definitely teases you over it; like: lol good luck, loser *does the L symbol on forehead*

He’s already got more than enough enemies within the Fatui, so he’s actually somewhat flattered to know that you like him so much. It’s quite surprising for him to be on good terms with anyone, considering the fact that he’s viewed in a negative light by his fellow Harbingers and in a fearful light by his underlings. So the fact that you actually tolerate him and claim to love him?? You must be some sort of fallen angel, whose wings have blackened and wilted from such a strong obsession. 

To make this idea even more neat: consider a Fatui agent reader who works under Scaramouche. They do their work diligently and never seem to make him cross. If anything, they’re the embodiment of perfection: always sucking up to those of a higher status and doing it with such refined grace. You’ve caught his eye more than a few times now because of how easy sucking up comes to you. It’s almost annoying when you perform your little respective bow and call the Harbingers politely and professionally. Scaramouche probably wants to see that perfect façade of yours crumble. Maybe if he were to subject you to a little pressure you might break down entirely.

His interest in you isn’t anything special. It’s just passing curiosity that’s bound to dissipate after a week or so. Scaramouche doesn’t keep track of it as he’s too busy traveling for missions to even bother thinking about you. But through your short interactions and quick eye contact, you’ve been unable to think of anything else. He occupies your mind 24/7 and it’s strange because you never would’ve thought you’d fall for one of your superiors. Surely that’s forbidden, right? It’s not exactly normal for a low-ranking Fatui agent to be in lovey-dovey cohorts with the one who commands them. But that’s what makes it so exciting. Forbidden love is just so...fascinating. You’ve always wanted to be caught up in a whirlwind romance where love is as dangerous as the blade of one’s sword.

Scaramouche is far from a fool; he’s very much aware of the way you suddenly appear wherever he is. You’ve delivered messages, documents, and have even kindly offered to become his personal servant of sorts. So maybe the cute Fatui agent has a bit of a masochistic side. He likes the sound of that a little too much. On a whim, Scaramouche agrees and it’s somewhat of a shock to those around him. He’d usually snap and remind you of your place, but now he’s just...smirking. Ah, he really is something special.

So now you’ve become Scaramouche’s lapdog, always ready to follow his orders and fulfill whatever he needs. He likes the compliance, but all of that obedience is...boring. If he wanted an obedient dog, he’d simply collar one of the hundreds of Fatui agents who bow to him. You’re nothing special in that regard. He even tells you just how easy you are to replace and that’s something you can’t stand. Perhaps a hint of that irritation flashes across your face. But once he figures it out, he’s going to dig and dig at that until you’ve snapped. 

If you were to be demoted because you failed to excite him... That sounds like an utter nightmare. You can’t be separated from your superior! He’s the entire reason why you wake up each morning, ready to serve him like a domesticated mutt. 

Scaramouche likes those who have a strong mind because they’re the hardest to break. He’s going to see that perfect face of yours crack one of these days. It’s only a matter of time before it shatters and all of your ugly desires spill out onto the floor. When that happens, he’ll be rather impressed; such a sweet person is hiding all of these sickening thoughts and feelings... How intriguing. So he does everything he can to bring you to your tipping point. You’ll receive lots of work—far more than what’s necessary—and you’re subjected to his own anger when he wishes to shout at someone. He’ll insult you for being so obedient, commenting about how you resemble a house pet rather than an actual human. Are you all that pathetic that you have to wait for your master to give you a command? Why don’t you just speak out of line? Snap and get angry like he does. Throw something. Heck, try to attack him. He just wants to see your composition crumble. 

It’s very annoying when he gives others attention, slowly but surely finding replacements for you. Before you know it, he’s talking to other Fatui agents more, giving them special orders, and subjecting them to his cruel insults and raging frustration. It’s just not fair. You hate it so much. Why is he acting so sadistic when you’ve made it clear that you’ll accept any form of punishment from him, even if it’s unwarranted? If he wanted you to swallow broken glass, you’d readily do it. So why is he subjecting you to this horrible punishment? That’s what this is, isn’t it? He’s just trying to test your loyalty—to see if you really are just a dog who blindly follows after their master with their tail wagging excitedly.

If it’s loyalty he wants, surely it won’t come as a surprise when you stain your hands in crimson and bathe in the acrid scent of iron. Scaramouche is pleasantly invested in how you snap. So you really aren’t all that perfect, huh?

Well, at least he knows you aren’t shy to the sight of gore. That might just come in handy. He could really utilize you and your assets if he put his mind to it, and maybe that’s exactly what he’ll do. You are, after all, solely devoted to him. He’s not going to let such a unique opportunity slip through his fingers.

[the-black-birb]

Bet? [Miya Atsumu x Reader]

Summary: Miya Atsumu never losses a bet. Or: At first he was in it for the sex until he found himself honestly falling for you.

Warnings: smut, virginity loss, plenty of plot to go along with it

A/N: since this is my first nsfw piece, I’m writing about times. Haha. Get it? Anyways. Here we go!

Miya Atsumu, with his suave smile and screaming fangirls, was the last person you’d think to be a college virgin. 

His ego was large enough to make up for any of his other shortcomings, boasting the pride of prepping to be a professional athlete as well as a full-time college student. No one doubted that he’d snogged countless fans or taken especially eager girls to back closets for fun, but what seemed to have slipped past them was his dedication to volleyball, always.

So dedicated, he didn’t even have the time for a serious girlfriend.

Miya Atsumu, playboy of the year, was a virgin. But he’d raise all hell if he let anyone around him find out. So when his team went out for dinner after a particularly brutal victory, Atsumu was happy to get in on all the locker room talk. He was sure he could keep up this facade.

Yet somehow, it spiraled into a competition. Although Atsumu had never been one to be invited to sleepovers or highschool parties, far too busy practicing with his team, he imagined it felt something like this.

“So,” one of the wing spikers started. “How old were you all when you lost your virginity?” The men around him laughed it off, ready to tell stories of their (awkward) first times. Each took their turn, wanting to be the youngest or the one with the best tale to tale. And then, all eyes fell on Atsumu.

Atsumu was a great liar, really. But the bar was loud and he felt the eyes of his teammates like ants on his skin and while he was confident in volleyball there was little he knew about this and Atsumu could not bring himself to do anything but sit there and stare aimlessly. The team waited for an answer.

Finally, their starting setter, who had undoubtedly been chosen based on seniority alone, broke out into laughter. “He’s a virgin!” he realized. “Miya Atsumu is a virgin!” The whole table broke out into rancorous laughter. There wasn’t truly anything bad about being a college virgin, a few on the team had admitted to it before Atsumu. But his attitude of control and snarky attitude on the court had everyone waiting to find something just one thing they could tease Miya Atsumu about. 

“I could fuck anyone if I wanted to!” was his quick reply, thinking back to all the girls cheering his names in the stands (and the boys who’d give him a slap on the ass to say “good job”). Surely, he could give up his virginity in an instant, if he put his mind to it.

“Oh, yeah?” It was a middle blocker speaking now, one who Atsumu had the (dis)pleasure of sharing a few classes with. “Even that girl in calc...the one who does all the group projects on her own and everything…”

Atsumu knew immediately who he was talking about. Y/N L/N. You were basically a genius, always getting the highest marks and never taking a moment to wait for those around you to catch up. He’d never even spoken to you. But right now, his pride was on the line.

“Pfft,” he forced a chuckle. “Easy.”

The table erupted into booming laughter again, at Atsumu’s declaration, but quickly quieted down as the senior setter leaned forward with a wager. “Then have sex with her,” he smirks. “Before the next game.”

Atsumu raised an eyebrow. “What do I get out of it?” Aside from the loss of his v-card, of course.

“I’ll ask coach to make you the starting setter.” A hush fell on the table as if a ghost had passed through. “But if you lose, you join as a wing spiker.”

Atsumu gulped down his fears. He was never one to back down on a bet. Besides, the only reason he was a virgin still was because of volleyball. Might as well gain something from it.

He pushed his hand forward, shaking the senior setter’s firmly.

“Deal.”

***

“Could you tutor me?”

Miya Atsumu wasn’t stupid. He’d never been in a serious relationship, but he knew if he asked one of his fangirls to sneak off with him they’d do it in a heartbeat. He knew he could probably find at least one girl within a mile radius who wanted to have sex with him and flirt his way to her bed.

But you weren’t just any girl.

As much as he dreaded school, Atsumu was painfully observant of the people around him. He’d noticed you before, in class and occasionally at games. You kept to yourself without anyone to talk to you, but on the occasion, he’d seen you with friends you shined brighter than any of them. It made him breathless.

Still, he knew you wouldn’t be easy. In group projects, you’d always been devilish with your expectations, dishing out jobs to everyone in an instant and critiquing their work for the best results (this quality shamefully reminded Atsumu of himself, but he’d never mentioned it).

Frankly, he was at a loss of how to get to your bed. But he knew he needed to start by talking to you, and that you’d shut down any friendly flirtation he started with. So he did something more direct. He theorized even if you weren’t keen, you were kind enough not to shut him down completely and hopefully that’d be his chance to talk with you more. But what he hadn’t calculated was your response.

“Atsumu, right? What do you need help with?”

Huh?

You hadn’t even hesitated to agree, looking up at him expectantly.

“Uh...deriving complex functions?” He thinks that’s what they’re doing in class.

You place a hand to your chin, nodding as if you were deep in thought. “Yeah, that’s pretty tough,” you agree, thinking. “I’m free after six tonight, meet me at the library?” you ask him directly.

For once in his life, Miya Atsumu is frozen. “Uh, sure?”

“Cool, give me your number in case something comes up,” you said nonchalantly, grabbing your phone. Before he could even process what was happening, he’d put his number in your phone and you were walking away from him, bidding him a friendly “see you later.”

As he watched your figure get smaller, he was reminded of all the cold comments he’d heard about how difficult you were to approach and the nicknames people said behind your back. He stifled a laugh.

Atsumu wondered if they’d even spoke to you.

***

You here?

It was the first thing Atsumu had texted you once he got your number. He didn’t come to the library often, far more concerned with practice than studying, but as he sat to get out his work from earlier he realized it was actually quite calming. Compared to the loud and irritating bar from days earlier, Atsumu was certain he preferred this.

Sorry, was out with friends. Be there in a few!

He grumbled when he saw his phone. Maybe it couldn’t be helped, but you could’ve at least had the decency to text him earlier, right? Slowly Atsumu felt himself spiraling, his bad habit of finding the negative in just about everything sneaking up his back.

But all his qualms were forgotten when you walked through the doors.

He supposed he’d only ever seen you in class and at a few volleyball games. He quicked up quickly that you were a creature of comfort, preferring a pair of loose sweatpants to anything else. Yet you walked through the door fresh from a night out with friends with your hair done up and a pair of flattering slacks clinging to your waist (and a bit further south as well but Atsumu wasn’t ready to mention that, yet).

“Miya?” He was broken from his trance by your voice, which had a playful lilt to it he’d never quite noticed before.

“Just call me Atsumu,” he heard himself saying out of habit. Even without Osamu at his side in college, Atsumu was never really comfortable being called by his family name. It just wasn’t normal. Still, his cheeks flared up as he worried you’d see it as flirtations instead and be scared off.

“I-”

“Sure thing, Atsumu,” you agreed without hesitation. Oh. All of Atsumu’s nerves were on edge. Nothing to worry about, huh? He quite liked how his name sounded on your lips. He could listen to it on repeat for days, probably.

Snapping him out of his trance, you were quick to get to business. Although Atsumu came with ulterior motives, you were an incredible help. Your notes were neat and easy to understand, but whatever he stumbled on you still found ways to re-word so they’d make sense. He could practically feel all the wheels in his head turning when you spoke like he was in the middle of an intense volley trying to figure out what came next.

Actually, you made it kind of fun.

Before he realized, an hour had elapsed and he felt his eyelids drooping. It wasn’t often that Atsumu used his brain that intensely without break, and he could feel his focus starting to waver. But you’d made it so easy to focus, he’d easily lost track of time.

You let out a sigh next to him. “That’s enough for today,” you determined, shutting your notebook. “Seeing as we have a quiz next class, I can meet again to tutor the night before if you’d like? Just keep doing the practice I showed you and we can do some review.” You had everything planned out in your mind already.

Atsumu let his head hit the table in exhaustion. Although normally he’d have a snarky comment for anyone who dared tease him, he let your laughter ease over him like a blanket. It was music to his ears.

“Get better and it won’t be so tiring,” you assured him, patting his shoulder. Before he could agree or disagree with anything you’d asked him, you had one foot out the door. “See you Wednesday at six,” you bid him goodbye (though Atsumu swore it sounded more like an order).

He grumbled against the table once again, quick to back up his notebook. There was still practice, after all.

While Atsumu found himself more tired than usual at practice, having already used his mind plenty, it was enthralling. The quips of his teammates, asking if it was some hot banging that had tired him out, fell on deaf ears. He could only think about how you’d managed to make calculus of all things sound interesting and the smell of your perfume whenever you bent close to him. Sure, your expectations for him were evident but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He wondered how anyone could have called you ‘cold.’

***

Your next tutoring session went fairly standard. True to your word, you checked over the review and prepped for your exam the next day. While you harshly pointed out Atsumu’s repeated mistakes, you gave him insightful tips and tricks to help him fix them in the same breath. You were definitely a genius, he determined.

But he’d also realized he was getting nowhere with these tutoring sessions. Your company was surprisingly relaxing in the midst of his long days and he was delighted at the playful jokes you always managed to slip in, but there were no sparks and his next game was drawing nearer. The word wing spiker loomed over his head like a curse.

He had to do something to change this.

“Would you want to grab coffee with me?” he found himself asking as you packed your bag. For a moment you looked at him dumbfounded, trying to figure out if he was serious.

“Are you asking me on a date?” you tease, no fear of misunderstanding the situation. As usual, Atsumu was shaken to his core by your forwardness. He thought he was honest. But he was certain now was the time to back down.

“If I am, would you say yes?” he flirts back, praying you can’t see the sweat dripping down his neck. There was something electric and unnerving about your smile, seemingly unhindered.

“The Miya Atsumu…” you put on a face like you’re deep in thought, but you’re already sure of your answer. “Sure,” you grin. “Text me the details.” Before he even has the chance to celebrate, you’re gone.

The next day, Atsumu got his highest grade on a quiz since grade school (he wasn’t stupid, really, just very average with school). Even when he got stuck on questions, he’d visualize your mechanical pencil (you’d covered it in stickers) gliding across his page and the sound of your voice, explaining each problem patiently and easily. Then, he’d know what to do.

He texted you a thank you with a flurry of emojis, supremely grateful for your help. Soon, he’s pulling on his nicest pair of jeans for his casual date with you, brimming with energy. Atsumu was so excited he could just kiss you.

That is until he was sitting in front of you in the cafe, realizing he’d never talked to you about anything but calculus. And now that he had his breakthrough and secured a date, he was hopeless. He had no idea where to start. So, always quite shallow, he broke the ice by saying what was on his mind.

“Why’d you agree to tutor me?” For a moment, he wonders if you’ll get offended by the question before he’s reminded of all your rude comments about his mathematical prowess. He was certain you had tougher skin than that. “I mean, I sort of asked you out of the blue. Don’t you want money? Food?”

He expects you to take a while to answer since you seem like the person to have calculated reasons behind all your actions, but your answer is almost immediate.

“Is it not enough to just want company?” you wonder, completely unabashed. Atsumu almost blushes for you, before you think for a moment and find you stumbling over your words. It’s the first time he’s heard you sound unsure of yourself and he ingrains the moment of vulnerability into his mind like a movie he’ll play one day. He never wants to forget the sight of your lightly flushed cheeks, eyes scattering to break contact with him.

“W-What I mean is,” you interrupt yourself. “I hear people talk and I know my reputation. I get focused on work and people get scared away...” Atsumu knows that feeling. “I guess I was just over eager that someone would approach me. Is that weird?”

Ah. Atsumu thinks. This is my chance.

He bends forward, his hand brushing against yours, and greets you with a practiced smile. It’s the sort of smirk that is sneaky enough to have any girl squealing, but sincere enough not to scare you away. “Not at all, doll,” he promises, voice like honey.

Mentally, Atsumu congratulates himself for the smooth delivery, sure that he’ll have you in his arms in no time. Instead, you start laughing at him.

“Do not call me that!” you exclaim, tears bursting from the corners of your eyes. “What do you think this is, the 1950s? [Y/N] will do, yeah?” Your hands reach up to wipe your eyes and the entire atmosphere Atsumu worked to create is lost (although secretly, he prefers that honest and straightforward attitude you replace it with) and he’s left staring at you blankly.

“Why’d you ask in the first place?” you wonder, looking sufficiently amused.

Because I want to have sex with you.

Atsumu finds himself attacked by his own thoughts. It’s not that he wants to, of course. It’s just that he was dared to and he can’t lose the bet. But, wouldn’t it be more enjoyable if he wanted to? Of course, he could want to. But he thinks to get there he’d need to be terribly emotionally invested and he’s barely even had a girlfriend and you’re definitely too perfect for him and-

“Atsumu?” You’re smiling up at him, eyebrows raised. “Did I manage to leave you, who never shuts up,” He wants to tell you that you’re wrong but he knows you’re not and you won’t hesitate to remind him of that. “Speechless?”

He can’t let you catch on, Atsumu tells himself. “I’m bad at calculus and you’re good,” he decides is a good lie. Straightforward and true, just like you. “Is that not enough?” You huff, leaning back in your seat.

“Touche.”

Although your date had started off awkward and tense, Atsumu felt the relief of being entirely comfortable talking to you. He got lost in your quick wit and electric eyes, losing track of the conversation and letting himself get immersed entirely in you. Before he knew it, your phone was going off.

“Shit!” you rushed to turn it off. “I’ve got class in ten.” You were quick to grab your bag and head out, and Atsumu felt his stomach drop, wishing he’d said something. Yet just as quickly you were turning on your heal, an unfamiliar shakiness in your voice, as you bent down to plant on Atsumu’s cheek.

“Same time next week?” you asked, eyes sparkling.

Atsumu felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest as he smiled back at you. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

***

In the blink of an eye, you became a surprisingly regular part of Miya Atsumu’s daily life. He’d sit next to you in calculus and on days you didn’t have calculus he’ get coffee with you. Every day you were there next to him, smiling fearlessly. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened to your untouchable reputation, but he’d never hesitated to be beside you.

For two weeks this had gone on, your strange friendship that sprung up out of nowhere raging strong. But Atsumu’s next game was soon and he felt the pressure. Yet he knew, no matter what, he didn’t want to ruin what he had going with you. Maybe, it was even worth being wing spiker for a season.

“Could I come to the match tomorrow?” you asked as you were getting ready to leave one day. Atsumu almost choked on his coffee, not prepared for such a bold question. He wanted to ask you who you were asking him as: a volleyball fan, a friend or… a partner?

He shooed the thought from his head. Although both of you called these coffee outings “dates,” they’d never ended with anything more than him walking you him and a kiss on the cheek outside the door to your apartment. You were far from dating.

“Sure, why not?” he responded, pretending to keep his cool. But would you like him less when you realized he was benched? Why did you even want to go?

“It’s raining,” you moaned, distracted from Atsumu’s response. He looked to your (lovely) legs to see you were wearing shorts and converse, definitely not ideal for this weather.

“I’ll drive you home,” he offered, keen on showing off his new car. He’d already sent you a photo of it, of course (a selfie, actually. He looked quite stunning) but he still wanted to show you in person. Soon, you were next to him in the passenger seat, looking at the road ahead.

You made normal small talk, but Atsumu noticed your hand seemed to be wondering closer to the area between you two. He ignored it.

When you reached your apartment, he walked you in like normal. He waved hello to the person at the security desk, they were familiar with him at this point. Finally, the two of you reached the doormat. It always felt to him like a save point in a game before a boss. He just couldn’t seem to get past it and into your apartment.

But when he noticed you wore a different lip gloss than usual and a new perfume, he thought maybe today could be the day. He swallowed, rolling his shoulders back. He’d make his move for sure. Breathing in, he readied his mind for what he’d say to you, wondering what kind of flirting could make you break.

“Kiss me.”

Huh.

“Atsumu,” you looked up at him, eyes demanding. “Kiss me.”

When he first started talking to you, occasionally you’d say something that caught him so off guard he’d freeze up and have no idea what to do. But kissing wasn’t sex, and Atsumu knew he could win in a battle of the lips. Before you could even fully open your door, he’d close the space between you two.

He didn’t take a moment to question why you asked him, instead silently praying you felt the same pull to him that he did to you. The kiss was desperate and long-awaited. As soon as he was in the apartment you were closing the door behind him and letting him press you up against him.

Desperately, Atsumu wanted to feel all of you. He gripped his hands around your waist and sucked at your lips, begging to be closer to you. It was intense and passionate and everything he’d ever dreamed of.

The two of you were a mess of sweat and pent up tension, but somehow you made it to your bedroom. Your hands searched over Atsumu, wanting to feel the expanse of his toned body and broad shoulders. You could feel him getting excited against you, edging him on by grind against him. More you called out. You wanted to feel more of him, all of him.

And then he froze.

You looked up to him, confused. “Are you okay, Atsumu?” you pulled away from him immediately, scared that you’d set something off. Instead, you reached out to grab his hand in yours, squeezing it gently. “We can stop if this is too fast,” you assured him. While you’d been getting impatient waiting for him to make a move, the last thing you wanted was for him to be uncomfortable with you.

“I’m fine,” he promised you, but his eyes said differently. His pupils were blown out and his eyes wide but he looked downright scared. You breathed out, not yet sure how to comfort him. Instead, you took in all the things you knew about him, coolly trying to wonder what could be bothering him.

“Is this going to lead to sex?” he asked you, sitting on your bed with his clothes riled up and his face looking very thoroughly kissed. You wanted to laugh, looking at his swollen red lips and the clueless expression on his face because the answer would be clear to anyone else, but Atsumu kept surprising you. Still, you knew better than to make fun of him. It was very clear he was trusting himself to you.

“If you want it to you,” you answer, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “But it doesn’t have to.”

There’s a nervousness in Atsumu’s eyes that you were unfamiliar with. It was different than the frustration that built up when he didn’t understand math, or the shyness he tried to hide whenever he’d flirt with you. It was the realization that if he wanted whatever was between the two of you to go anywhere, he had to come clean now.

“I asked you to tutor me because my seniors on the volleyball team dared me to have sex with you!” he burst, folding in on himself.

For a moment you thought you could feel your heartbreaking because you couldn’t believe you’d let yourself get tricked. But naively, you prayed that maybe his feelings still rang true, reminding yourself of all the coffee dates and late nights studying. That worth more than just a dare, you hoped.

“But I asked you on the coffee date because I like you! I sat next to you in calculus because I like you and I don’t care what people say about you!” Atsumu declared, face burning red.

You knew there was a lot that could get under Miya Atsumu’s skin. You’d been to a few practice volleyball games where he played and seen his short fuse first hand, but still, you found yourself surprised and relieved by his words. Atsumu was, if nothing else, straight forward. Even though he’d had different motives, you knew he still worked hard to get better at calculus. You knew how his face lit up whenever you walked into the cafe and the most common emojis he used when he texted. You had no doubt behind his words now.

“So,” you start teasingly, tracing circles around his shoulder. “Does that make you a virgin?” The way your voice dropped, eyes looking promisingly at Atsumu like he was about to be devoured, had him straining against his pants.

“Yeah,” he admitted, pupils blown out for a whole new reason.

You slid yourself over him, letting your self straddle his hips. Your fingers continued to trace his chest, appreciating all the time he spent training. Excruciatingly slowly, you bent forward to whisper against his ear. “Let’s change that tonight, yeah?”

That was enough for Atsumu.

For a virgin, he was surprisingly dominating while you made out. Atsumu brought his mouth to yours once again, quick to bite at your lips. His hands came up to knead your ass, large and strong. I’ve been waiting to do that, Atsumu thought, picturing your slacks from the first time you tutored him. He always did love to see you walk away.

Soon, he got bored with your lips and found himself peppering kissing across your jawline and traveling across your neck. As he got to the crook between your should and neck he heard your breath hitch. Perfect. 

Mercilessly, he nipped and sucked at the spot. As much as you tried to keep down your moans, you felt them bubbling up in your chest.

“You know…” you told him breathlessly. “For someone who’s never had sex you’re awfully good at this.”

Atsumu scoffed in response. “I’m a virgin, not a celibate,” he explained, before going after your neck again. You threw your head back in pleasure, giving him easier access. You wondered what else he could do with his mouth.

His pursuit of learning about your entire body continued, one hand leaving your ass to grope your breasts. He reached his hand up and under your shirt, sending shocks straight to your core as his calloused fingers brushed over your skin. Finally, palm landed on your breast, feeling it enthusiastically. You could hear him sigh as he did it, surely having played this moment over in his mind time after time.

You wanted to enjoy it, really, but there was only so much you could handle. “It’s not a balloon!” you laughed, swatting his hand away.

“Hey, I was busy with that,” Atsumu teased but brought his hand away regardless. He held onto your hips, instead, watching as you rid yourself of your shirt and bra. He watched you with a calculating eye, trying to learn more, to be better.

“Like this,” you told him, dragging his hand to your breast again. You had him pressing feather-light touches to you. “Gentle,” you whispered, letting yourself get lost in the sensation. He took your directions carefully, bringing both of his hands up to take in your chest. He was more careful now, experimenting. He ghosted his thumb over your nipple, watching how your body shivered in response.

Atsumu was completely in tune with your every reaction and quickly understood how sensitive you’d become from this slow grueling pace. All he’d done was play with your nipples, switching between light ghosts of touches and rougher swipes with the pads of his fingers, but he could already feel you grinding against him.

Unable to hold back, he finally broke his concentrated silence, letting a groan out into your shoulder.

“Right,” you noticed, looking down. “You probably want to take care of that?” As if teasing him, you rolled your hips against his bulge again. His grip around your waist tightened.

Atsumu started to protest. “But-”

“No buts!” you cut him off. “I’m gonna make you feel good, okay?” you promised, eyes unwavering.

This was even better than his dreams.

“Whatever you say, [Y/N],” he breathed out, letting you get up so your hands could work at his belt.

“Call me doll,” you muttered, unzipping his jeans and pulling them down. Although he was still in his boxers, you went to your own shorts first, pulling them down eagerly.

Atsumu twitched. “What is this,” he drawled. “The 1950s?” It felt good to have the upper hand for once.

“Throw me a bone here, you won’t even take your own clothes off,” you whined, pulling at his shirt. He helped you along the way, getting it over his head. Finally, you pulled his boxers off, letting his erection stand tall and proud for all to see.

You gulped at the sight of it. His length was average, but it was quite girthy with an intimidating tilt to it. How many fingers is that? You wondered.

“Impressive?” Atsumu asked when he noticed your wide eyes. The only people he’d ever really compared himself to were porn stars and his brother so truly he had no idea if he was packing, but he’d let you do the talking tomorrow.

But you were quick to wipe the wonderous expression of your face. “In your dreams,” you bit back, going to grab a condom.

“In your nightstand?” Atsumu said incredulously. You rolled your eyes.

“Where else?”

Touche.

You started to unpack the condom and roll it over his member, eager to get the show on the road, but Atsumu found himself grabbing your wrists. “What about you?” he asked. “I mean…” Atsumu was never one to admit to his shortcomings, but there was something pretty clear here. You had more experience than him. “Don’t you want to feel good, too?”

If your pace was too fast, you’d probably get left high and dry while Atsumu chased his orgasm. “Couldn’t I…” he gestured with his hands, pushing two fingers forward. “Help you out?”

You chuckled. “Love if you’ve never fingered a girl before I’m not becoming your test subject,” you quipped, Atsumu grumbling below you. What was the point if you didn’t both enjoy yourselves? “But…” you traced his jawline. “I can show you how I do it next time. Teach you how I like it?”

Atsumu smirked, pulling you down to the bed with him and rolling over you so he could linger over you. He pressed a chaste kiss to your lips, sweet and so unlike him. “Sounds perfect, doll,” he whispered against your lips.

You gulped. For someone so inexperienced, there was an intensity to his eyes that went unmatched by anyone else. Even when you had been the one guiding him along, you felt his eyes drinking all of you up. He was truly beautiful, leaning over you in all his glory. You could get used to that sight.

“Is…” he cleared his throat. “Is it okay if I put it in?” he asked, reminding you both that he was still unsure of himself.

“Yeah,” you assured, reaching up to grab his hand. “Take it slow.”

He did, Excruciatingly. You felt his tip enter you curiously, already stretching you out so well. Atsumu entered you in a way that you felt every single millimeter. You yearned for him to get closer, to fill you better.

“More,” you whined out.

Atsumu smirked at you, his face screaming I win. “What’s that, doll?” You groaned, rolling your head back. “You wanted me to take it slow?” he taunted.

“Fuck me like you mean it, Atsumu!” you snapped, pushing your hips up to meet his. You sighed at the feeling as he finally bottomed out. But Atsumu didn’t take your challenge lightly, not letting up. He pulled back out of you, only to snap his hips back. You had no time to get used to his size, not with the brutal pace he was setting.

Soon, you were a mess. While you were fairly sure Atsumu was simply his own release, he made you feel so damn good while doing it. His strong hips pushed back into you ruthlessly, hitting you deep and well. Your arms wrapped around his back, nails pressing into his shoulders.

“You like that, doll?” he asked through his own groans. He’d done his best to hold them back, but the feeling of you surrounding every single inch of him was simply too much. You felt too good.

“Yeah baby,” you urged him on. “You’re doing so well. You’re fucking me so well.” Your nails gripped into him, scratching at his back. But it only had him pushing harder into you, feeding into your praise. He was the one wrecking you like this.

Yet Atsumu lost track of his inhibitions and quickly found himself feeling a familiar coil in his stomach. He didn’t want this to end yet. He wanted to feel more of you, all of you. He let out a loud moan, trying to hold back.

“It’s alright,” you assured him. “There’ll be time to do more. Let go.” It angered him that you had the energy to soothe him while he was trying to fuck you silly, but that only encouraged him to push harder. Through your own moans, you found it in you to whisper to him. “Please, Atsumu. Cum for me.”

He couldn’t hold back anymore. His hands grabbed your hips, surely tight enough to leave bruises, and snapped forward, pushing all of himself into you. He came into the condom in hot streams, breathing heavily.

“I’ve never orgasmed like that,” he admitted, finally slipping out of you. You whimpered a bit at the feeling of being empty, before taking the semen-filled condom out of you.

“Ew,” the two of you said in unison, before laughing at one another.

Even though you’d just been thoroughly fucked and he felt like he’d ran a marathon, Atsumu bathed in the feeling of complete trust he had when he was beside you. It was incredible.

“I could sleep for days,” Atsumu sighed, collapsing on your bed. You laughed at him, pulling on a nightshirt.

“Hey, don’t cover the view!” he teased, wrapping an arm around your waist as you joined him. As if he didn’t stare at it long enough to etch it into his mind.

“You have a match tomorrow,” you reminded him. “Gotta laugh in your teammates’ face for that dumbass dare, so you can only sleep for one night.” You snuggled up against Atsumu, letting his warmth wash over the best of you.

You were too tired to really process the surprised in Atsumu’s voice when he agreed with you, too busy drifting off to sleep.

***

The match came without fail. Atsumu didn’t mention anything to his teammates as you gave him a kiss good luck before he entered the gym. You had proudly donned his jersey, ready to support him from the stands. But if that wasn’t enough, the scratch marks all across Atsumu’s back were enough to thoroughly shut up any doubts his teammates had about the night prior.

Atsumu was the setter for the whole game.

[iamjungkooked]

Mr. Min

↳Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader

↳Genre: Romance (all fluff)

↳Word count: 4.7K

↳Rating: G

↳Warnings: None

↳Summary:

Min Yoongi is the asshole boss who keeps you late at work every night. But then you find out why and it gives you the upper hand.

A/N: I hope you guys like it!! Finally wrote something less than 5k. It has been a while for sure. Cross posting this from my other blog @iamtaekooked​. You guys have been following me on here even though i am like never on here its crazy. I LOVE YOU ALL. THANK YOU SO MUCH. I AM GOING TO TRY POSTING MORE IF MY LIFE LETS ME.

Your hand begins cramping as you finish writing the report for asshole number one Min Yoongi. Writing a report is easy, but having to write it by hand is what makes you want to strangle him. The tiny blue desk clock strikes 11 pm and once again you lose out on the opportunity to live your life. At this point, you have lost track of how many times you have stayed late at the office while your friends enjoy their weekends with dinners, movies and activities. Sometimes it’s so bad that you video call them just as you’re about to drift off to sleep.

You don’t even bother to hope to go home early anymore. Min Yoongi always finds ways to make you stay late with him. You went through the five stages of grief at first because you felt your life was being taken away from you. You even thought of threatening him with a lawsuit because he couldn’t make you work over 40 hours a week. When you did he was quick to turn the tables by offering you overtime pay-- and not a measly sum. It was money you couldn’t turn away. So, once again you let yourself fall prey to his actions.

Slowly but surely you began getting used to this so-called “routine”. Gradually, hours started fading into one another until one day you became so habituated with staying late (and to the mind-boggling pay) that Yoongi didn’t even have to come to your cubicle to hand you anything. You already asked him in the morning for your evening assignment. One would think this would be a hint for him-- but no. The man was as clueless as one could be.

Like any other night, you had an assignment, one which Yoongi labelled as important. But then again everything was important. Any task he assigned (or rather you asked for) he classified as important. You wondered if he understood what the word means because if everything is important then technically nothing is. Rather than ask him about it, which wasn’t necessary anyway you did what you were handsomely paid to do.

A sigh passed your dry lips. Once again you grabbed the pen and began writing-- this time going as fast as your wrist would allow. The ink flowed from the pen to the paper in black scribbles, hardly understandable. But you could not bring yourself to care. He would have to deal with it, and that was that.

Having written the last sentence, you capped the pen and pushed back the chair so you could go to his office. Your heels hurt from wearing six-inch pumps all day. No less would do because turns out asshole Min Yoongi had made that provision because apparently, it looked “more professional”. While walking to his office you just imagined torturing him in your mind by making him wear these fucking heels. It was slightly comical imagery but also satisfying, so much so that you could not help yourself from smiling.

You knocked on the opaque glass door as you reached his office. It was customary for you to knock once and for him to not answer. Normally you would slide the documents or whatever is needed under the door because Yoongi had specifically requested he not be disturbed. But something prompted you to stick your head against the glass door and peer inside through the clear margins. You couldn’t see anything so despite Yoongi’s “request” you turned the knob, opened the door slightly and peeked your head inside. The scene in front of you however was not quite something you were expecting.

Min Yoongi was laying back against his very comfortable looking plush leather rotating chair, with his headphones on, legs resting on top of the table and his eyes fixed with a concentration on his laptop. There were empty boxes of takeout at his desk and the whole image conveyed to you that he hadn’t actually done any work. It was an inkling, which means you could be wrong. But you would be damned if you didn’t make your presence known.

You walked inside, standing halfway between him and the door and cleared your throat as loud as you could. There was no response as expected. You walked a few steps and stopped just short of his desk, yet he still did not notice you. You looked at the report in your hand and threw it on his desk, which landed with a thud. He jumped, and finally looked at you. It took a second but the realization dawned on him. His eyes bulged like he had been caught red-handed and you noticed his adam’s apple bob as he gulped hard.

He hastily took off his earphones and straightened in his chair. “I thought I told you not to disturb me”

“I am sorry, did I ruin the fun?” your brows knit together.

“Do you have the report?” he asked instead.

You look at the papers on his desk and then back at him to make him aware of it sitting in front of his eyes.  

He fumbles with the papers and picks them up. While he’s busy scanning the papers you take in the state of his desk. One side is completely neat with all the binders and files organized, and the other is just filled with trash. As you’re busy studying the contents of his desk, you notice the name of your client’s company on one of the papers. Curiously you reach towards the file, Yoongi still busy reading your report. You scan the pages and realize without even having to read halfway through it that Yoongi had already finished the report and it was marked with yesterday’s date, which means he already sent it to the client.

“Do you care to explain this Mr. Min?” your fingers curl into a fist around the papers.

His eyes widen once more. “Oh shit” he mumbles-- a deer caught in the headlights expression on his face.

He sighs, dropping your report on the table. “Oh fuck” he rubs his forehead. “It’s nothing,” he says with a straight face just a moment after looking like he’d been caught.

“It looks like you already completed the report. Why did I have to do it if you already did it?”

“I wanted you to” he’s quick to reply.

“I am sorry Mr. Min but that is not a good enough explanation. I stayed here even though I did not have to. I find it unfair that I have to do work that has already been done-- and that too by you. I doubt you don’t trust yourself with work”

“That’s enough with the questions” he replied curtly.

“Wait a minute” you look back at the pile of papers on his desk and find a presentation he had asked you to make for him a week ago. However,  the date this presentation was printed was a week before that which means that once again he made you do something that had already been done. Sensing a pattern you decided to confront him right then and there.

“Pardon my french, but why the hell have I been doing work that had already been done?”

Yoongi sighed once more, but this time he sounded more defeated than the first. “Look, I can’t give you an explanation you will like. There isn’t one. But I’ll tell you the truth”

“Good” you fold your arms across your chest.

“You won’t like this either but I asked you to stay late because I wanted you to be here with me. I never got used to working late at night. Something about being alone always irked me, so I started keeping people around. It’s not right, I know” he’s quick to justify just as he noticed you opening your mouth to speak. “Trust me, I know. But then when Brian left and you joined, I knew that I needed you around. So I started asking you to stay late. Turns out, I liked your company more than I have liked anyone else’s so I even started paying you to stay late, which I have never done either” he finishes, The only problem is he doesn’t sound sincere enough. It’s like he’s telling you for the sake of telling you.

“I am sorry Mr. Min but you are not a child. I can’t be putting my life on hold just so you don’t have to be alone at night. Do you have any idea how many occasions and opportunities I have missed in my life because of this? I couldn’t attend my best friend’s graduation, I couldn’t be there for the birth of my nephew because I was here slaving away. To think it was for nothing is terrible. You should really say sorry” you glare at the man, demanding an apology you know you deserve because it doesn’t matter how much money you got paid. It won’t compensate for the memories you could have made.

He purses his lips. “I won’t” he shakes his head. “I know it’s wrong but I don’t say sorry”

You scoff. “You’re an asshole”

He shrugs as if your remark doesn’t bother him in the slightest. “Be that as it may. I did what I did because I like having you around. In fact, I did it because I like you and I am not ashamed of it”

Under normal circumstances, you probably would have been flattered and even blushed at having been confessed to. But these weren’t normal circumstances and on top of that, it was Min Yoongi.

“How about this-- you can go home early for all of next week” he offers.

It actually makes your blood boil because he thinks he’s being generous. But even if you gave him a wide berth, this wasn’t even cutting it close “All of next month actually” you counter, determined in your own way to make him apologize for his actions.

He considers it. A few beats of silence pass as both of you continue to stare at each other. “Fine” he agrees.

“Good.” you say shortly, before turning on your heels and heading towards the door.

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Yoongi ends up keeping his word for the whole of next month. If it were up to you, you would have asked him that you will never stay late. But after your anger had died down in a week or so, the rational part of your mind convinced you that the money was too good. And it was. So you didn’t try to extend it.

In that one month, however, Yoongi was being awfully generous towards you. You figured it was his way of making up for his actions.

After a week of your heated conversation with him, you found a bouquet of flowers at home addressed to your best friend. There was no name on it. It turned out you did not need a name, because one you knew whose handwriting it was and secondly, the apology was enough for you to know who they were from.

I am sorry y/n missed your graduation. I realize she should have been there with you and it is my fault she was not. I can’t turn back time but I hope these flowers and this small gift make up for it. Congratulations on your achievement.

Accompanying the flowers was a generous gift, one which could have only been given by Yoongi. A full spa weekend with your best friend. It was an all-inclusive offer.

It felt like he was bribing you to forgive him. But even if that were the case, you felt you deserved this and you would be damned if you let it go to waste. If this is how he wanted to apologize, then so be it. In a way, he was giving you the opportunity to spend quality time with Hana.

Hana was ecstatic. “Isn’t it sweet?” she said dreamily.

You couldn’t help but scoff. “It’s not sweet. It’s what he should be doing. Not this exact thing per se. But he needs to be making up for what he did and he is” you reminded her.

“Fine” Hana was quick to give up because even she knew not to argue.

To apologize, at the end of the month Yoongi also ends up giving you the biggest client. This one you feel conflicted about because you can’t discern his intention. So you do the only thing you can. You went charging to his office to demand an explanation.

Maybe he heard you coming but before you could even open your mouth after entering the room he was already speaking.

“I know,” he says as he gave you one glance before focusing on his laptop as he typed away. “I gave you a client because you deserve it. Trying to make up for troubling you is also part of it, but it’s mostly because you deserve it” he explains without sparing you another glance this time. “It just so happens Karla likes you and I think you can understand each other well as women. Not to mention you have great marketing skills that Karla’s company could use” he finishes speaking and the sound of keys clacking stops as well. He gives you his undivided attention. “So” he joins his fingers in a steeple, elbows resting on the desk. “What do you think?”

You don’t even give it a second of thought. “You made a good decision Mr. Min” corners of your lips curve in a smile.

“Of course I did” he reciprocates your smile. “I never make bad decisions” his smile grows into a knowing grin.

You catch the sarcastic play on words. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that”. Your gaze lingers on his a second longer before you nod and turn away to leave.

Just as you reach for the door, he speaks.

“Do your best”

You turn around and give him a curtsey nod. “You bet I will”

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You’re back to working late nights, but this time with Yoongi in his office on actual things that matter.

You and Yoongi have been working on a pitch for Karla’s company to convince them to change their branding. You work late hours into the night as usual. You flirt here and there, but nothing major happens as you both keep it professional(ish). There are a few laughs exchanged, a couple of longing gazes, moments so thick with tension you could practically taste it on your tongue.

You lean over to look at Yoongi’s list of ideas, but unknowingly invade his personal bubble-- that intimate zone only reserved for significant others/spouses. You get caught up in the moment as you look at him, and he looks at you. For a moment you think he’ll kiss you. But instead, he clears his throat. “I’ll be back” his voice is a whisper.

He gets up hurriedly and leaves, clearing his throat all the way to the door.

You watch his figure disappear behind the opaque glass door.

“Keep it professional” you chide yourself with a shake of the head.

You focus back on your notes, flipping through the pages trying to put a concept map together.

A draft of air hits you and you look in the direction to find Yoongi opening the door. He walks in a few feet, one hand hidden behind his back.

Curiosity piqued and you offer him an inquisitive look. “What are you hiding Mr. Min?”

Wordlessly, he brings his arm forward. In his hand is a bouquet of baby’s breath flowers.

“How did you-” you start.

“I know” he erases the distance between you as he stops just shy of invading your intimate space and holds out the flowers.

You reach for them. “Thank you. But how do you know I like these?”

“You said it” he mentions.

“I did?” you look at him puzzled.

“Two nights ago. We were talking about using florals to brighten up the aesthetic for Karla’s company and you mentioned baby’s breath is your favourite flower”

“ I don’t even remember saying that” you shake your head, almost in disbelief that he remembered. “You actually remembered?”

He nods. “I remember everything you say” he replies“ no matter how sharply you put it” he adds with a chuckle.

At a loss for words, all you can do is stare at the man filled with a foreign feeling.

“Thank you” you finally manage to say.

“You’re very welcome” his lips curve into a smile.

He returns to his seat while you place the flowers on his desk as gently as you can. Once he’s seated you take the opportunity to ask. “Mr. Min” you address him.

“Yeah” he looks at you in a way that makes your heart race faster.

“Why did you give me these?” it feels like the incessant urgent know has been satisfied and you feel relieved.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to” he looks down at the papers in front of him. A few moments of silence pass as you continue studying him while he keeps his gaze downcast. “An-anyway let's get back to it” he quickly changes the subject.

You nod. Under the dim lighting of his office, for the very first time you notice how handsome he looks. His skin looks like porcelain, his eyes glimmer with a hint of golden flecks around the irises. His lips look buttery soft. You bite back on your lip as you realize how much quicker you’re breathing.

“Is something wrong?” Yoongi questions as he looks up at you.

You vigourously shake your head. “I just— I am sorry”

“I caught you staring didn’t I?” he responds but it’s not really meant to be a question. “I don’t mind. I like the attention” he winks.

Your eyes widen. “I— I wasn’t” your attempt at denying it is futile and even you know it. But you have to at least attempt to save face.

“If it helps, I actually think it’s cute” his lips upturn in a playful smile.

You keep mum, considering there is nothing to say. Even though you don’t speak, the smile on your lips says everything Yoongi needs to know.

You hear him softly laughing and you can sense him just shaking his head. Then you hear something and you aren’t sure if you hear it right but it sounds an awful lot like “you’re cute miss y/n”

You end up spending another hour brainstorming ideas. After that last exchange between you, you thought you couldn’t concentrate. But you did. And once more you flirted a little, exchanged gazes, and avoid as hard as you can to pay no mind to the vibe between you.

“I think we should call it a night” Yoongi stretches his arms over his head with a groan. “You’re tired too”

“Okay” you start gathering all the papers into a pile.

“Don’t worry about this” he waves his hand in a dismissive manner. “I’ll do it. Start getting your stuff together. I’ll drop you off”

“You don’t have to” you reply, the burdensome feeling coming on. “I can go home”

“Did I give you a choice?” he narrows his eyes at you. “Just because I got you these flowers, and that spa day and gave you Karla doesn’t mean you get to tell what I have or don’t have to do. Got it” he sounds a little stern, but in a way where he’s being thoughtful more than trying to be a jerk.

“Yes, Mr. Min” the meekness in your voice surprises you. As you stand in front of him you cannot understand what brings on this sudden submissive attitude. But you have already agreed and something tells you Mr. Min won’t take no for an answer.

“I’ll be right there” he motions to the door with his head, indicating that you should pack up.

“Okay” you pick up the bouquet and quietly walk out of his office.

The walk back to your desk is filled with mixed emotions. A fluttery feeling floats in your stomach, giving you the perception that your head is spinning. You almost stumble as you reach your desk. You realize you’re breathless as you grip onto the edges of the desk to steady yourself. “Shit. So much for keeping it professional” you mutter while you grab your bag. You sling it over your shoulder. You gather the flowers in your hand as you wait for Yoongi.

Moments later he’s coming out. “Ready?” he asks.

With a dry mouth and dizzying intoxication brought upon his presence all you do is nod.

“After you.” he says.

Maybe he isn’t an asshole after all.

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The sounds of crickets chirping in the silence of the night help shroud some of your thoughts. But not enough apparently because merely Yoongi’s presence is enough to send you in a tizzy. It’s maybe only been about five seconds since Yoongi stopped in front of your house but it sure feels like hours.

“Umm” you’re the first to break the silence. “Well, thank you for the ride an-and for these flowers”

“You’re welcome” comes his quiet voice.

You unlock the door, one foot already out of the door.

“Wait” his hand on your forearm stops you.

You turn to look at him. “Yeah?”

“I actually brought you these flowers because I was going to ask you on a date” he confesses.

“Oh” is all you can manage. You don’t know what else to say.

“So, will you…?” he sounds unsure as he says these words, almost like he himself doesn’t know.

He sounds sincere enough. But as it stands you have two choices: give in easily at which point you may as well give up any hope in future of asking him for anything. Or you could just play hard to get so he knows it won’t be easy.

“I’ll think about” confidence flows through your voice, and along with a coy smirk on your lips.

Yoongi’s previously solemn expression is replaced by a crooked smile. He studies you quietly, making you wonder what he’s thinking. “I’ll give you five minutes”

“No. If that’s how long you think it takes to figure out whether I want to give you a chance, then my answer is no”.

“Fine. How long do you want?”

“It’s not about long I want Mr. Min. It’s about how long you are willing to wait” and without hearing his response you exit the car.

All Yoongi can do is stare at you open-mouthed-- stunned and in utter disbelief.

You didn’t know Yoongi would wait for two whole months. You didn’t expect him to keep it professional between you either

You also didn’t expect Min Yoongi to come to your desk at 2 pm and ask you to look over the designs for one of your clients.

“You look lovely today y/n” he stops next to your desk, holding out a file for you.

“I always look lovely” you take the file from him, dismissing his compliment because you’re sure he’s just buttering you up into doing something for him. Not that you wouldn’t if he hadn’t said anything.

“I mean it” his voice softens as he recognizes your disbelief. “Blue looks good on you’” he motions to your blue blouse, and looks you straight in the eyes. He doesn’t even flinch-- which means he actually probably means it.

You certainly don’t regret picking it out anymore. “Thank you”

“You’re very welcome.” he adds with a smile that stretches into a grin. “Oh and can you look this over. Please and thank you”

“I will” you nod. “Question for you”

“Anything” he half sits on your desk as he awaits your ask.

“Did you come here to give me the file or to tell me I look good?”

“I came here to tell you, you look beautiful if what you’re after is my motive” the corners of his mouth turn up in a soft flirty smile.

“I am. But I’ll also look at this” you gesture to the file in your hand.

He acknowledges your response with a nod as he turns around and starts towards his office.

“Mr. Min” you call out and he turns around. “That suit looks great on you”

It takes him a second to comprehend your words, but as soon as he does, he’s back to smiling. “Thank you y/n”

Just as easily he struts away, just as easily everyone around you is stunned into silence. It looks like a comic scene as everyone looks at Yoongi’s retreating figure with mouth’s agape.

“Did he flirt with you?” one of your coworker’s peers over the divide between your cubicles.

You look up at him. “Yes he did”

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At 4 pm, you walk back to his office with your notes on the changes that should be made. You knock on the door once. He doesn’t answer so you take it as your cue to enter.

“Here are the notes” you hold out the file as you stop just in front of his desk.

“It’s already done?” Yoongi is forced to look up his work.

“Yes and yes”

“Okay. You can leave it on the desk” he goes back to his work.

You wait for him to catch on. But he doesn’t. So you start towards the door.

“Wait” he calls out. “Yes and Yes?”

You turn around, feeling giddy with anticipation.

“What’s the second yes for?” he looks at you puzzled.

“I guess you don’t want to go on that date anymore” you quirk a brow.

He closes his laptop and leans back in his chair. “Took you long enough”

“You reap what you sow Mr. Min”

“Is that right?” it’s rhetorical of course but you nod anyway.

He chuckles. “Let’s go “ he grabs his coat from the back of the chair and swings it around and on his shoulders.

You look at him puzzled. “Right now? What about work?”

“First, I am the boss so I make the rules and I say we go. Second, I made the mistake of offering you five minutes of time to make your decision. You really think I am going to give you a day or two for this date”

You can’t help but laugh. “In that case Mr. Min, let’s go”

He heads to the door first as you follow “After you” he opens it and you’re almost out of the door when he shuts the door. “Wait. I have to do something” he pulls you to himself, supporting you by the waist as he presses his lips to yours.

Maybe time stops when his lips meet yours. But the flutter in your stomach only intensifies. You feel weak in the knees. You hold onto the nape of Yoongi’s neck as your legs begin to tingle. Yoongi’s hands rest on your sides, and gently make their way up to cup your cheeks. You moan into his mouth, as his tongue dances against your lips.

Yoongi keeps his eyes slightly open as he pulls back for air. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming so he held onto you tighter, causing you to become aware of the contour of his body flush against yours. “I am sorry if I took you by surprise” he’s slightly breathless and flushed. “I wasn’t sure how the date would go and if I would get the chance to do this. If you don’t want to go anymore” he stops to lick his lips. “I would understand” he finishes.

“So you’re not an asshole after all” you look at him through the curtain of your eyelashes.

He raises a brow at you silently telling you to consider your wording as if you're treading on thin ice. “I am still your boss”

You shrug. “You lost the upper hand when you asked me out”

“I knew I liked you for a reason” he says while he takes a tiny step back to give you space and time to collect yourself.

“I think I might fall” your breathless voice takes you by surprise.

“You already have” he curls his fingers around yours.

Hand in hand you walk out of his office, causing ruckus in your wake as your coworkers gawk in disbelief at your departing figures. Because how could Mr.Min be acting like this? More importantly, how could Mr. Min be smiling like an absolute idiot.

I hope you enjoyed it :) Don’t forget to like and reblog! Thank you for reading.

[vintagedolan]

when koa gets in, is grayson rude to her ?? what’s his reaction upon seeing her ?

since this do be a concept train, I want to know what exactly Koa feels towards the twins. Does she know them? Des she know about them? I just know that initial meeting is going to be TENSE

(also angry Grayson is hot)

two: character profile

masterlist | request the next concept!

It only took Koa two days to unpack. She had 2 suitcases of clothes and personal belongings, and $300 worth of a haul from target down the street, which included only a few essentials. 

She was lucky enough to have found a three person apartment with one vacancy, which came with the advantage of it already being mostly furnished. The air mattress she bought would have to do in her room for now - she’d spent most her money on a desk.

Writers write, they don’t sleep anyways. 

She met her roommates, Harlow and Gabby. Harlow was from Kentucky, which Koa only knew from the KFC on the island back home. But she was sweet and friendly, and willing to help out wherever she could. She even gave Koa a ride to target, let her fill up the back of her honda with all of her purchases.

Gabby was born and raised in LA. And it was obvious. Her attitude, her superiority and her general lack of regard for anyone other than herself had Koa ready to call her out in the first day, but she held back, knowing she was in for the long haul. 

But that attitude made her even more nervous for her meeting at 11am the third day, in Encino California. Just the fact that she’d been given a gate code was enough to put a pit in her stomach. She wondered how stupid she would look, walking up to it instead of driving.

Harlow helped her find the right bus route, and it took a minute. And by a minute, she meant a fucking hour to plan it out, and a 30 minute bus ride to get close enough to the Dolan’s house to make the 20 minute walk the rest of the way. She missed the Hawaiian breeze, the trade winds coming in off the ocean to stave off the beating sun as she made the journey with her backpack hanging off one of her shoulders up all of the hills of the neighborhood.

By the time she made it to the house, there was sweat rolling down her back, soaking her shirt and making her question every life decision she’d made to get herself there. 

She typed in the code, and as soon as she walked through the gate her blood was boiling.

Five cars. There were five cars in the driveway, parked in two neat rows. The Tesla caught her eye first, plugged into its own charger in the garage.

She knew they had money. But fucking hell. The house itself was more subtle, didn’t scream rich in her face in twelve languages - from the outside anyways. 

It took her a moment to settle herself, to put a smile on her face. The Dolans, it seemed, where the type of people who showed up at the shave ice stand in Hawaii on vacation - not the ones who worked it.

But she’d known that. And she tried to remind herself of exactly how their wealth was going to work in her favor, for the sales of ‘their’ book, which would increase her cut. And so, she smoothed her frizzy hair as best she could and went up to the door.

She didn’t have to knock. Instead, the door swung open, a bright young woman standing there with a welcoming smile. 

“Koa?”

“That’s me.”

“Hi! I’m Adele, the twins assistant.”

Koa swallowed. Of course. Of course they had an assistant. Why wouldn’t they. 

“Nice to meet you.”

“Come on in, it’s hot out there.” Adele stepped to the side, revealing the interior of the house.

It was subtle. If Koa were to write it, she’d describe the warmth. It radiated from multiple centers - the neutral woods, the simple decorations, the dark appliances, the fireplace on the far wall, and the very tall, smiling man with a tattoo sleeve by the door. 

In the next paragraph, she’d talk about the cold. It came from one place, one specific spot in the living room. His back was half turned away, but his stiffness, his annoyance, radiated off his shoulders with less effort than it took him to breathe. 

Koa swallowed hard again.

“Hey, I’m Ethan. It’s nice to finally put a face with the writing.” His voice was as genuine as his smile, which he tried to make wide enough for the two of them it seemed. 

By process of elimination, she knew it was Grayson who stood up rather slowly and made his way over.

“I’m Grayson. Nice to meet you.” His voice was flatter than the mantle behind him. Koa smiled anyways.

They each held out a hand, and she prayed her palm wasn’t sweaty from her walk when she shook them one by one. 

Ethan pulled out a chair for her at the island, metal legs groaning against the hardwood.

“You want a drink?”

“Yeah, that’d be great actually. Thanks.” The formality tasted sour on her tongue. She told herself she wasn’t going to do this, wasn’t going to make herself out to be someone more professional than she really was.

But Grayson had her on edge. Even when Ethan sat down in the chair beside her with two glasses of water, Grayson stood tall on the other side of the island, arms crossed and strong brow furrowed. 

Silence filled the space with emptiness, and Koa drank her water, her rings tinkling against her glass. 

“So-” Ethan started, finally breaking the tension. “This meeting isn’t anything like crazy formal, we just kinda wanted to touch base with you, get to know you a bit and figure out exactly how we’re gonna do this.”

“Yeah, no that’s great. I’m down for that, that’s a good idea.”

“We’ve never even thought about writing a book really, so we’re kinda at your mercy.” Ethan’s laugh wasn’t loud enough to cover Grayson’s scoff. Koa watched him for a moment, analyzed him. He seemed tense, and angry, and sad all at once somehow. The tension in his jaw was sharp, but there was a fear in there somewhere that she could sense. He caught her eye, and she turned back to Ethan.

“Well, this is gonna be new for all of us I think. The thing about this is I’m not writing as me, I’m writing as you two. It’s from your perspective, it’s what you want to say. I’m just here to help you say it. So yeah, I’ll help guide you all in what you want in there and how to arrange it to get people hooked and into it, but-”

“Do you usually ghost write stuff for people?” Grayson leaned against the counter, shoulder broad and wide. Intimidating. The tattoos that peaked out from under the short sleeve of his shirt were delicate lines. Gentle. She looked at those instead when she spoke.

“Uh, no. This is my first time doing it formally.”

“So what do you write then.”

“My specialty is fiction. Novels.”

“Great. Fucking fantastic.” To Koa’s amazement, Grayson was laughing. Running his hands over his face and up through his long hair. Callous. 

“I’m sorry, is writing novels a bad thing?”

“No. But I’m not a character you get to make however you want.” He met her eyes then, the green of them so dark they looked brown as he stared at her. “I’m a person.”

“I figured that much out for myself. If you have an issue, I’m all ears.”

Even she was impressed with how steady her voice was. She clasped her hands lightly together and rested them on the island, the way white business men always did in movies, and stared him down. 

“Full disclosure, the book was more my idea, less Grayson’s,” Ethan chimed in.

“All Ethan’s, none of mine,” Grayson corrected. “Because I know how this shit goes. You’re gonna twist whatever you need to get a story together, make us tell shit we don’t want to tell and put it out for the world to read just to get your bag. And I don’t want any part of it.” 

It was Koa’s turn to laugh. “Well buddy, you’re giving me plenty of content to work with if I’m supposed to be building a character profile on you or whatever the fuck it is you think I’m here to do.”

“Uh-” Ethan barely got the syllable out.

“You know, most people would kill for this. This book will be everywhere, and you have a chance to tell the world something and actually have them hear it. Don’t throw that away so quick.”

Something in Grayson’s face changed, and it made her want to pull her words back out of the air. 

“Yeah, well I’m pretty fucking sure I’ve given the world enough of myself, but thanks for the offer.” 

With that, Grayson turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen.

“Bro-” Ethan called out.

“It’s fine,” Koa muttered. 

“I’m sorry, really. He’s kinda going through it right now, there’s been a lot of stuff going on and he’s just worried. I’ll talk to him, we’ll figure out how to make this work.”

“Right.”

Ethan frowned. “Koa, I’m serious. I really liked your stuff, and I know you can write a kick ass book for us. I want you to, and he will too, I just gotta get him to get his head out of his ass.”

“Good luck with that one,” Koa chuckled, shaking her head. “I’m gonna go.”

“Okay. I’ll text you and we can figure out another time to figure out the details.”

“Sounds good. I’ll brainstorm some stuff.”

“Sick. Sorry, again, for all that. Drive safe.”

Koa put her backpack over her shoulder and climbed out of the chair, chugging the rest of the water in her glass, knowing she’d need it for her walk to the bus stop.

“Yeah. See you later Ethan. Like I said; good luck.”

[iamtaekooked]

Mr. Min

↳Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader 

↳Genre: Romance (all fluff)

↳Word count: 4.7K 

↳Rating: G 

↳Warnings: None

↳Summary: 

 Min Yoongi is the asshole boss who keeps you late at work every night. But then you find out why and it gives you the upper hand.

A/N: I hope you guys like it!! Finally wrote something less than 5k. It has been a while for sure. 

Your hand begins cramping as you finish writing the report for asshole number one Min Yoongi. Writing a report is easy, but having to write it by hand is what makes you want to strangle him. The tiny blue desk clock strikes 11 pm and once again you lose out on the opportunity to live your life. At this point, you have lost track of how many times you have stayed late at the office while your friends enjoy their weekends with dinners, movies and activities. Sometimes it’s so bad that you video call them just as you’re about to drift off to sleep.

You don’t even bother to hope to go home early anymore. Min Yoongi always finds ways to make you stay late with him. You went through the five stages of grief at first because you felt your life was being taken away from you. You even thought of threatening him with a lawsuit because he couldn’t make you work over 40 hours a week. When you did he was quick to turn the tables by offering you overtime pay-- and not a measly sum. It was money you couldn’t turn away. So, once again you let yourself fall prey to his actions.

Slowly but surely you began getting used to this so-called “routine”. Gradually, hours started fading into one another until one day you became so habituated with staying late (and to the mind-boggling pay) that Yoongi didn’t even have to come to your cubicle to hand you anything. You already asked him in the morning for your evening assignment. One would think this would be a hint for him-- but no. The man was as clueless as one could be.

Like any other night, you had an assignment, one which Yoongi labelled as important. But then again everything was important. Any task he assigned (or rather you asked for) he classified as important. You wondered if he understood what the word means because if everything is important then technically nothing is. Rather than ask him about it, which wasn’t necessary anyway you did what you were handsomely paid to do.

A sigh passed your dry lips. Once again you grabbed the pen and began writing-- this time going as fast as your wrist would allow. The ink flowed from the pen to the paper in black scribbles, hardly understandable. But you could not bring yourself to care. He would have to deal with it, and that was that.

Having written the last sentence, you capped the pen and pushed back the chair so you could go to his office. Your heels hurt from wearing six-inch pumps all day. No less would do because turns out asshole Min Yoongi had made that provision because apparently, it looked “more professional”. While walking to his office you just imagined torturing him in your mind by making him wear these fucking heels. It was slightly comical imagery but also satisfying, so much so that you could not help yourself from smiling.

You knocked on the opaque glass door as you reached his office. It was customary for you to knock once and for him to not answer. Normally you would slide the documents or whatever is needed under the door because Yoongi had specifically requested he not be disturbed. But something prompted you to stick your head against the glass door and peer inside through the clear margins. You couldn’t see anything so despite Yoongi’s “request” you turned the knob, opened the door slightly and peeked your head inside. The scene in front of you however was not quite something you were expecting.

Min Yoongi was laying back against his very comfortable looking plush leather rotating chair, with his headphones on, legs resting on top of the table and his eyes fixed with a concentration on his laptop. There were empty boxes of takeout at his desk and the whole image conveyed to you that he hadn’t actually done any work. It was an inkling, which means you could be wrong. But you would be damned if you didn’t make your presence known.

You walked inside, standing halfway between him and the door and cleared your throat as loud as you could. There was no response as expected. You walked a few steps and stopped just short of his desk, yet he still did not notice you. You looked at the report in your hand and threw it on his desk, which landed with a thud. He jumped, and finally looked at you. It took a second but the realization dawned on him. His eyes bulged like he had been caught red-handed and you noticed his adam’s apple bob as he gulped hard.

He hastily took off his earphones and straightened in his chair. “I thought I told you not to disturb me”

“I am sorry, did I ruin the fun?” your brows knit together.

“Do you have the report?” he asked instead.

You look at the papers on his desk and then back at him to make him aware of it sitting in front of his eyes.  

He fumbles with the papers and picks them up. While he’s busy scanning the papers you take in the state of his desk. One side is completely neat with all the binders and files organized, and the other is just filled with trash. As you’re busy studying the contents of his desk, you notice the name of your client’s company on one of the papers. Curiously you reach towards the file, Yoongi still busy reading your report. You scan the pages and realize without even having to read halfway through it that Yoongi had already finished the report and it was marked with yesterday’s date, which means he already sent it to the client.

“Do you care to explain this Mr. Min?” your fingers curl into a fist around the papers.

His eyes widen once more. “Oh shit” he mumbles-- a deer caught in the headlights expression on his face.

He sighs, dropping your report on the table. “Oh fuck” he rubs his forehead. “It’s nothing,” he says with a straight face just a moment after looking like he’d been caught.

“It looks like you already completed the report. Why did I have to do it if you already did it?”

“I wanted you to” he’s quick to reply.

“I am sorry Mr. Min but that is not a good enough explanation. I stayed here even though I did not have to. I find it unfair that I have to do work that has already been done-- and that too by you. I doubt you don’t trust yourself with work”

“That’s enough with the questions” he replied curtly.

“Wait a minute” you look back at the pile of papers on his desk and find a presentation he had asked you to make for him a week ago. However,  the date this presentation was printed was a week before that which means that once again he made you do something that had already been done. Sensing a pattern you decided to confront him right then and there.

“Pardon my french, but why the hell have I been doing work that had already been done?”

Yoongi sighed once more, but this time he sounded more defeated than the first. “Look, I can’t give you an explanation you will like. There isn’t one. But I’ll tell you the truth”

“Good” you fold your arms across your chest.

“You won’t like this either but I asked you to stay late because I wanted you to be here with me. I never got used to working late at night. Something about being alone always irked me, so I started keeping people around. It’s not right, I know” he’s quick to justify just as he noticed you opening your mouth to speak. “Trust me, I know. But then when Brian left and you joined, I knew that I needed you around. So I started asking you to stay late. Turns out, I liked your company more than I have liked anyone else’s so I even started paying you to stay late, which I have never done either” he finishes, The only problem is he doesn’t sound sincere enough. It’s like he’s telling you for the sake of telling you.

“I am sorry Mr. Min but you are not a child. I can’t be putting my life on hold just so you don’t have to be alone at night. Do you have any idea how many occasions and opportunities I have missed in my life because of this? I couldn’t attend my best friend’s graduation, I couldn’t be there for the birth of my nephew because I was here slaving away. To think it was for nothing is terrible. You should really say sorry” you glare at the man, demanding an apology you know you deserve because it doesn’t matter how much money you got paid. It won’t compensate for the memories you could have made.

He purses his lips. “I won’t” he shakes his head. “I know it’s wrong but I don’t say sorry”

You scoff. “You’re an asshole”

He shrugs as if your remark doesn’t bother him in the slightest. “Be that as it may. I did what I did because I like having you around. In fact, I did it because I like you and I am not ashamed of it”

Under normal circumstances, you probably would have been flattered and even blushed at having been confessed to. But these weren’t normal circumstances and on top of that, it was Min Yoongi.

“How about this-- you can go home early for all of next week” he offers.

It actually makes your blood boil because he thinks he’s being generous. But even if you gave him a wide berth, this wasn’t even cutting it close “All of next month actually” you counter, determined in your own way to make him apologize for his actions.

He considers it. A few beats of silence pass as both of you continue to stare at each other. “Fine” he agrees.

“Good.” you say shortly, before turning on your heels and heading towards the door.

Yoongi ends up keeping his word for the whole of next month. If it were up to you, you would have asked him that you will never stay late. But after your anger had died down in a week or so, the rational part of your mind convinced you that the money was too good. And it was. So you didn’t try to extend it.

In that one month, however, Yoongi was being awfully generous towards you. You figured it was his way of making up for his actions.

After a week of your heated conversation with him, you found a bouquet of flowers at home addressed to your best friend. There was no name on it. It turned out you did not need a name, because one you knew whose handwriting it was and secondly, the apology was enough for you to know who they were from.

I am sorry y/n missed your graduation. I realize she should have been there with you and it is my fault she was not. I can’t turn back time but I hope these flowers and this small gift make up for it. Congratulations on your achievement.

Accompanying the flowers was a generous gift, one which could have only been given by Yoongi. A full spa weekend with your best friend. It was an all-inclusive offer.

It felt like he was bribing you to forgive him. But even if that were the case, you felt you deserved this and you would be damned if you let it go to waste. If this is how he wanted to apologize, then so be it. In a way, he was giving you the opportunity to spend quality time with Hana.

Hana was ecstatic. “Isn’t it sweet?” she said dreamily.

You couldn’t help but scoff. “It’s not sweet. It’s what he should be doing. Not this exact thing per se. But he needs to be making up for what he did and he is” you reminded her.

“Fine” Hana was quick to give up because even she knew not to argue.

To apologize, at the end of the month Yoongi also ends up giving you the biggest client. This one you feel conflicted about because you can’t discern his intention. So you do the only thing you can. You went charging to his office to demand an explanation.

Maybe he heard you coming but before you could even open your mouth after entering the room he was already speaking.

“I know,” he says as he gave you one glance before focusing on his laptop as he typed away. “I gave you a client because you deserve it. Trying to make up for troubling you is also part of it, but it’s mostly because you deserve it” he explains without sparing you another glance this time. “It just so happens Karla likes you and I think you can understand each other well as women. Not to mention you have great marketing skills that Karla’s company could use” he finishes speaking and the sound of keys clacking stops as well. He gives you his undivided attention. “So” he joins his fingers in a steeple, elbows resting on the desk. “What do you think?”

You don’t even give it a second of thought. “You made a good decision Mr. Min” corners of your lips curve in a smile.

“Of course I did” he reciprocates your smile. “I never make bad decisions” his smile grows into a knowing grin.

You catch the sarcastic play on words. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that”. Your gaze lingers on his a second longer before you nod and turn away to leave.

Just as you reach for the door, he speaks.

“Do your best”

You turn around and give him a curtsey nod. “You bet I will”

You’re back to working late nights, but this time with Yoongi in his office on actual things that matter.

You and Yoongi have been working on a pitch for Karla’s company to convince them to change their branding. You work late hours into the night as usual. You flirt here and there, but nothing major happens as you both keep it professional(ish). There are a few laughs exchanged, a couple of longing gazes, moments so thick with tension you could practically taste it on your tongue.

You lean over to look at Yoongi’s list of ideas, but unknowingly invade his personal bubble-- that intimate zone only reserved for significant others/spouses. You get caught up in the moment as you look at him, and he looks at you. For a moment you think he’ll kiss you. But instead, he clears his throat. “I’ll be back” his voice is a whisper.

He gets up hurriedly and leaves, clearing his throat all the way to the door.

You watch his figure disappear behind the opaque glass door.

“Keep it professional” you chide yourself with a shake of the head.

You focus back on your notes, flipping through the pages trying to put a concept map together.

A draft of air hits you and you look in the direction to find Yoongi opening the door. He walks in a few feet, one hand hidden behind his back.

Curiosity piqued and you offer him an inquisitive look. “What are you hiding Mr. Min?”

Wordlessly, he brings his arm forward. In his hand is a bouquet of baby’s breath flowers.

“How did you-” you start.

“I know” he erases the distance between you as he stops just shy of invading your intimate space and holds out the flowers.

You reach for them. “Thank you. But how do you know I like these?”

“You said it” he mentions.

“I did?” you look at him puzzled.

“Two nights ago. We were talking about using florals to brighten up the aesthetic for Karla’s company and you mentioned baby’s breath is your favourite flower”

“ I don’t even remember saying that” you shake your head, almost in disbelief that he remembered. “You actually remembered?”

He nods. “I remember everything you say” he replies“ no matter how sharply you put it” he adds with a chuckle.

At a loss for words, all you can do is stare at the man filled with a foreign feeling.

“Thank you” you finally manage to say.

“You’re very welcome” his lips curve into a smile.

He returns to his seat while you place the flowers on his desk as gently as you can. Once he’s seated you take the opportunity to ask. “Mr. Min” you address him.

“Yeah” he looks at you in a way that makes your heart race faster.

“Why did you give me these?” it feels like the incessant urgent know has been satisfied and you feel relieved.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to” he looks down at the papers in front of him. A few moments of silence pass as you continue studying him while he keeps his gaze downcast. “An-anyway let's get back to it” he quickly changes the subject.

You nod. Under the dim lighting of his office, for the very first time you notice how handsome he looks. His skin looks like porcelain, his eyes glimmer with a hint of golden flecks around the irises. His lips look buttery soft. You bite back on your lip as you realize how much quicker you’re breathing.

“Is something wrong?” Yoongi questions as he looks up at you.

You vigourously shake your head. “I just— I am sorry”

“I caught you staring didn’t I?” he responds but it’s not really meant to be a question. “I don’t mind. I like the attention” he winks.

Your eyes widen. “I— I wasn’t” your attempt at denying it is futile and even you know it. But you have to at least attempt to save face.

“If it helps, I actually think it’s cute” his lips upturn in a playful smile.

You keep mum, considering there is nothing to say. Even though you don’t speak, the smile on your lips says everything Yoongi needs to know.

You hear him softly laughing and you can sense him just shaking his head. Then you hear something and you aren’t sure if you hear it right but it sounds an awful lot like “you’re cute miss y/n” 

You end up spending another hour brainstorming ideas. After that last exchange between you, you thought you couldn’t concentrate. But you did. And once more you flirted a little, exchanged gazes, and avoid as hard as you can to pay no mind to the vibe between you.

“I think we should call it a night” Yoongi stretches his arms over his head with a groan. “You’re tired too”

“Okay” you start gathering all the papers into a pile.

“Don’t worry about this” he waves his hand in a dismissive manner. “I’ll do it. Start getting your stuff together. I’ll drop you off”

“You don’t have to” you reply, the burdensome feeling coming on. “I can go home”

“Did I give you a choice?” he narrows his eyes at you. “Just because I got you these flowers, and that spa day and gave you Karla doesn’t mean you get to tell what I have or don’t have to do. Got it” he sounds a little stern, but in a way where he’s being thoughtful more than trying to be a jerk.

“Yes, Mr. Min” the meekness in your voice surprises you. As you stand in front of him you cannot understand what brings on this sudden submissive attitude. But you have already agreed and something tells you Mr. Min won’t take no for an answer.

“I’ll be right there” he motions to the door with his head, indicating that you should pack up.

“Okay” you pick up the bouquet and quietly walk out of his office.

The walk back to your desk is filled with mixed emotions. A fluttery feeling floats in your stomach, giving you the perception that your head is spinning. You almost stumble as you reach your desk. You realize you’re breathless as you grip onto the edges of the desk to steady yourself. “Shit. So much for keeping it professional” you mutter while you grab your bag. You sling it over your shoulder. You gather the flowers in your hand as you wait for Yoongi.

Moments later he’s coming out. “Ready?” he asks.

With a dry mouth and dizzying intoxication brought upon his presence all you do is nod.

“After you.” he says.

Maybe he isn’t an asshole after all.

The sounds of crickets chirping in the silence of the night help shroud some of your thoughts. But not enough apparently because merely Yoongi’s presence is enough to send you in a tizzy. It’s maybe only been about five seconds since Yoongi stopped in front of your house but it sure feels like hours.

“Umm” you’re the first to break the silence. “Well, thank you for the ride an-and for these flowers”

“You’re welcome” comes his quiet voice.

You unlock the door, one foot already out of the door.

“Wait” his hand on your forearm stops you.

You turn to look at him. “Yeah?”

“I actually brought you these flowers because I was going to ask you on a date” he confesses.

“Oh” is all you can manage. You don’t know what else to say.

“So, will you…?” he sounds unsure as he says these words, almost like he himself doesn’t know.

He sounds sincere enough. But as it stands you have two choices: give in easily at which point you may as well give up any hope in future of asking him for anything. Or you could just play hard to get so he knows it won’t be easy.

“I’ll think about” confidence flows through your voice, and along with a coy smirk on your lips.

Yoongi’s previously solemn expression is replaced by a crooked smile. He studies you quietly, making you wonder what he’s thinking. “I’ll give you five minutes”

“No. If that’s how long you think it takes to figure out whether I want to give you a chance, then my answer is no”.

“Fine. How long do you want?”

“It’s not about long I want Mr. Min. It’s about how long you are willing to wait” and without hearing his response you exit the car.

All Yoongi can do is stare at you open-mouthed-- stunned and in utter disbelief.

You didn’t know Yoongi would wait for two whole months. You didn’t expect him to keep it professional between you either

You also didn’t expect Min Yoongi to come to your desk at 2 pm and ask you to look over the designs for one of your clients.

“You look lovely today y/n” he stops next to your desk, holding out a file for you.

“I always look lovely” you take the file from him, dismissing his compliment because you’re sure he’s just buttering you up into doing something for him. Not that you wouldn’t if he hadn’t said anything.

“I mean it” his voice softens as he recognizes your disbelief. “Blue looks good on you’” he motions to your blue blouse, and looks you straight in the eyes. He doesn’t even flinch-- which means he actually probably means it.

You certainly don’t regret picking it out anymore. “Thank you”

“You’re very welcome.” he adds with a smile that stretches into a grin. “Oh and can you look this over. Please and thank you”

“I will” you nod. “Question for you”

“Anything” he half sits on your desk as he awaits your ask.

“Did you come here to give me the file or to tell me I look good?”

“I came here to tell you, you look beautiful if what you’re after is my motive” the corners of his mouth turn up in a soft flirty smile.

“I am. But I’ll also look at this” you gesture to the file in your hand.

He acknowledges your response with a nod as he turns around and starts towards his office.

“Mr. Min” you call out and he turns around. “That suit looks great on you”

It takes him a second to comprehend your words, but as soon as he does, he’s back to smiling. “Thank you y/n”

Just as easily he struts away, just as easily everyone around you is stunned into silence. It looks like a comic scene as everyone looks at Yoongi’s retreating figure with mouth’s agape.

“Did he flirt with you?” one of your coworker’s peers over the divide between your cubicles.

You look up at him. “Yes he did”

At 4 pm, you walk back to his office with your notes on the changes that should be made. You knock on the door once. He doesn’t answer so you take it as your cue to enter.

“Here are the notes” you hold out the file as you stop just in front of his desk.

“It’s already done?” Yoongi is forced to look up his work.

“Yes and yes”

“Okay. You can leave it on the desk” he goes back to his work.

You wait for him to catch on. But he doesn’t. So you start towards the door.

“Wait” he calls out. “Yes and Yes?”

You turn around, feeling giddy with anticipation.

“What’s the second yes for?” he looks at you puzzled.

“I guess you don’t want to go on that date anymore” you quirk a brow.

He closes his laptop and leans back in his chair. “Took you long enough”

“You reap what you sow Mr. Min”

“Is that right?” it’s rhetorical of course but you nod anyway.

He chuckles. “Let’s go “ he grabs his coat from the back of the chair and swings it around and on his shoulders.

You look at him puzzled. “Right now? What about work?”

“First, I am the boss so I make the rules and I say we go. Second, I made the mistake of offering you five minutes of time to make your decision. You really think I am going to give you a day or two for this date”

You can’t help but laugh. “In that case Mr. Min, let’s go”

He heads to the door first as you follow “After you” he opens it and you’re almost out of the door when he shuts the door. “Wait. I have to do something” he pulls you to himself, supporting you by the waist as he presses his lips to yours.

Maybe time stops when his lips meet yours. But the flutter in your stomach only intensifies. You feel weak in the knees. You hold onto the nape of Yoongi’s neck as your legs begin to tingle. Yoongi’s hands rest on your sides, and gently make their way up to cup your cheeks. You moan into his mouth, as his tongue dances against your lips.

Yoongi keeps his eyes slightly open as he pulls back for air. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming so he held onto you tighter, causing you to become aware of the contour of his body flush against yours. “I am sorry if I took you by surprise” he’s slightly breathless and flushed. “I wasn’t sure how the date would go and if I would get the chance to do this. If you don’t want to go anymore” he stops to lick his lips. “I would understand” he finishes.

“So you’re not an asshole after all” you look at him through the curtain of your eyelashes.

He raises a brow at you silently telling you to consider your wording as if you're treading on thin ice. “I am still your boss”

You shrug. “You lost the upper hand when you asked me out”

“I knew I liked you for a reason” he says while he takes a tiny step back to give you space and time to collect yourself.

“I think I might fall” your breathless voice takes you by surprise.

“You already have” he curls his fingers around yours.

Hand in hand you walk out of his office, causing ruckus in your wake as your coworkers gawk in disbelief at your departing figures. Because how could Mr.Min be acting like this? More importantly, how could Mr. Min be smiling like an absolute idiot.

I hope you enjoyed reading :) Don’t forget to like and reblog! Thank you for reading. 

[mrs-nate-humphrey]

ok so we have seen over and over again people's assumptions about how gg main characters's instagrams would look like but how do you think their secret tumblr blogs would be? 👀

hmm! i just went over tumblr in general, because i don’t think all of them would have ‘secret’ tumblrs per say? everyone’s thing under the cut, cause it got SO long. i did not mention chuck because i don’t rlly see chuck as having a tumblr in any universe tbh - i feel like he would think it takes away from his businessy vibe or something.

dan's main would be something with a ts eliot url, like, a snippet from one of his poems, or it would be a whitman url, a snippet from a poem again (i see him with a whitman url of some kind & maybe his blog title is an eliot reference.) dan would 100% have the whole dark academia thing going in some ways, i think his blog would be organised as a grid, and he would reblog pictures of libraries, museums, occasionally of art, and also, quotes. so many quotes. so much literature. if you've been on tumblr long enough you know exactly the kind of blog i'm talking about.

dan's tumblr sideblog, on the contrary, would have nothing to link it to him. it'd probably be the tumblr default theme, pastel colours or something... i feel like dan is the specific genre of trans kid who uses a different set of pronouns online for anonymity purposes and then goes "wait a minute i like these pronouns BETTER". his url would be something extremely mundane and random like coffeeaddict779 or something, and it would be all #vent and #dont reblog. nobody who's following his sideblog knows what his main is, and vice versa.

serena would i think have one of those "be kind, do no harm :)" kind of hipster tumblr blogs, except she's incredibly sincere. she wouldn't have a sideblog, i don't think? and i don't think she'd attach her name to it in any way, probably just pronouns in bio and maybe a 'call me S'. she and dan would be mutuals on dan's main! her blog will be very, uh. aesthetic pictures, reblogs of dolphin videos and music and WIP art videos and anything else that'll catch her eye. she'll tag blair in fashion vids, nate in sailing posts, dan in literary stuff, and vanessa in film related/photography related things. she's having fun! every now and then she'll post a vent post but it's extremely vague and it's either something everyone who knows her irl already knows about her ('i hate my mom so much') or something that says practically nothing ('i am so worried about my brother and wish i could do more to help him.')

jenny's fashion inspo blog!!!! what more do you want me to say. she'd make it big in the fashion community and get anons all the time and she'd probably also have an etsy where she sells things she's sewn and made. everyone sort of knows she's an up and coming designer and she'd find a good community online hopefully!!! her blog would be something simple, with a url like jennydesigns or something (i bet that's taken rn, i havent checked) and her theme would be one of those themes that allows for u to have big images. she would probably post vents in the same way serena does, tag them #personal or #rambles, and have that neat code that allows for the tag to be filtered out whenever anyone views her page on desktop, you know?

i think eric would not have anything specific that he posts. he would just reblog random things - memes, things he finds interesting, jenny's original posts, stuff serena tags him in, cat videos, lgbtq+ positivity, etc. he'd try and stay out of drama (i think he'd turn anon off eventually.) he’d also post a lot of music reblogs or links, i feel?

vanessa's main blog would be one where she posts her own photos and films. because she's professional about it, it'd probably just be @ vanessaabrams. she'd have a sideblog specifically for reblogging other people’s work because she wants to support other artists, and it would be vanessareblogs or something like that, and her bio would mention “main tumblr @ vanessaabrams”. she’d be much adored in the photo/film community and just in general, because she’s one of the few people who hypes up other creators all the time and leaves nice comments in tags and all that. every now and then serena reblogs vanessa’s photography onto her blog and it almost always blows up, but vanessa doesn’t mind. i don’t think vanessa would have a vent blog or even a personal tag, she gives me big ‘i wanna keep my business totally off the net’ kind of vibes.

nate’s blog would be a lot like serena’s except, uh, more openly wanderlusty i think. a LOT of ocean reblogs. every now and then he reblogs keroauc quotes from dan which the girls find extremely hilarious. he talks a lot about sailing and gets a lot of sailing anons. he’d reblog a lot of positivity (mostly because he knows his friends are following him and he wants to brighten up their dash.) dan and vanessa jokingly dm him weed aesthetic posts all the time, but every time they do he reblogs and tags it ‘sent to me’ or somehting like that, and they cant decide whether to be flattered or embarrased. i think nate would also attract a lot of anons who ask for advice and it is something he never expected people coming to him for, but he definitely listens and shares whatever he’s got to say all the same. he’s this blog who should be weirdly niche but everyone sort of knows him and likes him.

saving the best for the last, lol. i have SO many thoughts about blair’s tumblrs. 

i think she’d have a main tumblr that’s solely for classic film stuff (audrey! and more) and that’d be @ blairwaldorf, because, well, duh. i think she’d pay for a tumblr theme and get one of those really fancy and cute ones, like a floralcodes ms paint theme. i think she’d also have a sideblog that’s less serious, where she’d reblog things from tv shows, reblog things serena or nate have tagged her in, write her own meta for fandoms she’s in, just generally be a multifandom mess with a #personal tag but nothing too personal. it would still be classy, because she’s blair, but on this blog, she’s just a girl having fun.

and then she’d have a THIRD blog, a sideblog that doubles up as a vent blog. and this one isn’t linked to her other two in an obvious way, nobody knows it’s her, etc. on here she’d probably post a lot about her ed (but i think in a  ‘i am struggling and i want to bitch’ way, not in a thinspo way - that’s a whole conversation i have no spoons for, so let’s not go there), she’d post about her insecurities and worries but it would be extremely untraceable. she’d have a fancy theme on this one too, despite it being a vent blog. 

hm. now im thinking of the potential of like. dan and blair interacting super frequently on their vent blogs and neither of them knowing it’s the other person!

[sorrelchestnut]

EVERYBODY’S PICKIN’ UP ON THAT FELINE BEAT, PART 37

holy shit I finished a scene.  We’re really close to the end now, y’all.  That being said: this definitely ends on a cliffhanger.  Fair warning.

Part 1.  Part 2.  Part 3.  Part 4.  Part 5.  Part 6.  Part 7.  Part 8.  Part 9.  Part 10.  Part 11. Part 12.  Part 13.  Part 14.  Part 15.  Part 16.  Part 17.  Part 18.  Part 19. Part 20.  Part 21.  Part 22. Part 23. Part 24. Part 25. Part 26.  Part 27. Part 28. Part 29. Part 30. Part 31. Part 32. Part 33.  Part 34. Part 35. Part 36.

Title: everybody’s picking up on that feline beat Author: Sorrel Fandom: Fallout 4 Rating: Mature Warnings: None Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor Series: Part 3 of everybody wants to be a cat

Coffee helps; fresh air and sunshine helps more.  For someone who spends a significant majority of her life inside, underground, nocturnal, and/or just generally skulking around in the shadows, Whisper can be surprisingly solar-powered at times.  By the time they're over the river she's in almost obnoxiously high spirits, singing "Anything Goes" in a squeaky falsetto that makes him think longingly of the roll of duct tape in his pack.

"The world has gone mad today, and good's bad today, and black's white today, and day's night today-"

"Whisper, I swear to God-"

"And that gent today you gave a cent today once had sev-er-al chateaus!"

"Alright, Cole Porter, that's enough."  She grins wider and opens her mouth, and he hastily slaps a hand over it before she can start the next verse.  "No."

Her lips tickle against his palm as she grumbles, "You're no fun."

"What, because I like living?  You're going to bring down every raider in the greater Boston area, the way you're caterwaul- ow!  Fuck!"

She tucks her thumbs in the straps of her pack and gives him a cheerful, empty-headed smile, showing off the pearly white teeth she just sunk into the base of his thumb.  "Talk shit, get hit."

"Jesus, you're aggressive."  He studies his hand but doesn't find any sign of bleeding, just a neat row of stark white tooth marks rapidly flushing back pink.  "Whatever happened to licking my hand to gross me out?"

"Sometimes I can really tell you were an only child," she informs him, shaking her head faux-mournfully.  "You gotta go big or go home, that's my motto."

"Good thing we're going home, isn't it?"  When she squints at him, he smiles sunnily and holds his injured hand a couple inches above her head.  "I mean, 'big' isn't exactly your strong suit, so..."

She launches herself at him with a war cry.

Bickering aside, they straighten up when they come into sight of Diamond City, falling into character as a pair of road-weary mercenaries coming off an all-night hike and desperate for a shower and some sleep.  (Which, to be fair, isn't that far off from the truth, all things considered.)  They're both in costume already, not that that took long.  All Whisper had to do was slick back her hair and throw on a pair of sunglasses and hey presto: Olivia Bailey, ruins-rover extraordinaire.  Next to her all Deacon has to do is look suitably grizzled and road-weary, so he pretty much just tossed the least-disgusting raider's jacket on over his travel clothes and smeared some dust artistically through his stubble and called it a goddamn day.

It certainly works well enough on the second-shift gate guard, a pockmarked woman with nicotine stains on her fingers.  She waves them through with a disinterested nod, already going back to her book before they even clear the gate.  Deacon squashes down the contrary impulse to make some kind of scene and just nods back, professional and cool, as he wraps an arm around Whisper's shoulder.  She gives him a little sideways look that says I know what you're doing but doesn't bother to pull away until they're in the tunnel.

Deacon looks around and then back to her, pointedly.  Whisper huffs a laugh.

"What now?"

"Nothing," he says, and waggles his eyebrows.  "It's just… here we are again.  Where it all started.  Back to the site of our fateful first meeting."

Her eyes narrow.  "Weren't you the one who said-"

"Mm, yeah, but I've had time to think about it, and I think you made a compelling point.  First contact is definitely the first one that counts."

"You just don't want to 'fess up on just how long you were following me around."

"Why, partner, I'm hurt that you would think of such a thing," he says, and moves swiftly on before she can call him on the obvious evasion.  "You know, you keep bringing me back here, I'm going to start thinking you've got a secret romantic streak."  She gives him a look.  "Very secret."

"That's me, all hearts and flowers," says quite the most ruthlessly practical woman Deacon's ever met.  "Besides, if I was going to start up with romantical remembrances at this late date, that wouldn't be the one I'd pick.  I was so sleep-deprived I'm lucky I remembered my own name."

"Couldn't tell to look at you," Deacon says, in massive understatement.  She was all easy swagger and magazine-cover grin, on her way to bigger and better things.  She sure as shit didn't look like she was running on the ragged edge of her endurance - but then, he knows better than most just how well she can lie with a smile.

She glances over at him as they break out of the tunnel, her gaze shrewd over the rim of her shades.  "You remember it pretty well, huh?"

Nope, nuh-uh, not going there.  "Your hair was longer," Deacon says, tweaking the end of one of her curls in a transparent bid for distraction.  "I remember that for sure."

"Well, yeah," she says, ducking neatly around a kid that seems really intent on wherever she's running.  "You told me to cut it."

"I did?"  He definitely doesn't remember that.  "When?"

"When we were prepping for the Covenant op.  You said blonde, I said I had to grab some bleach, and you gave me that 'oh honey' look you do when people are being particularly stupid and told me to just cut it off, you had a spare wig lying around someplace."

That does sound like him.  "And you just did it?" he says, because Whisper is a lot of things, but 'obedient' sure as shit isn't one of them.

"You were brandishing a knife when you said it," she admits.  "It seemed easier to give in than argue."

Yeah, that definitely sounds like him.  Especially then: that must've been, what, their first week together?  Back then everything was one long haze of exhaustion, staggering from one crisis to the next with barely enough time to take a shit.  Hauling her into the Covenant op was a desperation play, pure and simple: he needed backup, and anyone had to be better than Glory.  He hadn't known, then, what she could do with nothing more than a smile and a little room to work.

Though he figured it out pretty damn quick.

"I'd say it worked out," he says, and tweaks her dark hair again.  "You do make a fetching blonde."

She gives him a look over the tops of her shades, knowing and a bit amused.  "They do have more fun."

Aaaand now he's thinking about their first time, that silver dress pushed up around her thighs, blonde wig spilling across the mattress above her and blue eyes begging him in the dark.  He clears his throat.  "You want to go talk to Valentine?"

"In a bit," she says, and wraps her arm around his waist.  He automatically puts his arm around her in turn, and she leans her head on his shoulder, a picture-perfect image of a lovesick spouse.  "Need to make the rounds, hit up a few of the merchants first.  It'd be weird if I didn't."

"God forbid we look weird," he agrees, and laughs at her elbow in his stomach.

~*~

She does break off eventually, slips away to discuss things with Valentine and leaves him with a key and strict instructions to take care of dinner.  Deacon makes a quick loop of his own, touching base with the runners they placed last time and offloading some of their scav while he's at it.  Myrna's girl has been promoted to working the afternoon shift solo, and is more than happy to take a few extra minutes dickering in order to fill him in on the local gossip.  He rounds it off with a visit to the Dugout where the cocky one is still serving drinks - Deacon makes a note to collect the ten caps from Whisper later - and picks up some dinner to go on his way out.  Never let it be said he can't follow orders when it suits him.

He's setting out the plates when Whisper follows him in just a few minutes later with a slammed door and a cheerful, "Hallo the house!" from the far end of her little warehouse.

"Kitchen!" he calls back, and a moment later she appears, weaving her way through the stacked boxes and dropping a noticeably emptier pack on the floor by the stove.

"Need a hand?"

The food's pretty much done, so he tilts his head to the table with a hopeful, "Something to drink?"

"I've got just the thing," and she grabs her pack again, fishing around inside until she comes up with a couple bottles of Bobrov's homebrew.  "I tried to catch you at the Dugout but Vadim said you just left.  Good enough?"

"We-ell, everyone knows a dry white pairs best with seafood, but for day-old mirelurk I suppose it will just have to do."

"You're trying to ruin my appetite but it's not working," she informs him, nose in the air.  "I'm so hungry I'd eat a mirelurk raw."

He laughs and nudges in behind her as she turns to grab a bottle opener.  "C'mon, darlin', don't be like that.  You know it's only the best for my girl."

"Flatterer," she says, nothing in her voice now but laughter.  "You talk any sweeter, I'm gonna be forced to check those lips for honey."

"Aw, babe.  You say the - ha ha - sweetest things."  He buries his nose in the back of her neck and inhales.  "I get the cigarettes, but why do you smell like one of Tom's experiments?  Hot metal and burnt wiring," he clarifies, when she gives him a truly weird look.

"Oh, I stopped by Piper's after I talked to Nick," she says, all offhand as if she's not talking about the biggest gossip in the Commonwealth.

Deacon unpeels himself from her back and takes her by the shoulders.  "Whisper," he says, seriously.  "Do we need to have a conversation about operational security?  Because I feel like you may have been out that day."

"Oh, so you want her to come by and harangue me in person?  Because that is one hundred percent what she'd do if she heard I was in town and didn't go see her first."

Okay, so maybe she has a point.  The thought of Piper fucking Wright showing up at his door - well, Whisper's door, whatever - demanding to know his intentions toward her friend… Yeah, no.  That's gonna be a haaaard pass.

Whisper grins at him, the devil in her eyes.  He knows that look.  "Whisper-"

"Ohhhh, I see what this is about."

"Fear," he assures her, trying to head whatever this is off at the pass, "this is a very healthy and reasonable level of fear," but she's on her way to a punchline and won't be deterred.

"You're a fan!" she declares, over his groan of protest.  "Aww, sweetheart, why didn't you say something earlier?  I could totally arrange an introduction for you."

"Ahhh, no thanks," Deacon manages, through the bolt of terror that thought inspires.  "Little-known fact, spies are in fact allergic to reporters?  Like, clinically.  The hives are brutal."

She takes pity on him and gives way with a laugh, her eyes crinkling up at the corners.  "Don't worry, babe, I'll protect you."

"You're the best."

"And don't you forget it."  She pops open one of the bottles one-handed, handing it off to him with a cheery flourish.  "Besides, you don't wanna bitch too much about my girl Piper.  Her caps bought you this booze."

"I take it back, she's my new favorite person.  After your radiant self, of course."  He takes a swig and passes it back, enjoying the flush of boozy heat down through his chest as he turns back to the stove.  After a moment's consideration, he adds a couple extra tatos to the pan.  If they're drinking Bobrov's then he definitely wants to lay down a hearty base.  "Something interesting afoot?"

"Mhm?"

"Your payout from Wright.  Anything I should know about?"

She wobbles her flat hand side-to-side, a wordless eh.  "Not really.  Just a side project I've been working on."

Interesting.  It's not as if they tell each other everything they get up to - he certainly has any number of moving parts at any given moment she's not read in on, and this business with Hancock gave him a good idea about how much he doesn't know about her adventures - but the fun stuff, yeah, that's usually share and share alike.  Then again, maybe it's a leftover from her little enforced vacation back in August.  He's mostly kept his nose out of whatever she was up to those weeks in hopes she'll do him the same courtesy, so there's a gap in his intel.

"Very mysterious," he teases, nudging a little.  "C'mon, not even a hint for your faithful partner?"

She refuses to be nudged, only smiles faintly and hunches one shoulder into a lopsided shrug.  "You can read it in the paper tomorrow like everyone else."

"Way harsh."

"That's me, cruel and unusual."  She passes him back a plate with an absent kiss to his scruffy cheek.  "C'mon, quit fondling that pot holder and get me some supper.  I'm starving."

~*~

It's a good night, maybe the best he's had in a while.  Deacon sort of figured she'd be distracted, mind on her mission tomorrow, but instead it's the opposite: for the first time in what seems like weeks, he has her full and undivided attention, and he basks in it like winter sunshine.  They trade stories and quips, mostly things they've told each other a dozen times over but still fresh, still funny, still so much fun to watch her trying out a new spin, a new angle.  She's so fucking good at that, always has been.  Yet another thing Deacon never needed to teach her, but damn does he never get tired of watching her reinvent herself on the fly.

Deacon, for his part, finds himself mugging shamelessly for her attention, chasing her approval as fervently as any junkie he's ever pretended to be.  And unlike a junkie Deacon gets what he's craving in spades, because she's as generous with her smiles as she is with her stories, lounging back in her chair with her glass in her hand, thighs sprawled wide and her voice gone syrup-slow with that insinuating smirk that only ever spurs him on.

Later, he doesn't entirely remember how they end up in bed.  The booze turns everything smeary and soft-focus, like light coming in through a stained-glass window, and his memory preserves only a series of snapshots: pulling Whisper into his lap, her startled yelp of laughter muffled with his mouth.  Making out on the landing, one foot braced a step down to put him closer to her height, his fingers busy on her shirt buttons and hers on his belt buckle.  Tumbling into bed in a snarl of limbs, laughingly disentangling them until Whisper tugs him up over her in the dark.  Burying his face in the sweat-slicked curve of her neck as he works his cock inside of her, her blunt nails scoring lines down the length of his back and her heels digging into the backs of his thighs to urge him on.  The flicker of the candlelight playing across her lush mouth and her dark, shadowed eyes, her damp hair clinging to her forehead as she tosses her head back against the pillows.  The low breathy rasp of her voice, "Deacon," murmured against his ear, "Deacon, Deacon, please-"

And then when he wakes up, he's alone.

The radio downstairs is playing “The Wanderer,” and Deacon lies there for a moment, listening to the clatter of the rain against the windows, experiencing an overwhelming surge of deja vu.

Then he hauls himself out of bed, picks up his boots, and goes in search of his wayward accomplice.

Unlike last time, there's no pint-sized partner clattering around in the kitchen, cooking breakfast and dancing around like temptation on two legs.  The room is cool and dim, only the faint mid-morning sunshine straggling in through an upper window to light the way, and the only sign of habitation is the soft strains of the radio.  Deacon does a quick check in the warehouse section just in case - have the boxes been breeding back there? - but the only sign of life in here is him.  Most damningly of all, Whisper's pack is gone from the hook beside the door, leaving his looking lopsided next to the empty space where its partner used to be.

Do not project onto an inanimate object, Deacon my lad, he tells himself, and checks the counter next to the radio, where he previously saw a pad and a pencil half-buried under a precarious stack of ammo boxes.  Sure enough, there's a note there, torn loose from the pad and folded into thirds with John scrawled across the front in unfamiliar handwriting that must belong to Liv.

She's just keeping cover, not stupid enough to write anything else out here in the open where anyone could walk in and see it, but Deacon still stares at it for a long moment, that single syllable knocking around somewhere at the bottom of his ribs.  Then he shakes his head at himself, reaches out, and unfolds the note.

hey handsome, you looked so peaceful i couldn't bring myself to wake you.  at least one of us should get to sleep in, and nick had me up with the sun.  (you know what he's like when he's on a case!)  shouldn't take long though, just a quick run down to goodneighbor and fingers crossed we'll be back by supper.  take care of my best guy while i'm gone.  xoxo, liv

The radio changes to “One More Tomorrow,” and Deacon glares at it as he folds up the note.  Reading between the breezy, heavily fictionalized lines, it's clear enough she decided to handle this Kellogg business solo.  Which is… fair enough, he supposes, but something about it doesn't sit square.  Did she think he would have told her no, if she asked him to stay put?  He thought he made it pretty clear the whole thing was hers to handle or not as she saw fit.  Or maybe she just thought it'd be too awkward, having him up in her business like that?  Maybe after their last op, she's about had her fill of personal.  He couldn't blame her if that's the case, but he hopes she knows the last thing he'd ever want to do is make things harder for her.

Well, there's not much he can do about it either way, not with her at least a few hours ahead of him, judging by the sun, and definitely not with her clear instruction to sit tight.  Waiting isn't much his favorite part and he didn't really plan to be hanging out in Diamond City all day, but Deacon's an adaptable fellow; he'll find a way to keep himself occupied.

The market is bustling at this hour of the morning, and Deacon lets the crowd carry him along, thinking vaguely about picking up some noodles for breakfast and then maybe having a wander around.  It's not great for his cover to spend so much time out and about on his own, but with the right sidelong look most people will probably assume she's sleeping off a wild night, which would be great for his ego, at least.  Besides, there's really no substitute for market gossip when it comes to keeping a pulse on the goings-on in the Commonwealth, which is what he plans to tell Dez if she gives him shit for the wasted day.  Not that she will, because if Deacon has his way she'll never hear about any of this, but he likes having a contingency plan in place.  Makes him feel all nice and comfy.

It's when he's looping around the counter in search of an open stool that he catches the familiar sound of Piper Junior hawking her wares at full volume.  Which is funny, 'cause by his calculation they're not due for another issue for at least a week.  Normally Piper's pretty regular with the print, except-

Deacon gets a sinking sensation in his chest.

-except when she has something too juicy to wait and damn it, Whisper, what the hell are you up to?

Normally the last place he wants to be is anywhere near someone named Wright, but since his partner has been up to shenanigans without bothering to inform him first, he figures that in this case 'better safe than sorry' means getting out ahead of whatever nonsense Whisper's been cooking up rather than running the other way.  He makes sure to pull his cap low over his eyes, hitches his pack higher on his shoulders, and sidles over towards the Public Occurrences like he just doesn't have anything better to do.

"Extra, extra, read all about it!  Minutemen General has the tell-all of the century!"

Oh, it's Minutemen business.  Geez, why didn't she just say so?  If she's running some propaganda job for Garvey, the last thing he'd want to do is get in her way.  It was obvious they needed something after the trip to the Slog the other week, and throwing Piper at the problem is probably the most efficient way to get the word out.  Half the damn Commonwealth reads her paper at some point or another, even if it's just so they can tell themselves how wrong she is.

Still, Whisper did tell him he'd find out today, so she probably expects him to read up on whatever it is.  He snatches a paper off the top of the stack and flips it over, scanning for the headline.

Woman out of Time: Savior of the Minutemen Tells All About Life Before the Bomb!

"-not the current General," Little Wright's saying, when Deacon manages to stop staring at the paper and drag his attention back to the real world.  "The first one, the one that retook the Cast- hey!"

Deacon finds the paper snatched right from his hands, a pint-sized version of a familiar glare beaming up at him.  "You gotta pay before you read," Little Wright informs him.  "We're not running a charity here!"

"Uh, right," says Deacon, who still feels like he's hearing everything underwater, slow-motion and echoing strangely.  "What's the deal with this General, then?"

"Didn'tcha see the headline?  She's from before the War!  Vault froze her in cryo, right here in the Commonwealth!"

Vault 111.  Oh, fuck.   Ohhhh fuck.

"So you gonna buy or just stand there and stare?"  Little Wright brandished the paper at him.  "Hot off the presses!  Only ten caps, and you can be the first to know!"

[densi-mber]

Crush

A/N: This takes places in the semi-near future. For today’s prompt: Kensi or Deeks as a teacher. This fic represents what happens when my mind runs wild with an idea.

***

“Hey, can I call you back in about an hour and a half?” Deeks asked as he jogged down a flight of stairs to the third floor. “I have office hours starting in a few minutes.”

“Sure. Good luck with the gremlins,” Kensi answered. He rolled his eyes, nodding to a passing professor.

“Kens, they’re in they’re 20’s. You have to stop calling my students things like gremlins and children.”

He walked into the small office where he spent his time when he wasn’t teaching Contract Law to thirty or so L1 students. He dropped his bag by the desk, and slipped his jacket off, rolling his sleeves up a few times so he wouldn’t end up getting ink or chalk on the fabric. His dry cleaning bills had definitely increased since he started wearing dress shirts and ties again.

A little less than a year before, when he’d be aimlessly looking for a job, one of his former classmates had suggested teaching until he found something more permanent. Deeks had balked at the idea initially, but eventually given when it became clear that he needed to work and his other options were unavailable.

He’d never anticipated how much he would enjoy it. Now he taught three classes throughout the week at Loyola Law school as an adjunct professor. It was strangely satisfying to have a hand in teaching the next batch of lawyers.

“All I’m saying is that they look a lot younger that I did at that age.” Deeks snorted at Kensi’s completely inaccurate observation as he wrote a few notes on the blackboard that took up most of the back wall.

“You were just a baby when I met you,” he teased.

“Yet you still married me,” Kensi pointed out.

“Ooh, touché.” He heard a noise behind him and glanced over his shoulder. “Oops, gotta go. See you at dinner.” Deeks hung up, turning around completely to face one of his students, Mallory Baten.

She was lingering in the doorway and if Deeks didn’t know better, he would have thought she was hesitating. But that didn’t align with the young woman he knew. Mallory was one of the most outspoken and confident students in the class. She also had a biting sense of humor that Deeks found hilarious.

“Hey Mallory, what can I do for you?” he asked, gesturing for her to take a seat. Again she hesitated a little before pulling up one of the metal chairs situated opposite his desk.

“I had a few questions about Monday’s lecture, Mr. Deeks,” she said, pulling out a thick, color coded binder. The sight of it always reminded him of his own college experience and made him slightly nauseous. He did not miss the stress of studying and exams.

Deeks dragged his chair over with his foot and sat down with his forearms braced against the back, waiting for her to continue.

Brushing her light blond hair back from her neck, Mallory flipped to a page from the last class notes. Deeks instantly recognized her small, neat handwriting covering the majority of the paper.

“So, I was rereading the section on unjust enrichment and I wondered if you could clarify the concept. The text book had some examples, but I thought it was a little lacking,” she said, pointing to her notes.

Deeks tilted his head, quickly scanned her notes and nodded. It was a fairly simple concept, but Mallory tended to be exceedingly thorough. She was one of five or six students who regularly attended his office hours.

“Ok, so unjust enrichment essentially says that if I provide you with a service or product, I deserve compensation. Even if you end a contract early or have an issue with how I provided the service, you still need to provide compensation for those services or produces you received,” he explained.

“Even if the services or products weren’t satisfactory?” she asked, writing something in the corner of the page.

“Well, that would fall under a different part of contract law and would be considered a breach of contract. Assuming there was a legitimate contract to begin with. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, it does, Mr. Deeks.”

“Awesome, I’ll see you on Wednesday,” Deeks said, grabbing a stack of homework assignments that needed grading from the end of his desk while Mallory packed up her binder.

“Actually, I have one more question,” Mallory said. He glanced up, mildly surprised to find her standing over her desk. “Do you want to have dinner with me tonight?”

Deeks froze, sure he’d heard her wrong.

“Do I-what are you asking me?”

“I’m asking you to go out to dinner. On a date.” Her cheeks were a little flushed, but her gaze didn’t waver.

“You know, I’m married, right?” he asked a little desperately. He saw Mallory’s eyes flick to his ring and then back to his face, and she nodded.

“I know.”

“And I’m your teacher.”

“You’re also really hot,” she said bluntly and he felt his cheeks fill with heat. “Plus you’re funny, caring, and my god, your muscles are incredible. Sometimes I come to office hours just to watch the you move.”

Mallory seemed past the point of embarrassment, but he wished a hole would open up in the floor. Or he could throw himself out a window. Unfortunately, his office didn’t have one so he’d have to actually face this. It didn’t help that Mallory was now openly checking him out.

Suppressing a groan, he turned in a half circle, pinching the bridge of his nose as tried to figure out what to say. The continuing ed classes he’d taken hadn’t prepared him for this possibility at all.

“Mart-Mr. Deeks, are you ok?” He almost laughed at the question.

He turned back around to face Mallory again, balancing a on hand on his hip. She looked a little more uncertain again and was watching him avidly.

“Well, this is, uh, wow.” He cleared his throat noisily and tried again. “While this is incredibly, um, flattering, I think we both know that nothing is going to happen between us. For a multitude of reasons,” he said as gently as he could.

“We could still just go out for dinner,” she suggested hopefully. “As friends.”

“No, we can’t,” Deeks said firmly. “Now we should go talk to the dean about getting you transferred to another class section for the remainder of the semester.”

***

“Hey baby,” Kensi greeted him at home later that day, punctuating it with a kiss. “How was work?”

“An unmitigated disaster,” he sighed. He dropped his bag by the door, and flopped onto the couch. Kensi sat next to him and grabbed his hand with a look of concern.

“What happened? Everything seemed fine when I talked to you earlier today.” Deeks groaned, silently reliving the last few hours.

“One of my students hit on me today.” If he’d expected Kensi to react with outrage, he was about to be disappointed. She visibly relaxed beside him, smacking his arm with the back of her hand.

“Why didn’t you lead with that? You had me really worried,” she said, shaking her head at his apparent lack of consideration.

“The fact that a 23 year old asked me out to dinner doesn’t bother you at all?” Deeks asked. Kensi shrugged.

“I figured it was only a matter of time.” Deeks gave her a look and she rolled her eyes at him. “For someone who claims to be a reformed lady’s man, you are ridiculously oblivious when someone is flirting with you. Half the women in your class have a crush on you.”

“No they don’t.” Kensi actually laughed at his protest, patting his arm with false sympathy.

“Uh, yeah they do, babe. Every time I’ve visited you at work, there are no less than three students staring at you at any time. Sometimes even a couple teachers,” she said, clearly enjoying this more than she had any right to.

“Ugh, now I’m going to be thinking about these kids checking me out during class,” he groaned. “This sucks.”

“You’re not even a little bit flattered?” she asked with mild surprised. He shrugged. Maybe he would have been at one time, but now it just seemed weird and a little creepy.

“I might be if I wasn’t old enough to be their father.” Kensi squinted at him and he clarified, “If I had them really young.”

“I’m sure they don’t think of you in a fatherly way.” Deeks made a face at that and gave a full-body shudder.

“Well, thanks for that horrible thought,” he said dryly. “And here I just thought they all loved my teaching.”

“Well, I’m sure they appreciate that too.” Kensi smirked at him as he pouted, running her fingers through his hair. “It’s all your own fault, you know.”

“How is this my fault? I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“You can’t walk around all day in tight shirts and pants with your sleeves rolled up and not expect to get noticed,” she said, leaning in and gliding her nose across his jaw. She inhaled deeply. “You look good enough to eat.” As she spoke, her hand drifted up his bare forearm to cup his bicep. It was a fairly innocent touch, but he still felt a shiver work its way up his spine.

“Is that an offer?” he asked, thoughts of Mallory quickly leaving his mind. Kensi walked her fingers up his arm and across his chest, pausing at his collar. She fiddled with the button on his collar and then slowly tugged his tie free.

“It’s a promise,” she said, the husky note in her voice incredibly sexy. Deeks settled his hands on her hips as she rose up on her knees and straddled his thighs. Smiling down at him, she brushed her hair back, the glossy strands dancing around her shoulder, and slipped the top button free on his shirt. Then she looked up, her expression playful, and added, “For later.”

“That’s cruel,” he complained. “Especially when I’ve had such a terrible day. It was mortifying.”

“So how much did you freak out when she asked you out?” she asked slyly.

“I handled it with all the finesse and professionalism that you would expect from a former criminal defendant, detective, and federal liaison,” Deeks said with mock solemnity and Kensi raised an eyebrow at him.

“Really?” Her voice was filled with disbelief.

“Yeah, no, I kept hoping a freak tornado or earthquake would come along and put me out of my misery.”

“So, I don’t have to worry about you running off with any promising young law students?” Deeks rolled his eyes at Kensi’s question. He thought she was mostly joking, but just in case, he cupped her jaw between his palms, cradling the back of her head and firmly kissed her. She made a noise of surprise in the back of her throat that quickly turned to satisfaction.

“Never. They’ll just have to find another incredibly attractive, middle aged teacher to chase after.” He kissed her again. When they pulled back, Kensi was smirking at him as she fiddled with his collar.

“You’re an idiot, but I love you anyway,” she said, pulling him back down to her.

***

A/N: I know nothing about law, other than what I googled.

[tanyawritesstories]

No Time Like The Present | Fives x reader

This is the very first fic I’ve ever posted! Exciting but also nerve wracking. Please leave comments and feedback, I would love constructive criticism or just plain criticism as long as it helps. I got permission to tag @hxldmxdxwn and @smokahuntis​ , professional fic writers and readers to review my first piece. Thank you both for letting me tag you! I hope you enjoy my very first fanfiction!

Warnings: None really, just fluff. Hardcase getting drunk, Fives being a chaotic boi. 

“To the 501st!” The shout from the 6 men could be heard throughout every square foot of 79s. Were they celebrating anything, who knew. Did the boys of the 501st need a reason to celebrate?

“Cn we git anotherr round, (y/n) cyar’ika?” Hardcase slurred. “Only if you stop calling me cyar’ika?” You bargained. Hardcase hummed in thought. “Aight cyare,” he smirked. You cocked an eyebrow at him. Sure his words annoyed you but you couldn’t be mad at the inebriated trooper, you knew he wasn't normally like this.

“Hey, only I can call (y/n) ‘cyare’.” You looked to the right of Hardcase and saw your boyfriend Fives approaching the bar. "S ok Fives, I didn mean anythin m jus tryin a get a drink," Hardcase stumbled over his words. "I'll get your drink, you go back to the booth with the rest," Fives assured. Hardcase slipped off his barstool and nearly fell straight to the floor, luckily Fives managed to catch him before that. "Jesse, come help me with him," Fives called over his shoulder. The trooper in question got out of the booth and made his way to the bar. "C'mon vod, let's sit you down," Jesse said as he took Hardcase's arm and slung it over his shoulders. You and Fives watched as Jesse, with the help of Kix and Echo, managed to get Hardcase to sit down properly.

"Are you sure you want to give him another drink?" You questioned. "Just fill some shot glasses with water, he'll never know the difference," your boyfriend told you. You chuckled. "I'm surprised you're not drinking more." Fives leaned his elbows on the bar top. "Normally I would but I plan on taking someone home to my bed tonight and it's not easy when completely sloshed." "Yes, I know full well how you perform when drunk," you teased. Fives smirked mischievously, "Keep mocking me like that and I might sober up completely." You shot him a wink before walking to another part of the bar to help a customer. Once you got him a drink, you filled a few shot glasses with water and returned to Fives. "As per request for your extremely intoxicated brethren," you said as you sat the glasses down. "Thank you, cyare." You crossed your arms and leaned on the bar, "So, are you gonna tell me these plans that involve you, me, and your bed?" Fives stood up and took the glasses in his hands. "Control yourself, (y/n). We're in public," he joked, turning and making his way back to his booth. You gaped at his back as he walked away. “That’s rich coming from you trooper!” You called after him. Fives merely turned around and blew you a kiss.

~~~~

It had been a couple hours and the nightlife was still going strong. Echo and Dogma had volunteered to take Hardcase back to the barracks so Jesse, Kix, and Fives could have fun without having to watch him. After spending much time with his brothers, Fives had resorted to bugging you at the bar as your shift was nearing an end.

“Can’t you just leave 15 minutes early?” Your boyfriend whined. “No, Avi will be here soon to take my place, you can wait.” You finished making a drink and slid it to a customer a few seats down. “But I don’t want to wait that long." Fives rested his head in one hand while the other toyed with a little skewer that had held the fruit in the last drink you gave him. You moved to the opposite side of the bar and Fives couldn’t help but stare at you as you made another drink.

An idea popped into his head and a smug grin formed on his face as he thought about it. He put the skewer in between his thumb and index finger and used his other index finger to flick the skewer in your direction. He had planned on hitting you in the shoulder to get your attention but you moved at the last second, the tiny skewer hitting a clone officer in the chest. Fives’ eyes widened and he pretended to be looking at a drink menu to avoid suspicion. He continued to stare at the menu like it was the most interesting thing in the room until he noticed you had come to stand in front of him once again.

“How much time have I got?” He looked at the clock. “Ten minutes,” he answered. You sighed, couldn’t the time go any faster? Fives was just about to ask you for another drink when a new song started playing. He knew this song, it was one of his favorites! He looked around, taking note of the other two bartenders also working with you. “(Y/n) come dance with me.” You tilted your head to the side, “Babe, can’t you wait nine minutes?” “No I can’t, I like this song,” he protested. “I’m sure it’ll play again later.” He leaned halfway over the bar. “But I want to dance with you right now,” he pouted. You put your hands on the edge of the bar and locked eyes with your desperate boyfriend. “Fives, I’d love to dance with you but-“ “Good! No time like the present!” He exclaimed.

Before you could do anything, Fives had grabbed under your arms, lifted you up, and dragged you over the bar top. “Fives!” You yelped. You grabbed onto his shoulders to stabilize yourself as he pulled you, unknowingly knocking over a couple people’s drinks with your feet. He moved one arm to support your upper back and the other arm under your knees as you slid the rest of the way into his arms. He proceeded to carry you to the dance floor as several angry clones shouted from behind him. “I think they’re mad that you spilled their drinks,” you said as Fives set you down on your feet. “Nah, they’re just mad I get to have you and they don’t.” You shook your head in amusement and put your arms around his neck. “Without you my life would be so incredibly boring,” you disclosed. Fives put his hands on your hips and nudged you closer to him. “Are you saying I’m the best boyfriend you’ve ever had?” “I’m saying you’re the best boyfriend in the galaxy,” you said, pecking a kiss on his nose. “I am honored and flattered, my dear,” he said as he squeezed your hips and began swaying you both with the music. You laid your head on his chest and sighed contently, a smile automatically coming to your face. Fives smiled at your loving gesture and moved his hands to the middle of your back, placing a kiss to the top of your head.

The two of you swayed slowly to the next few songs, each of you enjoying the other's embrace. You lifted your head, your faces only centimeters from each other, “I love you, Fives.” “I love you too, (y/n),” he said with a smile. You stared lovingly into each other’s eyes before you both moved at the same time and your lips connected in a sweet and loving kiss. You hummed happily against his lips and he moved his hand to the back of your neck, deepening the connection. You could feel some of the unruly hairs of his usually neat beard tickling your chin and you giggled, prompting Fives to break away. “What’s so funny?” He asked, moving his hand to your cheek. “Oh nothing. My shift is probably over now, huh?” “Yes, I think it is. Go clock out and meet me by the door,” he kissed your forehead before letting you go to clock out and gather your things.

You met him by the door as you slung a bag over your shoulder. Fives pushed himself off the wall he was leaning on. “You ready to go?” “Yes, where are we off to?” Fives offered you his arm and you linked your arm with his. “I don’t know about you,” Fives said as you exited the club with him, “But I got a celebration invitation from my bed, I believe it sent one to you as well.” You both stopped at the platform to wait for transportation and you stepped in front of Fives. “Hmm, I never got any invitation,” you stated. “Then maybe you need a password to get in,” he challenged playfully, taking a step towards you. “Would that password happen to be CT-5555?” You questioned, also taking a step closer. “Yes, it is,” he concluded. Your lips clashed with the Arc troopers once again in a passionate kiss that held promises of more than just dancing.

[fourteenaway]

Little Lion Man | The Story of Cary / Part III

tw: rape, infidelity, pregnancy, stepcest

Exactly at seven-thirty that night, the door chimes sounded, punched by an impatient finger, forcing Caren to hurry lest the man waken Cary who hadn't liked being put to bed at such an early hour.

If she had taken pains to look her best, so had Harry. He strode in as if he already owned the place and her. He left behind a drift of shaving lotion with a piney forest scent, and every hair on his head was carefully in place, making her wonder if he had a thinning spot. She figured she’d find out for herself sooner or later.

She took his coat and hung it in the hall closet, then sashayed over to the bar where she busied herself as he sat down before the log fire she had burning nothing had been overlooked; She even had soft music playing.

By this time Caren knew enough about men and the ways of pleasing them best. There wasn't a man alive who wasn't charmed by a lovely woman bustling about, eager to wait on him, pamper and wine and dine him, if you asked her.

“Name your weakness, Harry."

"Scotch."

"On the rocks?"

"Neat."

He watched her every movement, which was deliberately graceful and deft. Then, turning her back she mixed a fruity drink for myself, lacing it lightly with vodka. And with her two little stemmed goblets on a silver tray, Caren seductively ambled his way, leaning to give him an enticing view of her braless bosom. She sat across from him and swung one leg over the other to allow the long slit of her rose-colored dress to open and expose one leg from silver sandal midway to the hip. He couldn't take his eyes off it. 

"Sorry about the glasses,” Caren said smoothly, well pleased with his expression, "I don't have room in this cottage to unpack everything I own. Most of my crystal is in storage and I have here only wine glasses and water goblets."

"Scotch is scotch no matter how it's served. And what in the world is that thing you're sipping?" By this time he'd shifted his gaze to the low V of her gown.

"Well, you take orange juice freshly squeezed, a dab of lemon juice a dash of vodka, bit of coconut oil, and drop in a cherry to dive after. I call it A Maiden's Delight."

After a few minutes of conversation, they drifted to the dining table, not so far from the fireplace, to eat by candlelight. Every so often he'd drop his fork, or spoon, or she would, and both of them would go for it, then laugh to see who was fastest. Caren was, every time. He was much too distracted to spot a missing fork or spoon when a neckline opened up so obligingly.

"This is delicious chicken," he said after demolishing five hours of hard labor in about ten minutes. "Usually I don't like chicken-where'd you learn to prepare this dish?"

Caren told him the truth, “A Russian dancer taught me, she was on tour over here, and we liked each other. She and her husband stayed with Leeland and me, and we'd cook together whenever we weren't dancing or shopping or touring. It took four chickens to feed four people. Now you know the nasty truth about dancers; when it comes to eating we are not in the least dainty. That is, after a performance. Before we go on we have to eat very lightly."

He smiled and leaned across the small drop-leaf table. Candlelight was in his eyes, sparkling them devilishly.

"Caren, tell me honestly why you came to live in this hick town and why you've got your heart set on me for a lover."

"You flatter yourself," Caren said in her most aloof manner, thinking she was very successful in appearing cool on the outside while inside she was a web of conflicting emotions. It was almost as if she had stage fright and was in the wings waiting to go on. And this was the most important performance of her life. Then almost magically she felt she was on stage. She didn't have to think of how to act or what to say to charm him and make him forever hers. The script had been written a long time ago when she was hidden and first found out her mother had married him. 

"You're not being honest with yourself," Harry said softly, "You know better than anyone where that missing piece is, or I wouldn't be here."

His voice was so low and seductive as he stood and took her into his arms to dance.

Caren put her head on his shoulder as they went on dancing, "You're wrong, Harry, I don't know why you're here. I don't know how to fill my days. When I'm teaching class and when I'm with my son, then I'm alive-but when he's in bed and I'm alone, I don't know what to do with myself. I know Cary needs a father, and when I think of his father I realize I've always managed to do the wrong thing. I've read my reviews that rave about the potential I had... but in my personal life I've made only mistakes, so what I accomplished professionally doesn't matter at all." 

Caren stopped moving her feet and sniffled, then tried to hide her face, but he tilted it upward, then dried my tears and held his handkerchief so she could blow her nose. Then came the silence. The long, long silence. Their eyes met and clung and her heart started a faster thumping.

"Your problems are all so simple, Caren," he began, "all you need is someone like me, who needs someone like you. If Cary needs a father, then I need a son. See how simply all complicated matters are solved?"

Too simply, she thought, when he had a wife and she was discerning and cynical enough to know he couldn't possibly care for her enough. 

“You have a wife you love," Caren said bitterly. 

Caren shoved him away. She didn't want to get him too easily, but only after long and difficult struggles against her mother, and she wasn't here to know.

"Men are liars too," he said flatly, with some of the zest gone from his eyes. "I have a wife and occasionally we sleep together, but the fire has gone out. I don't know her. I don't think anyone knows her. She's a bundle of secrets, wound up tight, and she won't let me inside. It's gone on so long I don't care to be let in now. She can keep her secrets and her tears, and eat her way out of her anxieties and whatever it is that makes her wake up in the night and go and look in that damned blue album! Now she's overweight and she's written she's just had plastic surgery, a face lift, and I won't know her when she comes back. As if I ever really knew her!"

Caren panicked inside, he had to care! How could she break up a marriage that was already coming apart? She needed to feel she'd accomplished this against overwhelming odds! 

“Go home!" Caren said, pushing at him. "Get out of my house! I don't know you well enough to even listen to your problems, and I don't believe you. I don't trust you!"

He laughed, mocking her, aroused by her puny efforts to push him away. His libido was fired and it flamed in his eyes as he grabbed her upper arms and drew her hard against him. 

“Now you come off it! Look at the way you're dressed. You had me come here for a reason. So here I am, ready to be seduced. You seduced me the first time I saw you, and for the life of me it seems I've known you much longer than I actually have. Nobody plays games with me, then calls it a draw. You win or I win, but if we go to bed together we might wake up in the morning and find out we've both won."

Red lights flashed, Stop! Resist! Fight! Caren did none of those things. Caren beat on his chest with ineffectual small fists as he laughed and picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. 

With one hand he gripped both of her legs to keep them from kicking, and with the other he turned out the lamps. In the dark, with her still beating on his back, he carried her into her bedroom and threw her down on the comforter. She scrambled to get up, but he came at her fast!

There wasn't a chance to use the knee she had ready. He sensed her dancer's ability could defeat him so he lunged, caught her about the waist so they both tumbled to the floor! Caren opened her mouth to scream, but he clamped his hand upon her open lips, then pinioned her arms with his iron strength and sat on the legs that tried to kick herself free.

“Caren, my lovely seductress, you went to such a lot of trouble. You seduced me long ago, ballerina. Until the week before Christmas you are mine, and then my wife will be home-and I won't need you."

His hand eased away from her lips and she thought she would scream, but instead she bit out, “At least I didn't have to buy you with my father's millions!" 

That did it. He crushed his lips brutally hard down on hers before she realized what was happening. This wasn't the way she wanted it! Caren wanted to tempt him, set him on fire, make him chase her, and give in only after a long and arduous pursuit that her mother could watch and suffer through, knowing she could do nothing or she'd talk. And yet he was taking her heartlessly, more ruthless than Leeland at his worst! 

Savagely he bore down on her. He squirmed and writhed to grind in, even as his hands ripped and tore off her clinging rose dress. All she had on then was pantyhose, and soon he had those pulled down so her silver slippers came off and stayed inside of them.

With his lips still crushed brutally hard on hers, he carried her resisting hand to his zipper and squeezed until her knuckles cracked. It was either tug it down or have her fingers broken! How he managed to wiggle out of his clothes, even as he held her naked beneath him, she’d never know. 

When he was naked, but for his socks, she kept on wiggling, writhing, squirming, butting and trying to scratch or bite while he kissed, fondled and explored. Caren had her chance to scream several times—but she too was breathing fast and hard, and jerking upward to force him off. But he took this as a welcoming arch of invitation. He entered, and had his too quick satisfaction, then pulled out before she had any.

"Get out of here." Caren screamed. “I'm calling the police! I'll have you thrown in jail, charged with assault and rape!"

He laughed scornfully, chucked her under the chin playfully, then stood up to pull on his clothes. 

“Oh," he said, mocking her with an imitation of her own voice, “I am so frightened.” Then his voice was deeply earnest.“You aren't happy, are you? It didn't work out the way you planned it, but don't you worry, tomorrow night I'll be back, and maybe then you can please me enough, so I'll feel like taking the time to please you."

"I've got a gun!" She declared thought she didn't, “And if you dare set foot in this house again you're a dead man! Not that you are a man. You are more brute than human!"

“My wife often says the same thing," he said casually, zipping up his trousers shamelessly, without the decency to even turn his back. “But she likes it just the same, just as you did. Beef Wellington, you can have that tomorrow night, plus a tossed salad and a chocolate mousse for dessert. If you make me fat, we can burn off the calories in the most pleasant way possible,and I don't mean jogging." 

He grinned, saluted her, put one foot behind the other to turn in a smartly, military fashion, then paused at the doorway as Caren sat up and clutched the remnants of her gown to her breasts. 

“Same time tomorrow night, and I'll stay the night-that is, if you treat me right."

He left, and slammed the front door behind him.

Caren began to cry, not from pity for herself. It was frustration so huge she could have torn him limb from limb!

She’d lace the beef wellington with arsenic. 

A small timid sound came from outside her door then.

“Mommy... I'm scared. Are you cryin', Mommy?" Came Cary’s soft voice.

Hastily she pulled on a robe and called him in, then held him close in her arms. “Darling, darling, Mommy is all right. You had a bad dream. Mommy isn't crying... see?"

Cary peered into her face worriedly, he heard too much, not that he understood it all. Cowering in his bed scared, before he finally got up and got to his mother’s door.

Caren brushed away the tears, for she'd get even.

Three dozen red roses arrived while Cary and she were eating breakfast, he long-stemmed variety from the florist. 

A small white card read: I'm sending you a big bouquet of roses, One for every night you'll have my heart.

No name. And what the devil was she supposed to do with three dozen roses in a matchbox house? She couldn't send them to a children's ward; the hospital was miles and miles away. 

Cary decided what to do with them, "Oh, Mommy, how pretty! Uncle William's roses!"

For Cary she kept the roses instead of throwing them out, and in many vases she scattered them throughout the house.

He was delighted, and when she took him with her to dancing school he told all the students, roses were all over his home-even in the bathroom.

After lunch Caren drove Cary to the nursery school he so loved. It was a Montessori school that was inspiring him to want to learn by appealing to his senses. 

Already he could print his name, and he was only three! He was like Daniel, Caren told herself, brilliant, handsome, talented, oh, her Cary had everything—but a father. 

From his bright blue eyes shone the quick intelligence of someone who would have a lifetime curiosity about everything. 

“Cary, I love you."

"I know that, Mommy. I love you too," he said before he waved good-bye as she drove off.

Caren was there to meet him when he came from his school, his small face flushed and troubled. 

"Mommy," he said as soon as he was beside her in the car, "Victor Harding, he said his mommy slapped him when he touched her there." 

And he shyly pointed at her breast, “You don't slap me when I touch you there,” Cary whispered.

"But you don't touch me there, not since you were a little baby and Mommy nursed you for a short while."

"Did you slap me then?" He asked, looking so worried. 

"No, of course not. Babies are meant to suckle their mother's breasts, and I would never slap you for touching there, so if you want to try me, go ahead and touch,” Caren said.

Cary lifted his small hand and reached out tentatively while he watched his mother’s face to see if she'd be shocked. 

Oh, how fast the young learned all the taboos, Caren thought. 

And when he'd touched and God's lightning hadn't struck him down, he smiled, very relieved. 

"Oh, it's just a soft place," he laughed at the pleasant discovery he made before he threw his arms his mothers neck, “I love you, Mommy. Cause you love me even when I'm bad."

"I'll always love you, Cary. And if you're bad sometimes, I'll try and understand." 

Yes, she was not going to be like her mother. She was going to be the perfect mother, and someday he'd have a father too. 

How was it that little children, such young ones, would already be talking of sin and being slapped for only touching? 

Caren stopped to buy stamps before she reached home, and left Cary dozing on the front seat. 

Harry was in the post office, which was no larger than her living room, buying stamps too. 

Charmingly he smiled at her, as if nothing untoward had happened between them the night before. 

He even had the nerve to follow her to her car so he could ask how she liked the roses. 

"Not your kind of roses," she snapped, then got primly into her car and slammed the door in his face. She left him staring after her without a smile-in fact, he looked rather miserable.

At five-thirty a special-delivery man brought a small package to her front door. It was certified so she had to sign for it. Inside a larger box was another box, and inside of that was a velvet jewelry case which she quickly opened while Cary watched, all eyes. On black velvet lay a single rose composed of many diamonds. Also a card with a note that read, ‘Perhaps this kind of rose is more to your liking.’ She put the thing away as a trifle bought with her mother’s money, so it wasn't really from him, no more than the real roses.

He had the nerve to come that night at seven-thirty just as he'd said he would. Nevertheless, she readily let him in, then led him silently to the dining table with no to do about cocktails or other niceties. The table was set even more elaborately than the night before. She'd hauled out some boxes and done some unpacking, and on the table were her best lace mats and covered silver serving dishes.

Neither of them had as yet spoken. All his forgive-me roses she'd gathered together and they were in the box near his plate. On his empty plate was the jeweler's velvet container with the diamond rose brooch inside. She sat to watch his expression as he put the jewelry box aside casually, and just as casually moved the flower box out of his way. 

He reached for the domed silver lid, ostensibly hiding the Beef Wellington underneath. His gaze lowered to stare at the huge platter that held one hot dog and a small dab of cold canned beans. 

The disbelief in his eyes, his utter offended shock gave her so much satisfaction she almost liked him.

"You are now gazing upon Cary's favorite menu," she said, gloating. “It is exactly what he and I ate tonight for dinner, and since it was good enough for us, I thought it was good enough for you, so I saved some. Since I've already eaten, all of that is yours alone, and you may help yourself."

Scowling, he flashed her a burning, hard look, then savagely bit down into the hot dog which she’d sure had grown cold as the beans. But he gobbled down everything and drank his glass of milk, and for dessert she handed him a box of animal crackers. 

First he stared at the box in another expression of dumbfounded amazement, then ripped it open, seized up a lion and snapped off the head in one bite.

"I take it you are one of those despicable liberated women who refuses to do anything to please a man!"

"Wrong. I am liberated only with some men. Others I can worship, adore and wait on happily.”

"You made me do what I did!” he objected strongly. “Do you think I planned it that way? I wanted us to find our relationship on an equal basis. Why did you wear that kind of dress?"

"It's the kind all chauvinist men prefer!"

"I am not a chauvinist, and I hate that kind of dress!"

"You like what I've got on better?” Caren sat up straighter to give him a better view of the old nappy sweater she had on. With it she wore faded blue jeans, with dirty sneakers on her feet, and her hair was skinned back and fastened in a granny's knot. Deliberately she'd pulled long strands free so they hung loose about her face, slovenly fringes to make her look more appealing. And no makeup prettied her face. 

He was dressed to kill.

"At least you look honest and ready to let me do the pursuing. If there is one thing I despise, it's women who come on strong, like you did last night. I expected better from you than that kind of sleazy dress that showed everything to take the thrill from discovering for myself.”

He knitted his brows and mumbled, “From a damned harlot's red dress to blue jeans. In the course of one day, she changes into a teenybopper."

"It was rose-colored, not red! And besides, Harry, strong men like you always adore weak and passive stupid women, because basically you're meek yourself and afraid of an aggressive woman!"

"I am not weak or meek or anything but a man who likes to feel a man, not to be used for your own purposes. And as for passive women I despise them as much as I do aggressive ones. I just don't like the feeling of being the victim of a huntress leading me into a trap. What the hell are you trying to do to me? Why dislike me so much? I sent you rose and diamonds, and you can't even comb your hair and take the shine from your nose."

"You are looking at the natural me, and now that you've seen, you can leave."

Caren got up and walked to the front door and swung it open. “We are wrong for each other. Go back to your wife. She can have you, for I don't want you."

He came quickly, as if to obey, then seized her in his arms and kicked the door closed. “I love you, God knows why I do, but it seems I've always loved you."

Caren stared up in his face, disbelieving him, even as he took the pins from her hair and let it spill down. Out of long habit she tossed it about so it fluffed out and arranged itself, and smiling a little he tilted her face to his. 

“May I kiss your natural lips? They are very beautiful lips." 

Without waiting for permission he brushed his lips gently over hers.

Why didn't all men know that was the right way to start? She wondered. What woman wanted to be eaten alive, choked by a thrusting tongue? Not her, she wanted to be played like a violin, strummed pianissimo, in largo timing, fingered into legato, and let it grow into crescendo. 

Deliciously she wanted to head toward the ecstatic heights that could only happen for her when the right words were spoken and the right kind of kisses, given before his hands came into play.

If he'd done for her only a little last night, this night he used all the skills he had. This time he took her to the stars where they both exploded, still holding tight to each other, and doomed to do it again, and then again.

He was hairy all over. Leeland had been hairless but for one thatch that grew in a thin line up to his navel. 

She turned off her mind, and gave in to her senses and to this man who was now treating her like a lover.

But he didn't love her, she knew that. Harry was using her as a substitute for his wife, and when she came back she'd never see him again. She knew it, but still she took and she gave until they fell asleep in each other's arms.

When she slept, she dreamed. Leeland was in the silver music box her father had given her when she was six. Round and round he spun, his face ever turning toward her, accusing her with his jet eyes, and then he grew a mustache and was William, who only looked sad.

She ran fast to set him free from death in a music box when it turned into a coffin-and then it was Daniel inside, his eyes closed, his hands folded one over the other on his chest. Dead, dead.

‘DANIEL’, she shouted.

She awoke to find Harry gone and her pillow wet with tears.

Why did her mother start this, perhaps had she not, maybe she would have found Daniel right away, and before anyone else. She would have fallen in love with him with no revenge to carry out or repayments to deliver. But then she wouldn’t have Cary. But perhaps she still would have found Leeland and maybe he would have been what she wanted had she not had so many other priorities and he would have been good to her too.

Holding tight to her son's small hand she led him out into the cold morning air on her way to work. 

Faint and far away she heard someone calling her name, and with it came the scent of an ocean breeze. 

‘Why don't you come, Daniel, and save me from myself? Why only call in your thoughts?’ She thought.

Part one was done. Part two would begin when her mother knew she had Harry's child.

Harry and her didn't have to sneak around furtively to meet.

The houses where he lived were far apart and no one could see them when he came to her through the back door that opened out into a yard with a fence. In back of that was a country lane, shrubbed, and made private by many trees. Sometimes they met in a distant town and their lovemaking in a motel room was wild, sweet, tender, erotic and altogether satisfying, and yet she froze when he told her at lunch, “She called this morning, Caren. She'll be home before Christmas."

"That's nice," Caren said and went right on eating her salad and anticipating the Beef Wellington that would show up soon. 

He frowned and his fork loaded with salad hesitated on the way to his mouth. “It means we won't be able to see as much of each other. Aren't you sorry?"

"We'll find ways."

"If you aren't the damndest woman!"

"Don't get so worked up over nothing. All women are monsters to men, and maybe to ourselves. We are our own worst enemies. You don't have to divorce her and give up your chance to inherit her fortune. Though she could outlive you and have the chance to buy another younger husband."

"Sometimes you are just as bitchy as she is! She did not buy me! I loved her! She loved me! I was crazy about her, as crazy for her as I am for you now. But she changed. When I met her she was sweet, charming, everything I wanted in a woman and wife, but she changed." 

He stabbed the salad fork toward his mouth and chewed viciously, “She's always been a mystery-like you."

“Harry, my love," she said, “very soon all mystery walls will crumble."

He went on, as if she hadn't interrupted, “That father of hers, he too was a mystery; you'd look at him and see a fine old gentleman, but underneath was a heart of steel. I thought I was his only attorney, but he had six others, each of us assigned to different tasks. Mine was to make out his wills. He changed them dozens of times, putting this family member in, and writing another out, and adding codicils like a mad man, though he was sane enough right up until the very end. The last codicil was the worst."

Of course, no children for him, ever, she knew.

"Then you really were a practicing lawyer?" Caren asked.

He smiled bitterly, then answered, “Of course I was. And now I am again. A man needs something meaningful to do. How many times can anyone tour Europe before boredom sets in? You see the same old faces, doing the same old things, laughing at the same jokes. The Beautiful People what a laugh! Too much money buys everything but health, so they have no dreams left to purchase, and no aspirations, so in the end they are only bored."

"Why don't you divorce her and do something meaningful with your life?"

"She loves me.” That's the way he said it. Short. Sweet. He stayed because she loved him, forcing Caren to say, "You told me when we first met that you loved her, and then you say you don't which is it?"

He thought about it for a long time.

"Honestly, ballerina, I'm ambivalent and resentful. I love her, I hate her. I thought she was what you seem to be now. So please, smother that bitchy side that reminds me of her and don't try and do to me what she did. You are putting a wall between us because you know something I don't. I don't fall in love easily, and I wish I didn't love you."

He seemed suddenly a small boy, wistful, as if his pet dog might betray him and life would never be good again.

Caren was touched and dared to say, “Harry, I swear there will come a day when you know all my secrets and all of hers, but until that time comes say you love me, even if you don't mean it, for I can't enjoy being with you if I don't feel you love me just a little."

"A little? It seems I've loved you all my life. Even when I kissed you the first time it seemed I'd kissed you before, why is that?"

“Karma," she replied and smiled at his baffled expression.

Harry spent more time at her small home than at his huge one. He piled her with as many gifts, as he did Cary. 

He ate his breakfast, lunch and dinner with them on the days he didn't spend in his office, which she privately believed was more a facade for appearing useful than a functioning law office.

Her dancing school suffered from his attention, but it didn't matter. She was now a kept woman. Paid to be his mistress.

And Cary was delighted with the little leather boots Harry gave him. 

“Are you my daddy?" asked Cary, who would be four in February, "No. but I sure wish I was and I could be,” Harry answered.

It was only second before Cary was out in the yard, tromping around and staring down at his feet that fascinated him now that they wore cowboy boots.

Caren and Harry lay entwined after their lovemaking, listening to the wind blending with Cary's shrill laughter, racing after the poodle, Rainbow, that Harry had given him. 

A few snow flurries were beginning to fall. She knew she had to get up soon so Cary wouldn't run in and catch them,  just to tell them it was snowing.

He couldn't remember other snows, and barely would the ground be sugar-coated than he'd want to make a snowman. Sighing first, she kissed Harry, then reluctantly pulled from his embrace. She turned her back to pull on bikini panties as he propped up on an elbow and watched.

"You've got a lovely behind," he said. She said thanks, "What about my front?" He said it wasn't bad and she threw a shoe at him.

"Caren, why don't you say you love me?"

Caren whirled about, startled. "Have you ever said it to me and meant it?" She asked as she snapped on a bra.

"How do you know I don't mean it?" he asked with anger.

"Let me tell you how I know. When you love, you want that person with you all of the time. When you avoid the subject of divorce, that alone is an indication of how much you care for me and just where I belong in your life."

“Caren, you've been hurt, haven't you? I don't want to hurt you more. You play games with me. I've always known that. What does it matter if it is only sex and not love? And tell me how to know where one ends and the other begins?"

His teasing words were a knife in her heart, for somehow, without meaning to let it happen, she'd fallen madly, idiotically in love with him.

According to Harry's enthusiastic report, his long gone wife came home from her rejuvenation trip looking smashingly young and beautiful. 

“She's lost twenty pounds. I swear, that face lift has done wonders! She looks sensational, and damn it, so unbelievably like you!"

It was easy to see how impressed he was with his new, younger-looking wife, and if he was only trying to take the wind from her too confident sails, Caren didn't let it show.

Then he was telling her she was just as necessary to him as before in a tone that said she was not. 

“Caren, while she was in Texas she changed. She's like she used to be, the sweet, loving woman I married."

Men! How gullible they were! Of course her mother was sweeter and nicer to him now that she knew he had a mistress who was very accessible, and that the other woman was her own daughter. She'd have to know, for it was whispered all about how much Harry’s mistress looked like a younger version of his wife.

"So, why are you here with me when your wife is back and so like me? Why don't you put your clothes on and say goodbye and never come back? Say it was sweet while it lasted, but it's all over now, and I'll say thank you for a wonderful time before I kiss you farewell."

"Well," he drawled, pulling her hard against his naked body, “I didn't say she was that sensational looking. And then again, there is something special about you. I can't name it. I can't understand it. But I don't know if I can live without you now." 

He said it seriously, truth in his dark eyes.

So she'd won.

Quite by accident her mother and her met in the post office one day. She saw her and shivered. Her lovely head lifted higher as she turned it slightly away, pretending she didn't know her. 

She would deny her as she'd denied Cassidy, even though it was so obvious that they were mother and daughter and not strangers.

But Caren wasn't Cassidy. So she treated her as she treated her, indifferently, as if she were nobody special and never would be again. 

Yet, as she waited impatiently for her roll of stamps, she saw her mother dart her eyes to follow the restless prowl of her young son who had to stare at everything and everyone. 

He was a handsome, graceful, and charming boy who drew the eyes of everyone, who had to stop and admire him and pat his head. 

Cary moved with innate style, unstudied and relaxed, at ease wherever he was, because he thought the whole world was his, and he was loved by everyone. 

He turned to catch her mother's long stare and he smiled.

"Hello," he greeted. “You're pretty-like my mommy,” he told her.

Oh, the things children say! What innocent knowledge they had to see so readily what others instinctively refused to acknowledge. 

He stepped closer to reach out and tentatively touch her fur coat. “My mommy's got a fur coat. My mommy is a dancer. Do you dance?"

She sighed, and Caren held her breath and thought, ‘See, Momma, there is the grandson your arms will never hold. You'll never hear him say your name. Never!’

"No," she whispered, “I'm not a dancer,” and tears filmed her eyes.

"My mommy can teach you how,” Cary smiled.

"I'm too old to learn," she whispered, backing off.

"No, you're not," said Cary, reaching for her hand as if he'd show her the way, but she pulled back and glanced at Caren reddened, then fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief.

Cary frowned slightly and went on unperturbed, “Do you have a little boy I can play with?" He questioned concerned to see her tears, as if having a son would make up for not knowing how to dance.

"No," she said in a quivering weak whisper, “I don't have any children.”

That's when Caren moved in to say in a cold, harsh voice, "Some women don't deserve to have children." 

She paid for her roll of stamps and dropped them in her purse, “Some women like you, Mrs. Walters, would rather have money than the bother of children who might get in the way of good times. Time itself will sooner or later let you know if you made the right decision."

She turned her back and shivered again as if all her furs couldn't keep her warm enough. Then she strode from the post office and headed toward a chauffeur-driven, black limousine. 

Like a queen she rode off, head held high, leaving Cary to ask, “Mommy, why don't you like that pretty lady? I like her a lot. She's like you, only not so pretty."

Caren didn't comment, though it was on the tip of her tongue to say something so ugly he would never forget it.

In the twilight of that evening Caren sat near the windows, staring toward her mothers house and wondering what Harry and her mother were doing. Her hands were on her abdomen which was still flat, but soon it would be swelling with the child that might be started. 

One missed period didn't prove anything except she wanted Harry's baby, and little things made her feel sure there was a baby.

She let depression come and take her though. He wouldn't leave her and her money to marry her and she'd have another fatherless child. 

What a fool to start all of this, but she'd always been a fool.

And then she saw a man slipping through the woods, coming to her, and she laughed, made confident again.

He loved her! He did and as soon as she knew for certain, she would tell him he was to be a father.

“Caren, you told me there was no need for precautions!"

"There was no need. I want your baby.”

"You want my baby? What the hell do you think I can do, marry you?"

"No. I did my own assuming. I presumed you'd have your fun with me and when it was over you'd go back to your wife and find yourself another playmate. And I'd have just what I set out to get, your baby. Now I can leave. So kiss me off, Harry, as just another of your little extramarital dalliances."

He looked furious. They were in my living room, while a fierce blizzard raged outside. Snow heaped in mounds window-high, and she was before the fireplace, knitting a baby bunting before she began a bootie. She was getting ready to slip a stitch then knit two together when Harry seized her knitting from my hands and hurled it away. 

“It's unraveling!” Caren cried in dismay.

"What the hell are you trying to do to me, Caren? You know I can't marry you! I never lied and said I would. You're playing a game with me." 

He choked and covered his face with his hands, then took them down and pleaded, "I love you. God help me but I do. I want you near me always, and I want my child too. What kind of game are you playing now?"

“Just a woman's game. The only game she can play and be sure of winning."

“Look," he said, trying to regain his control of the situation, “explain what you mean, don't double talk. Nothing has to change because my wife is back. You'll always have a place in my life/"

"In your life? Don't you mean more correctly, on the fringes of your life?"

For the first time she heard humility in his voice, "Caren, be reasonable. I love you, and I love my wife too. Sometimes I can't separate you from her. She came back different, as I told you, and now she is like she was when we first met. Maybe a more youthful figure and face has given her back some confidence she lost, and because of it she can be sweeter. Whatever the cause. I'm grateful. Even when I disliked her, I loved her. When she was hateful, I'd try and strike back by going to other women, but still I loved her. The one big issue we fight over is her unwillingness to have a child, even an adopted one. Of course she's too old to have one now. Please, Caren, stay! Don't leave! Don't take my child away so I will never know what happens to him, or to her...or to you."

Caren laid it out flat, “All right, I will stay on one condition. If you divorce her and marry me, only then will you have the child you always wanted. Otherwise, I'm taking myself, and that means your child too, far away. Maybe I'll write to let you know if you have a son or a daughter, and maybe I won't. Either way, once I leave, you are out of my life for good.” 

Before the fireplace he stood with his arm up on the mantel, then he rested his forehead on that and stared down at the fire. His free hand was behind his back and clenched into a fist. His confused thoughts were so deep they reached out and touched Caren with pity. He turned then to face her, staring deep into her eyes. 

“My God," he said, shocked by his discovery. "You planned this all along, didn't you? You came here to accomplish what you have, but why? Why should you choose me to hurt? What have I ever done to you, Caren, but love you? True, it started with sex, and sex only was what I wanted it to stay. But it has grown into something much more than that. I like being with you, just sitting and talking, or walking in the woods. I feel comfortable with you. I like the way you wait on me, and touch my cheek when you pass, and rumple my hair and kiss my neck, and the sweet, shy way you wake up and smile when you see me beside you. I like the clever games you play, keeping me always guessing, and always amused. I feel I have ten women in one, so now I feel I can't live without you. But I can't abandon my wife and marry you. She needs me!"

"You should have been an actor, Harry. Your words move me to tears."

"Damn you for taking this so lightly!” He bellowed. "You've got me on a rack and you're twisting the screws! Don't make me hate you and ruin the best months of my life!

With that he stormed out of her home, and she was left alone, ruefully regretting that she always talked too much, for she would stay as long as he needed her.

[philologer-mosaic]

Hey! Fellow writer here! I was curious as to how you learn to write characters and /keep/ them in character without it being overly stereotypical or stiff? I've read your work and I'd love to learn from you ;^;

Hi! Glad to meet you, and wow, I am so flattered to be asked this. Happy to help out a fellow writer, and I’m always down for rambling about writing-related stuff! I’m not sure how helpful some of this will turn out to be, but here goes.

I’m not sure if you’re asking about characterisation in general including crafting OCs or specifically about writing canon characters, and a lot of this advice will be relevant to both, but I will say this straight off: I’ve seen a fair amount of quibbling about how fanfiction won’t teach you how to worldbuild and maybe that’s true, but there is nothing like writing fanfiction for teaching yourself how to craft character voices. Especially when your source material is a movie/ TV show/ whatever definition RWBY falls under. So: rewatch! Pay attention to all the little details. What turns of phrase do they use? How do they stand, how do they move? What’s their usual emotional range? Pick a line they speak, think about what descriptors you’d use to get across their tone of voice or their emotional state if you were writing the scene in a fic. When you’re writing new dialogue for them, try to hear it in the actor’s voice (if that’s a way your imagination works; some people don’t have great auditory imaginations. Mine can be kind of hit and miss!).

Rest of this advice is going under a cut, because this got looong!

With canon characters: start from what you know, then extrapolate. Especially with characters we don’t see all that much of, boil them down to a handful of personality traits/ ways-they-present-themself first, then consider what might underly them. And in reverse: take the things we know about their status and backstory, consider what that implies about them as a person.

So, Clover: I think I boiled him down to ‘confident, friendly, professional’, and what’s underlying ‘confidence’ is really obviously his semblance: he’s never had to hesitate about anything, he always knows he can rely on himself. So in his internal monologue, he’s not going to second-guess his decisions. He calls Qrow out on deflecting compliments, so he’s good at reading people and also wants to help them; I assume that applies more broadly than just to Qrow. He’s leader of Ironwood’s flagship team of Specialists, and semblance or not I made the assumption he didn’t get there without working for it [that is an assumption, though! People less inclined to think well of Clover will make a different assumption, in-universe as well as out, and how he responds to that is also something to consider], so he’s got to be smart, dedicated, a good tactician, a good leader. And building from that: he’s smart and perceptive but we know he’s also loyal to the bitter end (very bitter); what sort of personality can we project that reconciles those two, what sort of person would respond like that? What I went with is that he trusts the system because he understands enough pieces of how/why it works that he trusts the bits he doesn’t understand are also created with the best interests of the people at heart. (Even when that’s really not true.) So then that’s a consistent philosophy-like thing that underlies a lot of how I write him: he understands the reasons for a lot of why things are how they are and then assumes the best of all the rest.

– This looks like a lot, now I’ve written it out. I thought all this out while working on the early chapters but I never put it some of it into words really. In coming up with the plot or story idea you’ll have made plenty of these assumptions and extrapolations already. Take a second look at them; take them further, find places to link them together or pit them against each other.

And remember, these are your interpretations. There’s not a right or wrong way to flesh these out. Work with semi-canon stuff like the mangas or discard it as you wish; follow fanon or argue with it or throw it out entirely. I interpreted Yang as ‘normal outgoing teenage girl in a non-homophobic world’ and wrote her as having dated people from Signal before she got to Beacon; the other day I came across a tumblr post interpreting her as “a rural lesbian”, by which standard she definitely didn’t have any romantic experience before canon; they’re both entirely plausible takes! Where we don’t know stuff for sure, slot in whatever your story needs, or whatever you think seems interesting. I settled on Clover’s backstory for Soldier, Spy mostly by going ‘ok, what’s an interesting way to contrast him with Qrow?’ And in some of my other fic ideas, he’s different.

Limited third person perspective (or first person, if you can pull if off) is the best for dropping in characterisation smoothly. Though I’m probably biased because I love it so much. Omniscient third person POV is when the narration’s impartial and uninvolved, and skips between person A’s thoughts and person B’s thoughts and pure description of what’s happening, objectively speaking; limited third person is – when the camera’s always over one person’s shoulder in a given scene. It’s less close in than first person, but we get the POV character’s thoughts and no others, we only see/notice what they notice and pay attention to, descriptions are coloured by the way the POV character thinks about the world. I don’t want to be setting you homework, but, a neat writing exercise, if you want it: pick an object, place or person, and consider how two different characters would see it differently. Write those two descriptions. For fun, pick something that at least one of the characters is going to really look down on or dislike parts of! (Qrow’s snark is so much fun.)

This is cynical, but: people lie to themselves a lot. When you put yourself into a character’s head, they’re going to be telling themself a narrative in which what they’re doing is the best thing to do and makes them a good person. (With a few exceptions, the big ones being depression- and anxiety-brain, which instead do their best to convince you you’re the worst.) Get your characters to justify themselves to you.

Goals, motivations, priorities. It feels like a massive oversight to write about how to characters and leave that one out, but honestly I can’t think of anything I can say here that hasn’t been covered better by tons of other writing advice. [Incidentally: https://www.writersdigest.com/ . Subscribe to their email newsletter, it’s free, they will try to get you to buy their how-to courses but there’s no need to, the website has all kinds of articles about the craft and details of writing and the newsletter will send you all the new ones plus curated picks of what’s already there. And also: https://springhole.net/writing/index.html . There’s some stuff specific to fanfic in there, and also general writing advice.] Just: keep it in mind.

Related to that, but a separate thing and one that I haven’t seen other writing advice talk about so much: how does the character try to achieve their goals? What are their skills and resources? And more than that, what’s their preferred approach? In the simplest terms. It’s a matter of mindset, and what options they see as available to them. So the things I would keep in mind for this are: Who’s got social skills/ is good at thinking in social terms, and who isn’t/doesn’t? (Not just interpersonally speaking. James “not really concerned about my reputation” Ironwood is a good example of a character who always thinks in terms of hard power over soft power; even when public opinion is an important strategic consideration he only thinks about it in the broadest and most simplified strokes.) Who would rather work within the system, and who prefers to do an end-run around it? (That doesn’t have to correlate with who’s actually got power, though obviously there are trends. I’m writing Clover as tending to take charge even when he officially shouldn’t because he’s more concerned with solving the problem than with rank, and that’s a case of circumventing the system, it’s one of the things he’s got in common with Qrow.) Who’s more analytical about their approach and what they’re trying to do (which means their failure mode is overthinking and decision paralysis) and who reacts with their gut instinct (which means their failure mode is getting in over their head)?

… I could talk about this one at length. There’s a whole framework I use to categorise characters in this way (I came across it in, of all things, the flavourtext of a supplement to an RPG no one’s ever heard of and it just stuck with me, and I’ve made it my own in the years since) and I could go into all sorts of detail about how it works/ what it means. But I think this is enough to be getting on with, on that topic. If you want to know more, send me another ask? But no one else talks about this thing in writing advice, it might be completely orthogonal to the writing process of anyone but me.

So! Related to the topic of characters’ skillsets, a really great tip I can’t remember where I picked up: how do you write someone who’s smarter/wittier/better at tactics than you? Spend minutes or hours turning something over in your head that the character is going to come up with in seconds. The great advantage of writing: it’s so much easier to be eloquent when you’ve got time to think. [If you had asked me this question in person you would have got ‘i don’t know?’ and then half an hour later I would have thought of half of this stuff and kicked myself. A week and change later, you’re getting the other half too :p ]

And lastly: you said you were worried about your writing getting “overly stereotypical”. And my immediate response to that was stereotypes bad, yes, but archetypes great. The difference being: stereotypes are lazy and offensive writing that let ‘membership of a social category’ stand in for ‘actual characterisation’ and if you’re asking for advice on characterisation you’re obviously too thoughtful to commit them; archetypes are pre-made sketched-out personalities that you can take as your own and flesh out into your own thing. Tropes are tools. No one ever said ‘They were roommates? Ugh, how unoriginal’. By the same token, ‘lone wolf who pretends he’s fine and doesn’t dare trust anyone no matter how much he secretly wants to’ is a fantastic trope that exists for good reason, the CRWBY used it for good reason, and when we found out Qrow’s semblance I went yes please I will have some of all that angst and then laughed at myself because when it comes to fictional characters I have A Type. I’m pretty sure I’ve never written the exact scenario ‘pushes themself way too hard and passes out, wakes up in unexpected safety and immediately condemns themself for not sticking it out longer’ before the opening of Soldier, Spy, but I know I’ve come up with plenty of things that were like it, and if they’d made it to a state of publication you’d be able to see that.

It’s like artists using references. Just because they looked up how to draw that hand and that pose doesn’t mean the final product’s not their own. There’s no reason not to start with your ideas of the character (no matter how ‘stereotypical’ they feel) or a collection of traits you’ve grabbed from other characters that seem like they’d fit – or, for OCs, an MBTI type or a roleplaying class/background combo or one of these or some other personality type you feel like you can find your way around the basics of – and just take it from there. When you start writing/outlining/daydreaming-about-ideas you’ll run into scenarios/setups you can’t copy across from but you can see what responses might come up, and that’s how the template becomes your own unique iteration of it.

… Because really all writing advice does come down to: just write. In your head or on the page, try things out, see what works, see how it goes. I’ve been doing this a long time; most of it never made it to words on a page, let alone to the internet at large. Read across genres, read things people write about themselves and how they live and think and feel, and just – go for it.

I hope this helps! Once again, I was really glad to be asked; feel free to ask me to elaborate on any of this, or about anything else you want advice about. I wish you all the best in your future writing!

[chungledown-bimothy]

Keep Talking, Oh, Keep Talking

So, I know it’s been FOREVER since I posted any writing, and that’s mostly because I was working on this @sanderssantas​ fic for @mewithanie​! So sorry about how long it’s been, and hopefully I’ll be posting things again slightly more often lol

I had so much fun writing this! Happy holidays, mewithanie! <3

AO3     Masterlist

Summary: Patton and Virgil were deliriously in love and didn’t think they could get any happier. Enter Logan, Virgil’s tutor.

Warnings: alcohol use, slight intoxication. 

Pairing(s): established moxiety into analogicality

Word Count: 2,647 (plus 2 fake-texts images)

Tag List:  @ren-allen​​ @ccecode​​ @emo-sanders-sides-loving-unicorn​​ @ilovemygaydad​​ @bloodropsblog​​ @funsizedgremlin​​ @raygelkitty​​ @roxiefox23​​ @thomasthesandersengine​

Patton loved his boyfriends. He loved them so much that sometimes, when he thought about them, his heart would race, his knees would go weak, and his head would spin. Especially since Logan joined the relationship.

Patton and Virgil met the first day of college, in their shared psychology class. It wasn't long until they started dating, and a year later, they moved in together. Patton had known for years that he was polyamorous, but he kept that to himself, because he was blissfully happy with Virgil, and it was never relevant. Until the second semester after they moved in together, that is.

--------------------------

Eight Months Ago

Fifteen minutes later, Virgil walked through the front door of the apartment and was immediately caught in a bear hug.

"Well hello to you too," Virgil laughed, despite his terrible mood.

"What, a guy can't be excited to see his favorite stormcloud?" Patton looked up at him, his expression just a little bit too innocent.

"Patton, what did you do?" Virgil questioned, remembering the cupcake tower Patton made the night before their first set of final exams together and the time he came home from his first therapy session to find the living room covered in fairy lights.

"Nothing major; I promise. Come look!" Patton took him by the hand and practically dragged him into the kitchen. "See? Just a lasagna. Let's eat while you tell me about your meeting and this mysterious Logan guy."

Virgil got a couple plates and served the lasagna as he started talking. "Turns out, he's in my class. I've mentioned front-and-center-nerd before, yeah?" Patton laughed.

"Dresses more professionally than the teacher, kinda cute but also seems stuck up?"

"Yep, that's the guy. He's a lot chiller than I thought he'd be. Anyway, we're gonna meet after class every Wednesday for the rest of the semester."

"I'm sure it's gonna go great!"

Five Months Ago

"Hi, I'm Patton! Nice to meet you; Virgil has said such wonderful things about you!" Patton half-yelled over the music playing at the bar.

"Oh, erm, hello. I am Logan, although clearly you already knew that. Virgil has spoken highly of you as well." Logan fought the impulse to adjust his tie. Patton opened his mouth to say something else, but Virgil arrived with their drinks, passing them out as he sat down.

"Alright, we've got a whiskey neat for Logan, some IPA that the bartender recommended for you, Pat, and a rum and Coke for me. Honestly, though, Patton, I don't get how you can drink those. I had a sip of yours on my way over, and it was awful."

Patton laughed. "Yeah, they're not for everyone, but I like 'em! And it's hard to drink too many of them, unlike your drinks, so I don't get super drunk- my tolerance is garbage. Anyway," he continued with a mock glare at his boyfriend, "we aren't here to make fun of the way I drink, we're here to celebrate Virgil!" He raised his glass.

"Indeed. It has been an honor working with you this past semester, Virgil, and I am proud to see your hard work pay off," Logan added, raising his glass as well.

Virgil blushed and refused to look at either of them. "I barely got a B+, that's hardly a reason to celebrate," he mumbled.

"Falsehood. Truthfully, when we began working together, I doubted that you would be able to achieve higher than a C. You worked incredibly hard, not only on the subject matter, but on how you approached studying. Your dedication is truly inspiring."

"Hear hear! Virge, I know how hard this class has been on you. You've worked that cute butt of yours off for it, and that alone deserves celebration, even before you take into account how much that hard work paid off! But if it helps, we can call this a general post-finals celebration, okay?" Patton was rewarded with a grateful smile.

"You guys deserve to be celebrated too. Logan, you have been so incredibly patient with me; I know that I'm not exactly the most pleasant to be around when I get frustrated, so, thanks for sticking with me, I guess. And Pat, you've had my back since day one. I love you more than I could ever say, baby." He pressed a sweet kiss to Patton's cheek, and Logan was suddenly very interested in his drink.

"Loooogan has anyone told you how pretty you are?" Patton hit his hands on the table, almost knocking over the glass that once contained a strawberry daiquiri; he'd decided he wanted something sweeter after two beers.

"No no no no, the prettiest one here is Virgil. Those cheekbones have got to be illegal somewhere," Logan wasn't any more sober, two whiskeys in. "And his face when he's focusing on studying is just the cutest thing everrr."

"Oh I know! Have you seen him do the thing where he sticks his tongue out a little bit when he's really concentrating?" Patton was practically bouncing in his seat, continuing to be a danger to the glasses.

"Dear Newton yes! I had to excuse myself and get a drink of water the first time I saw him do it."

"Wait, that's why you left? I thought it was because you were getting frustrated with how long it was taking me to get it!" Virgil chimed in, astonished.

"Sounds like he was some sort of frustrated alright," Patton muttered.

"Look. We all know that Virgil is an incredibly attractive man, and I am a simple homosexual. That said, Patton, I apologize for the… less than appropriate thoughts I may have had before I knew that he was in a relationship at all, let alone one as objectively adorable as yours."

Patton giggled. "No worries, Lolo! Like you said, my man is an entire three-course meal, and it would be silly of me to hold natural, human thoughts against you! And besides, you weren't the only one in those study sessions with some interesting thoughts, right Virgey?"

"Oh my god Patton I cannot believe you just said that!" Virgil hid his flaming blush behind his hands.

"Oops! Sorry, V!"

"You- you're okay with that? Your boyfriend and a stranger having lewd thoughts about each other?" Logan asked.

"Well yeah! I'm not the jealous type, and I trust Virgil. What's important to me is open and honest communication, and he told me about his attraction to you almost immediately. Plus, in all honesty, I found it kinda hot, especially once he showed me a picture of you."

Logan looked to Virgil and raised an eyebrow. Virgil game the same look to Patton, who, after a moment of confusion and then realization, nodded slightly and leaned back in his chair. Once Patton gave his blessing, Virgil leaned in and kissed Logan, soft and unsure. After they separated, Logan approached Patton and, after receiving another nod of consent, pressed a similar kiss to his lips.

The next morning

"So… can we talk about what happened last night?" Patton asked sweetly over breakfast.

"Oh my god are you actually not okay with it? Patton, I'm so sorry I shouldn't have-"

"Hey, Virgil, no, I really did mean that it was okay. More than okay, even. In fact, I think now is a good time to tell you that I'm polyamorous. I had a lot of fun hanging out with Logan last night, and I'd like to get to know him better. And clearly you are both into each other. I love you so much, and I just want you to be happy. If you want to, I think at least a conversation with Logan about it couldn't hurt."

Virgil sat in silence, sipping his coffee occasionally, for several minutes before speaking. "Pat, I love you more than I can possibly say. I'm honestly not surprised that you're polyam; you have so much love to give. I, uh, I actually am too. So, uh, I guess I'll call Logan? See if he wants to get lunch or something?"

"Aww yay! Okay, I'm gonna go take a shower real quick." Patton kissed Virgil quickly on the cheek on his way out of the room.

Virgil took a steadying breath and took out his phone.

     -

Logan straightened his tie and cleared his throat. "If I am understanding this correctly, you are both polyamorous and… wish for me to join your relationship?"

"Not so formally, but yeah? Last night, it was clear we all find each other hot. Which, like, duh, you're both gorgeous and sometimes I look pretty okay. Not now, Pat." Virgil preempted Patton's interruption without looking away from Logan. "I like you a lot, and I think you and Patton would also get along really well. So, uh, yeah, this is us asking you out. Not asking for any sort of commitment or anything, just hanging out and going on dates and stuff. You know, normal dating stuff. Just… with two of us."

"Only if you want to! And if you wanted to just date Virgil, I'd be completely okay with that too, but I had a lot of fun last night, and I'd love to get to know you better."

A tense moment of silence later, Logan spoke. "Let me begin by saying how flattered I am by your interest, both of you. While I am… inclined to accept your invitation to date both of you, I have never put much thought into my own feelings about polyamory for myself. Obviously, it is a completely normal and rational thing; my hesitation is in how I might fit into your so well-established relationship. Additionally, feelings do not come easily to me, and I find them exceedingly frustrating trying to understand. I have been reliably informed that this makes me a poor romantic partner." He took a breath and adjusted his tie.

"I have noticed that you are both quite vocally and physically publicly affectionate with each other, and I wonder whether my reticence with such displays would leave you unhappy with me. I have historically struggled to show adequate affection to just one person; I cannot imagine I would be able to give you both the kind of affection you seem to crave. In short, while I would like to accept, I currently cannot see it ending in anything but significant emotional distress for all of us. I apologize, most sincerely."

"I think I can safely speak for both of us when I say that we appreciate your honesty," Patton began gently. "Can I address some of your points?" Logan gave him a confused look, but nodded. "Thank you! So, it seems like your big concern is that you're afraid your emotional reticence would in some way hurt us or leave us unsatisfied. Am I understanding that right?" He waited for another nod before continuing. "To be honest, Lo, that's just silly. Are you familiar with Gary Chapman's concept of love languages?" Logan shook his head.

"Chapman posited that there are five ways people experience and express love- gifts, quality time, acts of service, words of affirmation, and physical touch- and everyone prefers to give and receive one or two of them over the others. Mine is words of affirmation, and Virgil's is physical touch; that's why we are as outwardly affectionate as we are. Trying to force a partner to 'speak' your language and not their own is just going to make everyone unhappy; healthy relationships require everyone involved to understand what the others need and want. We would never try to force you into anything you aren't comfortable with. We want to date you, Logan, not some version of you that pretends to be something or someone you aren't. If you let us, we'd love to learn your love language and not ask or expect anything else of you."

"Also," Virgil chimed in, "as to your worry about how you'd fit? Not a worry at all. I love Patton so much, and his energy and positivity makes me feel so good most of the time, but sometimes it can be... a bit much. He's wonderful at giving me space when I want it, but I know that I'd enjoy having someone else around who's more grounded. On the other hand, I remember quite a few study sessions that got diverted by you going on a tangent about something you love. If you think that passion isn't something Patton is going to join you in, you're incredibly wrong. And I think that his energy will help draw you out of that thick shell of yours, while I'll always be a more down-to-earth realist with you. I think we'd all be great for each other, if you're willing to give us the chance to show you. Only if you want to, though. One word, and we'll shut up about it forever." He gave Logan an anxious smile.

"In the face of such reasonable responses to my concerns, I suppose I have no choice but to gladly accept." Virgil and Patton both silently melted at the pure joy in Logan's smile. Well, Virgil was silent. Patton let out a squeal of delight that only dogs could hear.

---------------------

Present

Patton loved his boyfriends so much, just remembering the beginning of their story made him dizzy. Wait. No. Bad dizzy. I need to- he collapsed on the bathroom floor with a resounding THUD.  

-

THUD

Virgil jumped out of his seat. "Logan? Patton??" he called as he ran from their bedroom to the living room.

"Patton? Virgil?" Logan shouted at the same time. They met in the living room.

"Shit, where's Patton? PATTON!" Virgil yelled.

"It sounded like it came from the bathroom." Logan had barely finished his sentence before they both started running. They skidded to a halt outside the closed door; Virgil knocked.

"Patton? Are you in there? Are you okay?"

Three seconds of silence later, Logan knocked. "Patton, we are coming in." They opened the door to find him collapsed on the floor.

"Patton, can you hear us? Patton??" Virgil fell to his knees, checking for breathing and a pulse. "He's got a weak pulse, but it's there, and he's breathing okay. I don't- what do we do, Lo?" Virgil's voice was barely more than a shaky squeak.

Logan, on the other hand, spoke with cool, detached clarity. "Assuming that Patton collapsed due to a loss of consciousness, he has been unconscious for approximately thirty seconds. If he is out for another minute, we will call 911. In the meantime, go get a glass of water and all the pillows from the living room. Quickly, Verge. We need to get him back." They locked eyes and saw mirrored concern and panic. Virgil turned and ran to the kitchen. He was back in 45 seconds, and found Logan holding up Patton's groggy, but conscious, head.

"Virgil, you're back. Excellent. Here, give me a couple of pillows." He tucked them under his head gently, while Virgil knelt down beside him and took his hand. Only then did he notice how much his own were shaking.

"Patton, are you okay? What happened?"

"Mmf, dunno. Got dizzy. Are you guys okay?" Patton mumbled.

"Patton, of- of course we are okay; you're the one who fell. We should get you into bed. Do you think you can stand?" Logan asked.

"I- I don't think so, not quite yet." Logan and Virgil once again met eyes in a silent conversation.

"Okay, Pat, knees up, I'm gonna carry you." With an ease that surprised and slightly aroused Logan, Virgil picked Patton up, placed a soft kiss to his forehead, and carried him to the bedroom. "Let's get you to bed, baby; we'll take good care of you. You're gonna be just fine," he said softly into Patton's hair.

Once they got him to bed, they tucked him in, Logan made chicken noodle soup for when Patton felt up to it, and they gave him all of the cuddles he could possibly want. Which is, of course, an unlimited amount.

[marril96]

The Distance Between Us

Chapter 17: The Truth Won’t Set You Free

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Things don’t go exactly as planned.

Editor: @wonderifshelikesroses

Saturday.

The coldest, cruelest day so far this December.

The first day of your midterm preparations, the mere thought of which sent shivers of dread down your spine.

The day you were going to tell Rowena about Lucifer and Olivette.

That scared you more than the midterm. Just a tad, but still, it was a fear that made your blood run cold (though, to be fair, it may have been helped by the god-awful weather you were stuck in on your way to the MacLeods' residence).

What if she didn't believe you? What if she called you a liar to your face and told you she never wanted to see you again?

You shook your head, balling your gloved fists in your pockets. She wouldn't. The two of you were friends now. She wouldn't accuse you of something like that without giving you a chance to explain, to tell your side of the story.

Would she?

After all, she was still a mean girl. All the popularity, all the power she wielded was courtesy of Lucifer and Olivette. They'd given it to her, and they could easily take it away.

Would she let them?

Would she be willing to lose everything over a small indiscretion?

He cheated on her, you reminded yourself. With her best friend. Rowena was strong, prideful. She knew her worth. She would never let something like that go.

Even at the cost of losing her status?

Yes. Most definitely.

No, a traitorous voice in the back of your mind spoke up.

You ignored it.

Rowena had proven more than once that there was more to her than met the eye. She wasn't a mean girl cliche. She had layers. Depths. Sides you doubted her traitorous friends knew of. She wouldn't let someone walk all over her for something as silly as popularity.

She would believe you.

You repeated it to yourself over and over. A mantra, a prayer to any deity that would listen.

She would believe you.

She would believe you.

She would believe you.

The door swung open before you could knock and a figure froze in place, almost colliding with you. You flinched, startled, and took a cautious step back.

Crowley's face was the picture of rage, but upon seeing you, his expression softened. "Hello, girl."

"Hello, boy," you said. "You running away?"

"Believe me, I'm tempted. But no."

"And here I thought I'd never see you again."

"Don't look so heartbroken."

You pressed a hand to your heart theatrically. "You make me feel things, Crowley."

"I'm flattered," he quipped dryly. "The whore's all yours. I've had enough of her for a lifetime."

"Another fight?"

"What do you think?"

Ah.

The MacLeods and their drama.

You'd never seen siblings that were so hostile to each other.

"I'll take very good care of her," you teased.

Crowley snorted. "You can kill her for all I care. Ungrateful bitch." He smiled sweetly. Too sweetly. Diabetes inducing. "Well, don't let me keep you from your studies."

Damn.

Those were some serious words.

What could Rowena possibly have done to earn them?

"You're going out in this weather?" you asked, shivering at the mere thought of someone willingly leaving the warmth of their home for the unforgiving cold.

"I'll take the cold over the whore," he said simply.

A wink, a wave, and he was gone. Just like that. Probably on his way to one of his bars, looking for a girl or a boy whose company would get his mind off his sister and the drama at home.

Unlike him, you were looking forward to spending a few hours with Rowena. Your heart jumped at the thought of the two of you alone, buried in books and conversations. Skin brushing against skin by accident, but long enough to burn, to send electricity through you. Smiles playing off each other. School statuses forgotten.

She greeted you as soon as you stepped inside. She was clad in pants and a t-shirt, barefoot, hair pulled into a neat ponytail. Her cheeks were flushed with color. Pale skin pink. Eyes bright with life.

She'd gotten better.

"Your brother just ran away," you said.

She rolled her eyes. "I bloody hate that numbnut."

You chuckled. "I see you're better."

She smirked. Twirled around like a ballerina, then did a small bow. Theater actress in her element. "Why, of course. A wee flu can't hold me down for long."

"It picked a fight with the wrong person."

"Bloody right, it did!"

You burst into joint laughter.

Leaving your coat on the hanger in the hallway, you followed Rowena to her room. The house was warm, your frozen flesh and bones melting in the welcome heat.

"I got some more homework for you," you said, taking out the folded papers and handing it to her.

"How generous of you," she said as she took them and looked them over.

"Don't shoot the messenger."

"Worry not, dear. I'm unarmed."

You begged to differ. Her tongue was proven to be quite an effective weapon. Otherwise she wouldn't have had a record Principal Shurley could blackmail her with.

"These are easy," she said with a shrug, tossing the papers on her bed. "Ms. Hanscum worries too much."

"She doesn't want her favorite student to miss out," you said.

"Her best student," Rowena said smugly, earning an eye-roll from you. "And I'm not missing out. These new lessons are a joke."

You shrugged. "I'm not laughing."

"Someone of your… capabilities wouldn't," she said teasingly.

You flipped her off. "Cut the pretentious crap."

She chuckled. You followed suit.

There was a time, mere two months ago, when a conversation like that would have been serious. No teasing, no laughs — pure animosity, hatred dripping from every word.

How times had changed.

Instead of dreading seeing her, now you were looking forward to it. Anticipating it like a child the night before Christmas. Tutoring sessions had become the highlight of your days.

Even math seemed a bit more appealing than it used to. Just a teeny tiny bit, but still.

Rowena had made it happen.

The majority of the good in your life for the past few months, you realized, Rowena had made happen.

She'd made you like her.

As a person.

As a friend.

As…

As something you didn't dare put into words. Not here. Not now.

"You really think I'll pass?" you asked.

"Aye," Rowena said, not the least bit concerned. Casual as if she were talking about the weather. Noticing your uncertainty, she added, "These are all lessons we've worked on. You’ve managed to get good marks on those, haven't you?"

You did. Cs and a few Ds. Much to Ms. Hanscum's delight and your bafflement.

Math still barely made sense to you, and yet…

Here Rowena was, making it make sense.

This girl could make hieroglyphs make sense.

"Yeah, but…"

"But nothing. You'll pass the bloody midterm with a C!"

There was so much determination in her words, so much confidence that you believed her. She could tell you, in that same tone of voice, that she had superpowers and you would believe her.

"I'll take your word for it," you said half-seriously.

"You do that," she said. "I'm a professional. I know what I'm saying."

"You're a teacher now?"

"Considering I've been able to teach you what Ms. Hanscum couldn't, I'd say I'm a bloody good one."

Damn.

Your heart fluttered like a swarm of butterflies in your chest.

There was something… exciting about her confidence. Exhilarating. Attractive.

You recoiled at the thought, but the more you pondered on it, the truer it rang.

Confidence was attractive. Especially Rowena's. The girl was sure of her capabilities, of everything she could do. She knew who she was and what she could do, and she didn't let anyone tell her otherwise. Didn't let petty things such as poor understanding of math get in her way.

She knew her worth, and expected — demanded — you to know yours.

She would settle for nothing less.

Settling down on the bed, the two of you instantly got to work. You briefly got through this week's lessons, which, as Rowena explained them in detail, seemed much less incomprehensible than they did in class. For someone who hadn't been to class in five days, she had the perfect grasp on this new material. A superpower, if you'd ever known one.

She didn't get frustrated. Not even when you gave her that blank stare as if she'd just spoken some ancient, long-gone language. Not when she had to explain the same problem three times exactly the same way. Not when you followed her instructions and work she'd written down for the exact same problem and you still managed to get a different result.

In over two months she'd been tutoring you, she'd never gotten frustrated. Not once.

And when you got frustrated by your incompetence, she was quick to calm you down and explain yet again what it was you needed to do.

She spoke in a sweet tone of voice, one so unlike the tough, stern one you were used to. Your heart fluttered with every word that fell from her mouth.

Was that how she spoke to Lucifer when they were alone? Was she that sweet, that patient with him?

Only to end up cheated on. Betrayed by the two people who were supposed to care about her the most.

You would never do that to her. You would never lodge a knife in her back and pretend everything was fine. Never take her for granted.

Because, the truth was, Rowena MacLeod was amazing.

In so many ways.

The mean girl persona was just a facade.

The real Rowena was kind. Sweet. Gentle. Endlessly patient. She was caring, no matter how hard she pretended otherwise. A friend anyone would wish for.

If Lucifer and Olivette couldn't see it, they were blind.

Just like your friends were blind. You understood their concern, their protectiveness. It was only natural they wanted to keep you safe. But, at the very least, they had the best intentions at heart. They'd never gotten a chance to meet the Rowena you knew.

Lucifer and Olivette had.

And they didn't give a damn about her.

After you were done with the new lessons, Rowena started explaining some of the old ones. Those you were more in touch with, your memory of study sessions and numbers that made slightly more sense still fresh.

"See? You can do it," she said.

"That's just two lessons," you pointed out.

"Two lessons that you understand."

"Somewhat."

"Enough."

"Agree to disagree."

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "You are one stubborn lass."

"I learned from the best," you retorted.

She glared, then sighed. "You will pass that midterm, or so help me."

You quirked up an eyebrow. "You gonna punish me?"

"Aye."

"Should I start calling you mom?"

"Mummy is more suitable," she teased, offering a suggestive wink.

Your cheeks burned, set alight with heat that spread all throughout your body. Heart jumped wildly as if in a race.

Good god, Rowena, you thought. Good fucking god!

This girl would be the death of you.

You chuckled, nervous, and turned your head in an attempt to hide your discomfort.

Not that you could. It was all out in the open, shouted out by your traitorous body.

Rowena smirked wickedly. She knew exactly what she was doing.

That little minx.

"Idiot," you said through giggles.

Her features smoothened into a look of pure innocence. "Whatever do you mean?"

You just shook your head. She knew what you meant, and she enjoyed it. Enjoyed teasing you. Enjoyed tormenting you like the cruel girl she was.

She gave a small chuckle, her toes curling up like a kitten's.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Curl your toes. I noticed you do it sometimes. It's…" Cute. Completely and utterly cute. So cute your insides melted every time she did it. "Weird."

Rowena's cheeks flushed red as her hair, making her even cuter. "It's a habit, from back when I did ballet. Pointing your feet every day gets exhausting, so…"

"This is like rest?" you assumed.

She nodded. "I guess it stayed with me."

"It's nice."

She stared.

"It is," you said. "Sorta… cute."

"You take that back!" she demanded, holding up her forefinger in warning.

You laughed. "Nope."

"I am not cute."

"You totally are."

The cutest girl you'd ever seen. The girl you felt so much for that calling it friendship wasn't enough.

Not anymore.

What you felt — what you wanted, what you craved — was something more. Much, much more.

Something you knew you would never get.

Rowena pouted, slapping your arm.

"Ow!" you exclaimed. "So rude."

"That's what you get for calling me cute."

"You're right," you conceded. "I should call you adorable."

The glare she threw at you had to have killed before.

You raised your hands up in surrender. "Don't shoot!"

"Another word and I will," she threatened.

You were tempted to keep up the banter, but elected to give it a rest for now. Instead, you said, "You coming to school Monday?"

"Aye," Rowena replied. "The good doctor cleared me."

"Cool," you said, trying to keep your enthusiasm at a minimum.

She wasn't fooled. "Missed me?"

You don't even know how much.

"Yeah. Had no one to glare at me and walk around like they owned the place."

That prompted her to snort. "I'm sure that's not true. Lucifer and Olivette were there every day."

Yes, they were.

Unfortunately.

But they weren't her.

They would never, ever be her.

"They come to visit you?" you asked.

She shook her head. "We texted."

You remembered their words. Remembered the scorn that dripped from them like poison. How needy Rowena was. How all she talked about was her sickness. How she always whined, and the only thing that saved her relationship was that she was good in bed.

Anger filled you at the memory. Your fists clenched to the point of pain, skin taut on your knuckles.

Now was the time to tell her. The time for her to find out what they were really like.

Just as you were about to speak, she said, "Fergus tried to make problems for us."

You furrowed your brows. "What?"

"Just before you got here. The numbnut said Lucifer is cheating on me." She chuckled. "As if."

So that was why he'd run out like that. Why he'd called her ungrateful.

Your blood ran cold. "Maybe he is," you said tentatively.

She looked at you as if you'd just said the Earth was flat. "I know my boyfriend. Lucifer is a lot of things, but he is not a cheater."

There was a touch of uncertainty on her face, but she quickly masked it, smoothed it clean as if it were dirt.

Heart sinking, you said, "He did grab my ass that one time."

And had undoubtedly done so, and even worse, to other girls. Girls who didn't dare punch him in the face for it. Girls who stilled with fear, or ran away in tears.

Men like him never stopped at just one.

"That was before we got together," Rowena said.

It was still wrong.

It was still sexual assault.

How could she be so casual about it? How could she not see it as a problem?

What was it about Lucifer Shirley that made her get over everything, that made her ignore so much of his bullshit?

His dick couldn't have been that good.

"He looks — everyone does — but he doesn't touch anymore," Rowena said, more to herself than you.

Lies.

All lies.

And she knew it.

Her mouth may have been willing to spew nonsense, but her face had enough decency to tell the truth.

She doubted Lucifer.

But she still remained loyal to him.

She refused to believe he touched other girls without permission. Refused to believe he cheated on her. Refused to acknowledge he wasn't the perfect boyfriend she'd deluded himself into thinking he was.

Willful ignorance.

It couldn't be true if she refused to accept it as such.

"And Fergus — he thinks he's on a stage," she said with a roll of her eyes." He sees drama everywhere. And when he doesn't, he creates it. I'll not let him use my relationship for his entertainment just because he's bored with his life."

Except, he wasn't.

Whatever it was he'd told her about, it had to have been true.

Crowley did tend to lie from time to time, but not about things like that. He wouldn't hurt her on purpose.

Yes, the two of them bickered and often spoke to each other like bitter enemies instead of siblings, but they still cared about each other.

He most likely had told her about Lucifer to piss her off, but he hadn't made it up.

Crowley was her brother. Her family. If she didn't — wouldn't — believe him, what chance was there that she would believe you?

You, who were nothing to her. Whom she barely considered a friend.

A lump formed in your throat, thick, suffocating. You swallowed it, teeth clenching, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt so tightly the fabric almost ripped.

You couldn't tell her.

Everything you'd heard — those horrible words and sounds — you had to keep to yourself.

Rowena couldn't know.

She didn't want to know.

If you uttered a single word, at best you would be a liar.

At worst…

You would lose her.

As much as she clearly cared about you, you were only her tutoring friend.

Olivette was her real friend.

Lucifer was her boyfriend.

Their word against yours, and, unlike Crowley, you had no blood ties to keep you in her life.

Instead of setting you free, the truth would ruin you. Rid you of everything you'd accomplished in the past few months.

You were in love with Rowena, so fucking much, and you had to lie to her.

And, good god, did it hurt.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @victoriasagittariablack @rowenaswife @wonderifshelikesroses @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @gaysnakess @angel7376 @cherrypierowena @ruthieconnells @evil-regal-vampiress @collectorofsecretsandsouls @angel-e-v-a @tasyahilker @a-queen-and-her-throne

[aseriesofunfortunatetexts]

I feel like sharing, I like this bit, the reader’s first meeting with Frank and Ernest. Which I just realised takes up about 3000 words.

(It’s not proof-read or remotely edited yet, but it exist, and that’s what counts in a first draft)

There were photographs of it in the pamphlet, but they don’t do it justice. The room is beautiful, bustling with life even though the hotel has barely been open for business for a month. From the ornate railings lining the upper hallways to the stuffed sofas and dark woodwork on the ground floor, it all oozes luxury. You suddenly doubt your qualifications. Your entirely fictional concierge qualifications that is.

You make your way past the grand piano and over to the desk emblazoned with the word ‘Reception’. There’s no one standing there at the moment, so you reach out to ring the bell when you suddenly feel a presence behind you, making you hesitate. Years of training has left you able to read your surroundings better than normal people, and something about this situation causes you to feel a great sense of unease. Even so you don’t want to show whoever is behind you that you’re nervous, so instead you do nothing, and wait.

The person behind you finally moves, stepping around you, and then the reception desk, with quick, purposeful strides. It’s a Denouement. He’s taller than you’d imagined, well-groomed, and even more handsome than in the photos you’ve been shown. You mentally scold yourself for these being your initial observations, they’re entirely pointless. You try again: tall, serious, face set in a neutral mask of near indifference, yet somehow incredibly calculating at the same time.

“Yes?” the so far unidentified Denouement brother asks.

“Hello,” you reply, “My name is-“

“I know who you are,” the brother says, his manner impeccably business-like. “You’re our new concierge.”

You find yourself wondering how you’re supposed to respond, like you’re being judged on your performance already. In the end you simply say, “Yes, hopefully?” and pray for the best.

“Hopefully?”

“I assume there’s some kind of interview process.”

You get no hint of any emotion from the Denouement brother. His entire demeanor is unfathomable, which either means that he’s Ernest, and he doesn’t know who you really are, or he’s Frank, and he’s testing you, trying to make you say something incriminating, like letting him know that you already know you’ve got the job because he already agreed to give it to you.

After what feels like an eternity of silence, the brother nods. “Of course. As one of the managers, I will conduct the interview.”

You can’t hold back any longer. “Are you Frank or Ernest?”

“Indeed I am,” he replies, and once again you feel like he’s being evasive on purpose.

Which is pretty infuriating, but you don’t get to linger on that because seemingly out of nowhere another Denouement brother swoops in, a broad smile on his face. “Good afternoon. You must be new concierge.”

He’s... definitely different than the first. His expression is more open and approachable, and he gives off the impression of being infinitely more friendly. And he appears entirely unaware of the pointed look his brother is sending him.

Maybe it won’t be such a problem telling them all apart after all. F is for Frank, who is Friendly. Easy.

He holds his hand out for you to shake. “I’m Ernest.”

Well, shit.

At least now you know that you were being tested earlier, that’s comforting to know that you caught it. Just like you catch Frank rolling his eyes in annoyance. Obviously he didn’t want Ernest to freely give away the answer to the question of who is who, no doubt because he feels you should prove your skills as an volunteer by figuring it out yourself.

But that’s too late now, and you’re quickly filing away facial quirks for each of them. You’re going to get this right from now on.

And as long as Frank keeps his face this closed off, and Ernest keeps being this expressive, it shouldn’t be that hard.

“She hasn’t been hired yet,” Frank says curtly.

Ernest brushes him off. “Surely that’s just a formality. I mean, we’re painfully short-staffed, we need all the help we can get as soon as possible.”

“That doesn’t mean we should just hire people simply because they’ve walked through the door,” Frank retorts.

It sounds like this is a discussion that they’ve had before, but it’s obvious that Ernest isn’t moved by his brother’s concern. “Look at her. She hardly looks like a potential thief or whatever it is you’re worrying about.” He winks at you, and much to your embarrassment you feel yourself blushing.

“Wicked people are everywhere,” Frank says, and gives you a meaningful stare, a clear warning for you not to be swayed by Ernest’s outward charm.

Right. He’s a fire-starter. Doesn’t matter how friendly and charismatic he seems, he’s a villain, your enemy.

A very... captivating enemy, though, you think, as you look at him.

When you turn back to Frank, his eyes are narrowed in suspicion, like he can somehow read your mind. You find yourself cowering a little under his scrutiny. You’ve definitely not gotten off on the right foot, which will be a problem. You have to try your hardest to remedy the situation as soon as possible, you decide.

“I was expecting an interview,” you say. “Anything else would be strange.”

Frank doesn’t even look a little bit appeased at your words, but he does nod at you. “We’ll talk in my office. Come along.” He starts moving towards a door behind to reception desk.

“I-“ you begin, glancing down at your suitcase.

“I’ll take your luggage,” Ernest offers.

“A bellboy will take her luggage,” Frank corrects him, and raises a hand, snapping his fingers.

A young man in a spotless green uniform appears at your side in seconds, and just like that your luggage is out of your hands. You wonder how he knows where to take it, since you haven’t actually been hired or given a place to stay yet.

There’s no time to ponder that issue, because Frank is already entering what you assume is their office and he’s not looking back to see if you’re following, obviously expecting you to keep up, so you rush to comply.

“Good luck,” Ernest says with faux seriousness as you pass him, twisting his face into what is obviously a parody of his brother’s severe expression.

“Thanks,” you say with fake cheer.

You’re barely through the doorway before Frank instructs you to close the door, so you do. When you turn back, he’s already sitting by one of the two desks in the surprisingly small room. There’s a chair standing in front of it, and he gestures at it. “Sit.”

It’s somehow even more uncomfortable than the chair your sat in last week at headquarters.

Neither of you say anything, and you’re certainly not about to speak first. Instead you survey the room as subtly as possible, making a note of the wall décor, which consists mostly of architectural drawings and blueprints of the hotel, confirming their shared pride of the place. You note the neatness of Frank’s desk, compared to the clutter on what you have to assume is Ernest’s.

You’re trying to catalogue the contents of that desk when Frank inhales, and lets out a sigh, like you’ve somehow exhausted his patience already. “I hope you don’t think it will be that easy in the future.”

You frown. “Pardon?”

“He is perfectly capable of impersonating me, and don’t doubt that he will, if he senses that you’re up to something and thinks deceiving you will get him answers.”

You’re starting to get tired of this man’s attitude. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

“But you are a complete novice when it comes to actual fieldwork, and you’ll have to excuse me for not trusting you on account of your pretty face,” he says with barely concealed disdain.

That does it. “While I’m flattered that you think I’m pretty, I’m here to work, so I’m afraid it’s not meant to be you and me,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Frank looks momentarily taken aback by your insolence, but he hides it quickly enough behind a disapproving scowl. “I don’t care whether the VFD sent you or not, you will speak to me with respect.”

Part of your wants to continue being rude just because you can and he damn well deserves it, having been just as rude towards you, but another is reminded by his mention of VFD that you’re supposed to be a professional agent of a noble organization, not a snarky brat.

“Apologies,” you say, trying your hardest to sound contrite.

Frank gives you a long stare, then nods, satisfied. “Apology accepted.”

And that seems to be it, because he reaches for a pile of what looks to contain financial documents from where you’re sitting and picks up a pen.

You blink. “Aren’t you going to... I don’t know, ask me questions?”

Frank keeps his eyes down on his work, underlining some numbers. “Why bother?” he asks. “It’s not like I have a choice about whether to let you stay and work here, that’s been decided for me.”

You purse your lips, irritated, but unwilling to resort to being rude again. “I thought you might want to know just a little about me, seeing as we’re going to be working together.”

“We are not going to be ‘working together’, you are going to work for me. Dewey might feel differently about your position, but he runs the library, not the hotel. I run the hotel.”

“And Ernest. You and Ernest, together.”

Frank looks up at you. “Are you attempting to make some kind of point?”

“No, sir.”

If there’s one thing you’ve learned throughout your life, it’s that men in positions of power are always pleased to be called ‘sir’, but you can’t be entirely sure whether it’s working on Frank, because he has closed off his expression and turned his attention back to his papers. He scribbles a note in the margin of one page, then puts down the pen and reaches for a desk drawer, from which he pulls out a thin file that you instantly recognize as being from the VFD. He leaves it lying front up just long enough for you to be able to read your name on the front, then flips it open.

The first page looks like a cover letter. As Frank starts slowly flipping through the file you spot grade sheets, statements from teachers and trainers, a psych evaluation, a letter from your chaperone, and even more grades. About halfway through Frank abruptly stops and shuts the file.

“I know everything I need to know about you, <I>miss</I>. I know that you got top marks throughout your school time, that you’ve excelled at anything that’s been thrown at you during training, that you conducted yourself perfectly during your apprenticeship, and that all your instructors adored you.”

He somehow makes all that sound like an insult. And the ‘sir’ bit obviously didn’t go over well.

You don’t speak, so Frank continues. “I also know that you haven’t pulled off a single, extended mission on your own at this point, and I hope you’ll forgive me for wondering how someone with your lack of practical experience is qualified for a mission that requires this level of deceit.”

“I’m only deceiving one person,” you lie.

“An enemy of your organization with years more experience conducting himself,” Frank says.

“Our organization,” you correct him, not knowing what else to say at this point, and undeniable curious to hear him referring to the VFD in such a detached manner. That definitely goes in your first report.

He’s not moved by your statement. “That’s what I said.”

‘It wasn’t’, you think, quietly.

“I can only assume that there’s something I’m missing here, because otherwise my honest opinion is that your superiors have lost their minds.”

‘Our superiors’, you think, but you keep that to yourself as well. “A simple file can never accurately describe a person,” you say. “If you give me a chance, you’ll see that I’m both competent enough and accomplished enough to be here. I want to be a librarian, and Dewey is the most qualified instructor I could ever hope to train under.”

Lies, all of it. No, you don’t feel you’re qualified for this mission. No, you’re not here to learn from Dewey.

But you are a talented liar despite your age and lack of experience, as proven by the fact that Frank obviously doesn’t doubt your sincerity.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he acknowledges your point. “I have no choice. Now, how long do you reckon we’ve been in here?”

The change in subject makes you pause, but then you focus and try to backtrack. “Ten minutes?”

“Eight,” Frank says. “Would you say that’s long enough for a job interview at hotel suffering from severe staff shortness?”

You shrug. “Depends on who is doing the interviewing.”

“Good answer,” Frank says, the first nice thing he’s said to you so far. “I assume you’re familiar with the Dewey Decimal Classification system?”

“Somewhat. It’s how your hotel is organized, like a library.”

“Correct. And you should be able to find your way around the place in no time once you’ve learned it by heart.”

“Don’t you have a catalogue?”

Frank scoffs. “You won’t need that, keen mind like yours. Do you know what the number for mysteries is?”

“No,” you reply.

“It’s 135. That’s how you get to the sub sub-basement that houses our library, by pushing in those numbers on the elevator panel. Dewey will be expecting you tonight, but until then I will inform the other staff to begin training you, a task I’m way too busy to attend to myself. Oh, and do try not to be caught going to the basement, not by anyone.”

“Of course,” you say, mentally rolling your eyes at his lack of even a modicum of faith in you, however warranted his doubts are.

“Now get out of here. Ernest will no doubt be lingering somewhere outside, just dying to show you to your quarters,” he says with slight annoyance. “You will let him. Since you’re already making moony eyes at him, you might as well continue, make that your cover; a hapless young woman with a crush on her boss.”

You open your mouth to protest, tell him you weren’t making ‘moony eyes’ at anyone, but Frank holds up his hand to caution you to silence. “We’re done here.”

You leave the office silently seething, but you’ve only just exited when Ernest comes walking up to you, just as Frank had predicted. “I assume you’ve been hired, despite obvious reservations on his part?”

If you weren’t trained in this sort of thing, you would immediately panic to hear him make so acute observations about a secret meeting you just had, based on... what?

“The look on your face,” Ernest elaborates, frighteningly perceptive. “You look like he forced a lemon down your throat, but you’re not leaving. I assume that means you’re hired, even if it wasn’t a, how should we put it, ‘pleasant’ interview.”

“You have no idea,” you mutter.

“I do,” Ernest says. “He’s my brother, and he can be a bastard sometimes.”

You’re tempted to agree with him, but then you consider the implications of a new employee expressing dislike of their boss less than five minutes after being hired, to their other boss, who just happens to be the first one’s brother. All in all, probably not the smartest move. “I imagine it’s a stressful time for you, what with the hotel just having opened, and your lack of qualified staff.”

“But you are just that, aren’t you? Qualified?”

Not in the slightest. “I am.”

Ernest smiles broadly at you, and he looks so unlike his brother, your worries about being able to tell them apart seem completely unwarranted.

Suddenly a loud noise starts booming from above, making you jump. ‘The clock’, you think to yourself. There was a note about it in the pamphlet, it’s supposedly a work of art in its own right. It did not mention that the ringing sounds like a word. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!

Ernest smiles, amused at your reaction. “You’ll get used to that,” he promises. “Now, may I have the pleasure of escorting you to the staff quarters?”

You look at him, at his open, charming expression, and nod. “Of course.”