#from this point on and well into his twenties he refers to him as uncle ew

[chez-cinnamon]

Just out of curiosity, how does Noah get along with his "uncle" Jax?

He doesn't <3

[amourcheol]

𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐨-𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝

❝Who knew all it takes is a hot girl with top-tier taste for a man to admit he's wrong?❞

𝒈 𝒆 𝒏 𝒓 𝒆 : fluff, comedy, suggestive, college! au

𝒘 𝒐 𝒓 𝒅 𝒄 𝒐 𝒖 𝒏 𝒕 : 21.7k words

𝒔 𝒖 𝒎 ���� 𝒂 𝒓 𝒚 : self-proclaimed movie mastermind chwe vernon minds his business—whether that be avoiding the popular, problematic kids in his college to reducing customer interest in his parents' film store. his plan of isolation, however, is completely destroyed when you, a seemingly insane disney fan, slam his perfect movie taste and ask for his help to take down an evil ex.

𝒄 𝒐 𝒏 𝒕 𝒆 𝒏 𝒕 : loosely inspired by watching the detectives, film major! vernon who owns an outdated film store, fem! reader is the baddest (but also the craziest) bitch in this fic, vernon is a loser, film major! mingyu who will be violated many times in this fic sorry king, mentions of many filmbro films which will also be violated, self-indulgent mentions of some of my favourite films, a few super dark jokes nothing serious though, kissing, mentions of sex and the act of cumming (all joking wise) but no actual sex because im fearing god today (super suggestive at best), barbenheimer reference <3

𝒕 𝒂 𝒈 𝒍 𝒊 𝒔 𝒕 : @hyuckworld @junyangis @hiraethmae @lllucere @intoanothermind @kokoiinuts @shnnzsworld @lilifiedeans @talkyoongitome @vanishingboots @cookiearmy @person1fys

𝒂 𝒖 𝒕 𝒉 𝒐 𝒓 ' 𝒔 𝒏 𝒐 𝒕 𝒆 : she is finally here !! so so sorry for taking so long </3 i never thought it would be finished atp but thank you addy and alice for pushing me to complete this lil fic !! addy ur film major info birthed the filmbro slander, and alice...no smut LMAO LOSER anyway do enjoy homies <33

𝒑 𝒍 𝒂 𝒚 𝒍 𝒊 𝒔 𝒕 : if you're too shy (then let me know) by the 1975 || q&a by seventeen || wonderful women by the smiths || confidence by ocean alley || talk talk by charli xcx || oh my! by seventeen

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“NO, THE HOBBIT IS SET BEFORE THE LORD OF THE RINGS.”

This particular customer, however, refused to grasp the concept. “But the Hobbit was released after,” he repeated, as if he had not heard twenty minutes ago, when he first entered the store. ��Wouldn’t it make sense to watch the more recent movies?”

Vernon clamped his lips together, stopping himself from saying something that would lose him a potential buyer. Well, not that it would matter much, considering the man before him could not comprehend what a prequel was, but still—he had to make this idiot understand.

“I understand that, sir, but the Hobbit is a prequel to the Lord of the Rings.” Holding onto the DVD set, he pointed to the grand picture of the movie’s protagonist. “It’s based on Bilbo Baggins’ adventures.”

“But was that not the little fellow from the Rings?”

“No, sir, that was Frodo. Bilbo is Frodo’s uncle.” The boy then clarified, tone heightening, “You know, where he reclaims his home from Smaug?”

“Smog?” The customer parroted incorrectly, scratching his hair as if the action would jog his memory. “Now why does this hobbit’s home have health violations?”

The twist of his lips was inevitable. “Smaug,” he corrected. “The dragon…the villain…the whole reason the movie was created?”

“See, I only know that one slimy creature with the ring. What was he always saying…” The man snapped his fingers, a lightbulb switching in his otherwise empty brain. “Ah, yes!” He then completely distorted his voice, rasping, “My presh-shious!”

For a split second, Vernon was a little gob-smacked at the impression. Then, he remembered he needed sales, and made sure to laugh as if that customer was the funniest man that ever stepped foot in the store. 

This particular joker, who was clearly not understanding Vernon’s analogies, instead asked, “Well, which one do you recommend?”

Ah, the fated question. 

Besides from the Lord of the Rings collection, he had been asked this very question a few too many times, when customers would browse the films on offer and ask for his opinion. Not that he considered himself an all-knowing master of movies—

He smiled. Now that was something he could chuckle about.

“Well, sir, the Lord of the Rings is a timeless classic. I would recommend it to anyone interested in a well-written, well-produced fantasy.”

The man twisted his lips. “But I don’t really like fantasy, though.” 

Vernon could not help his smile dropping. I don’t get paid enough for this.

With as much strength he could muster, he persuaded the idiot to get a rom-com instead, and ushered him out. 

He sighed, going back to the desk. The store was never busy—unsurprising, since nobody buys DVDs anymore—but that was how he liked it. The less customers that bothered him, the better. He did not want to be that type of guy, but he would rather have his own company than those who thought that the Marvel movies were God’s gift to man. (The Spiderman movies, however, he had to leave out of his apparently controversial statement).

Vernon was about to close the shop out of pure boredom when someone stepped in. 

His eyes darted to the newcomer. 

They stayed as he beheld you.

Perhaps this was a gross generalisation, but he did not expect someone so cute walking in a store this run-down. Maybe you had mistaken it for a vintage shop, planning to rob the CDs, or thought there might be decades old clothing in here. He was certain you had walked in by mistake, but then you began to browse the movie sections.

His first thought was that you seemed to have excellent taste. 

You slowed your steps in the classics section, eyes roaming at the Fan Favourites shelf which was simply movies Vernon had seen this week. Still, they were amazing fucking movies, hence their place on the shelf, now being admired by the likes of you. He wondered what you thought of the one DVD you picked up, assessing the blurb at the back. Roman Holiday. The boy could have smiled—you truly had a knack for picking out special films. 

Your fingers lingered on the movies for only a couple of minutes before you saw the desk—first the counter, and then the person behind it. 

The fact that your first instinct was to smile at the boy behind the counter had a profound effect on him.

Now, he did not want to sound pathetic; he did not know you, had never seen you before, but someone this aesthetically pleasing did not come to stores like his. Someone who picks up Roman fucking Holiday and be this cute did not acknowledge boys like him.

But Vernon Chwe will be cool about it. He will not look like a loser in front of you.

He pretended to look over some DVDs on the counter desk as you approached him. “Hey, there,” you greeted, and only then he allowed himself to look up, glancing you over. Already you had propped your arms on the top, eyes darting around the store as if finding something which deserved your attention. “I wanted to ask about a specific film. Well, films.” 

Films? Vernon really thought all the intelligent minds had rotted in this lifetime, but clearly you were an exception. “Of course,” he said, setting the movie on the side. “What genres are you interested in?” he ticked his head towards the Fan Favourites. “You were looking in the right place, to be fair.”

“Hmm?” you only spared that shelf a momentary—dismissive—glance. “Oh, sorry! I was looking for a specific box-set, but I can’t seem to find it on the shelves. I was hoping you could have it out back.”

Specific box-set? Vernon tried to contain his smile. Of course you were looking for a collection of timeless classics. “What’re you looking for?” he asked you, hoping you were going to request Hitchcock’s best. If you asked for Wong Kar-Wai’s trilogy, he might have fallen to his knees. 

You smiled at him.

Then dropped the bomb.

“I don’t know if you’d have the Disney Princess box set? You know, the complete edition?”

Vernon’s eye twitched a little. What the fuck?

Your gaze on him did not shift. “Are you okay?”

It took a moment for him to realise that you had asked him a question. “Huh? Right, sorry,” he said hurriedly, mind rushing for the many possibilities as to why you had requested a set like that. Perhaps you were braindead? No, that was too harsh. But then, who was watching Disney movies at that age?

Then an idea came into his head, and it made him feel much better. 

“So sorry about that,” he reiterated, scratching the back of his neck. “Anyway…Disney Princess set, huh?” He sighed out a laugh. “A sweet treat for your younger siblings, then.”

“Younger siblings?” A swift shake of your head, still smiling. “Haven’t got any of those.” 

The twitching was back. “...anyone under the age of 12 you know?”

“Now you’re making me sound like a freak,” you mused, locking your hands together. “Is it that shocking that I’m getting the set for myself?”

Vernon’s any attempt to diffuse the conversation died the moment you said those words.

Disney. Princess. Movies. The box-set you wanted was a Disney. Fucking. Princess box-set. 

At this rate, his eye-twitching was very much visible to you. “Don’t tell me no one’s ever bought a Disney movie from you,” you said, surprised by his change of attitude.

“Well,” he jeered, “I usually have first-time parents with their toddler kids asking me about sets like that.” 

You then titled your head back a little, taken aback with the comment. “Are you saying I’m too old to watch Disney movies?”

“No!” he instinctively defended himself, though he had virtually no defence to offer. He had, in his own words, called you a hag. 

This was it—he was usually stellar at keeping his opinions to himself. Now, the one time he could have kept his mouth shut, it spluttered open and not only embarrassed him, but one of the only cute potential customers. He was his own saboteur. His own destruction. 

After catching the flurry of emotions on his face, you had a realisation. 

Did his stupid comments get to you? Perhaps they would have, had you not seen his like before. Not only that, you had a sneaky feeling he himself had no clue on what category he was slotted into.

So you let the corners of your mouth curve upwards—up to the point where you were smirking, completely catching the boy off guard. 

“My god, you’re a filmbro!” 

Those emotions that you had witnessed now all conjoined into confusion. “Huh?” was his intelligent answer to the accusation. Filmbro?

And then you began to chuckle—little bursts of soft giggles, which escaped your mouth the more the revelation settled over you. “Wait, wait,” you began, “I need to ask this first!” You wiggled your finger at him. “What is your favourite film?”

Again, the fated question. This time, though, he felt as if his answer would not be the right one. Still—if there was one thing he was confident about, it was his expertise in films.

He tried, as confidently as he could, to voice out his supposed opinion. “Nolan’s Inception is one of the greatest films ever made.” 

There was one, solitary, quiet moment.

It was ruined by the subsequent laughter, courtesy of your mouth, which could not shut after his answer. You had to grip the counter, cackling at the response, and Vernon could only gawk at you, face reddening with every second spent watching you keel over. 

After what seemed like a lifetime (but was only about thirty seconds), Vernon finally cleared his throat. “Alright now, that’s enough comedy,” he muttered.

Another thirty seconds later, you finally seemed to calm down. The mischievous mirth on your face, although would have had any man swooning at your feet, seemed to irritate him all the more. “I’m sorry,” you gasped out, wiping a slight tear from your eye, “You just…you reminded me of my boyfriend.”

Of course. Vernon nearly clicked his tongue in disappointment. Of course the pretty, borderline-mean, borderline-terrible-taste-in-movies girl was taken. Fuck my life, son.

Your smile flickered—almost as if it turned cruel. “My mistake…ex-boyfriend.”

His eyebrow then raised a little. Maybe life can be unfucked; maybe the pretty, not-that-mean-as-he-thought, changeable-taste-in-movies girl was still attainable. 

Your eyes wandered once more, but this time to your hands. “I was actually going to get the Disney Princess set for him.”

The eyebrow decided to raise further up. He was dying to know why you were 1) getting your ex-boyfriend a present and 2) getting your ex-boyfriend the worst fucking present. But of course, due to the lack of balls in his pants, he did not ask you.

The crazier notion was, maybe you knew the lack of balls that should be present in his pants, because you iterated for him. “I’m surprised you’re not asking why I’m giving my ex a Disney Princess movie set, Mr. Filmbro.”

That term had him immediately frowning. “I don’t particularly care,” he lied as best as he could. He then crossed his arms. “Plus, I’m afraid the store doesn’t have the sets. I’m gonna have to order them in.”

A tilt of your head. “Are you lying?”

The cross of his arms was gone—now his hands were raised in surrender. “No, no!” At least not the set order bit…

Although it was quite clear that you did not believe him, you spared him this once. “Alright…” you receded your arms from the desk, taking a step back. Instead, you pointed at him. “But don’t think I’m gonna leave you alone on this!” 

Vernon’s insanely suave, cool, mystique response was giving you a thumb’s up. “Of course.” 

As you walked back to the entrance, hand on the door, you looked back at him. “I’ll see you soon, Mr. Filmbro.” 

The eye-twitch was about to come back. He did not bother waving as you left the shop.

VERNON COULD NOT STOP THINKING ABOUT YOU FOR THE SEVEN DAYS BETWEEN YOU AND TODAY. 

It was slightly embarrassing—he supposed he should have expected some extraordinary meet-cute, where someone who looked and acted like you would waltz into his dusty-ass film store and ask for possibly the worst movie collection to grace the western cinema. 

But then you called him a fucking Filmbro, and now the self-hatred might bubble to the surface of his usual calm demeanour. 

The boy scoffed as he fixed the alphabetical order of the CD covers, located in the Classics section. Filmbro…what the fuck do I look like a Filmbro for…

He firstly supposed that he should consider it a compliment—so what if he had superior knowledge of movies over the average morons that wandered into the store? He was paid minimum wage for this knowledge! Fuck, he was doing a degree within this field! (Not that he was quite sure he would end up as a blockbuster director at the fine age of 21, but the arts majors were always told to dream beyond the realistic limits.)

The more he contemplated over the vicious term, the more it began to bother him. Filmbro…Film. Bro. God, it sounded like a classist clique—a club where the members considered themselves above the laws of society, but were horrendously ridiculed by the outsiders. At the end of the day, he had always been an outsider in these clubs—he did not enjoy being the laughing stock, even if it meant being a member of an elitist group. 

Whatever. So what if you called him a Filmbro? He had only spoken to you once; the opinion of one girl—regardless of how pretty she was—was not of any relevance to him.

But then you sauntered into his store, and suddenly he forgot that he was seething over you for an entire week. 

There you were, footsteps harmonising along the bells of the entrance, and he swerved back to see you. You, in all your frill-skirted, layered-shirted, gum-chewing glory, catching his eye and bringing back the smile which you had offered him the moment you bestowed him that term of little-endearment. 

“Hello again, Mr. Filmbro.”

Don’t be a prick, don’t be a prick, don’t be a prick—

It was fine—it was okay. Vernon was a man now—no longer in his teens. He could have a normal, pleasant conversation. He was mature and able enough to interact with a girl who just happened to disagree with him on certain interests. 

He would be cordial—kind.

“How can I help you, Miss Disney-Hag?”

His skin nearly crawled. I need to kill myself immediately. 

A bit of a low blow from his nickname, but you were laughing, a silly little melody. You must have been crazy, because any other sane, rational human being would have been offended—should have been offended. Vernon fought to keep his face straight. 

“I see you’ve been thinking about me then,” you said. 

That had him looking away, walking behind the counter. “It’s not everyday I get a grown-ass woman asking me about children’s films.”

You mocked a gasp, slapping a hand over your chest. “Ouch. Do you hurt every girl that walks into your filmstore, or is this special treatment reserved for me?

Vernon focused on the cash in the register. “When another girl asks for the special edition for the Cinderella trilogy, then I’ll hurt her just the same.”

You clicked your tongue. “I should have known all men suck in their own ways.” You then approached the counter, propping your elbows atop the surface. “At least show me you’re good at your job and bring me the movie set I ordered.”

At this precise moment, all the thoughts about your stubborn addiction, playful smirk and how terrible the Little Mermaid was had completely vanished.

Shit. 

Maybe his irrational dislike ran further than he thought.

“Yeah…” but then he realised he sounded incredibly suspicious, and cleared his throat, forcing a little assurance in his usual monotone. “Yes! Yeah, of course! The movie set.” He took a step back, nodding his head ever so slowly, as if his head was not churning out a million different plans. “Give me one second…”

“Sure,” you could barely get out before Vernon whirled on his heel, bursting through the backstage door, and into the Chwe flat. 

He did not know whether this was going to work out. 

Like lightning he ascended the stairs, hands brushing against the bannister as he went past his bedroom, door slightly ajar. Not the destination he was seeking, he stopped before the neighbouring door—this one firmly closed. 

The boy made sure to knock first. No answer. Perfect. Slowly turning the knob, he opened the door, peeking around just in case there was someone in the room, and then he would have to resort to more planning. Since the coast was crystal clear, though, he put his mind at ease, only focusing on the main plan.

The room he had entered was a myriad of pop culture references and childhood memories, plastered on the butterfly-covered walls, sitting atop bedside tables or hanging off the hooks. Vernon never realised how invested his sister was with certain TV shows or films till he saw Lindsay Lohan’s mugshot plastered next to her bed. He had asked about it once, but she only waved him off. You wouldn’t understand her impact, she had said to him, and went back to shitting about him to her friends. 

Prying away from the poster, his eyes settled on what he came for, settled in the middle of the huge book shelf.

Sofia prided herself with her book and movie collection, a hereditary trait which Vernon shared: the top and bottom shelves were filled with her all-time favourites, even resorting to furthering her obsessions with the merch related to her treasured characters. He remembered laughing at her ideas until he saw a Barbie FunkoPop figure staring back at him one day. That notion was already horrendous, but the black, soulless eyes had guaranteed its spot in his sleep paralysis the next day.

Thankfully, the little horror was not on show on her bookshelf—this time, right in the middle, was the very prize that he sought. 

The Disney Princess Movie Set—Complete Edition.

Packaged in pink casing, Sofia’s most treasured piece sat, almost with its head held high as the other movies orbited around its pull. As far as Vernon remembered, it held all the Princess movies, and was worth at least 6 hours of his wages.

The boy looked around the room, as if his sister would appear any second.

Then, like a thief in the night (even though it was broad daylight, and would definitely be caught), he swiped the set off the bookshelf, and hurried out of her room.

“Sorry, Sofe,” he could only murmur under his breath as he dashed down the stairs, hoping you had not been bored by his absence, and left him with stolen goods at the scene of the crime.

He opened the door adjacent to the shop, and he almost sighed in relief when you perked up, eyes darting straight to your apparent order. When he saw your face light up like fireworks in the night sky, he titled his head back a bit, stunned by your boisterous reaction.

“You actually bought it!” you exclaimed, drumming your hands against the counter as he set the movies down. “I had a feeling you would blow me off.”

“Business is business,” Vernon said, crossing his arms, “Shit taste in movies will not stop me from making my money.”

You clicked your tongue. “Spoken like a business major.”

“Film major, thank you. I would rather kill myself than submit to the horrors of finance.”

“Don’t die on me just yet.” Bringing out your purse, you fished through its contents, first setting your card on the counter. Then, you brought out a crumpled piece of paper. “I actually have a few more films I want to ask about.”

The boy was expecting another long list of early 2000s rom-coms—perhaps an opinion for every Disney movie ever made in its existence. He swore if he had to hear about Rachel McAdams’ versatility one more time, he might blow his brains out in front of a customer. 

Then you dropped the names, and he had to surge his head forward.

“What are your thoughts on Wolf of Wall Street, American Psycho, Pulp Fiction…Fight Club, Saving Private Ryan, Scarface…” You squinted at the list, finding the names neverending. “Jeez, this list keeps going, huh?” 

He could not help the scoff. “And you called me a Filmbro.” He set his forearms on the counter, locking his hands together. “What do you need these movies for?”

“They’re for my ex-boyfriend.” 

The term had him pausing. Of course—the ex-boyfriend. How has he heard of this man, but not know a thing about him? Shit, he did not even know your name.

“This ex of yours has…an interesting taste,” he said slowly. “What’s he like?”

“I can tell you he attends the same college as you. Well, us,” you clarified, jerking your head towards the college colours of your server’s hoodie. “Film major. Just like you, actually.” 

“Oh?” Small world. “What’s the name?”

“Kim Mingyu. Do you know him?” 

Vernon Chwe nearly shit his oversized jeans.

A hesitant nod of his head. “I have a few classes with him.”

“Oh?” Your stare was a little more intense now. “What do you think of him?”

Right. 

Another fated question—the people around him had to stop asking him such controversial questions, or else he was bound to piss someone off. You were already letting him off the hook too many times; one more judgemental comment, and he was having that Princess movie set smashed on his head.

Kim Mingyu. Fuckass Kim Mingyu. Film major—just like him. One of the most popular boys in the year—very unlike him. All the teachers love his essays, all the girls love his freakishly-perfect six-pack, which Vernon is extremely irritated (and devastatingly intimidated) by. 

What all these people failed to realise, though, was that Mingyu was the biggest piece of shit to grace the halls of his university—and the planet, if dramatics were in order. If you thought that Vernon was a filmbro, then Mingyu was Filmbrother. Filmcomrade. Filmnemesis. 

It was as if you could hear the thoughts churning in his head. “You can be honest, you know. He did dump me at the end of the day.” A smirk began to appear. “Say your worst.”

The reassurance did not help. “I mean,” he started, swiping your card, “He’s okay? I haven’t talked to him enough to have an opinion on him.” 

A half-truth—that should suffice. 

But because the fates like to shit on his head every now and then for kicks, they decided to leave you unsatisfied with his answer. “Or, you can keep lying!” 

Excellent intuition, really. “I’m not!” he exclaimed, slapping the card back on the counter. “I really don’t know much about him.”

The big man upstairs was testing him even further, when, with a determined gaze, you set your elbows atop the surface. You leaned closer, tilting your head to the side as you inspected him, and Vernon blinked back at the sheer lack of space you had created. His mouth twisted, eyes frantically darting at the features of your face, not quite taking in the entirety of your being. Your vision seemed to work perfectly, because it caught the slight flush at the tops of his cheeks, where it was just pale skin seconds before.

Your smirk deepened. “Judging by your blush, you’re either terrible at lying…or,” you offered, voice lowering a little as you drummed your fingers against the counter, “You’ve never had a hot girl this close to you.” 

Fuck everything and everyone, because that only made him blush more furiously. You could not help the chuckle that escaped, deciding to cease torturing him and take your card. “I’ll not say the answer, Mr. Filmbro, but I think you already know.”

Since he had no plans of turning into a human form of a ketchup bottle, he evaded the topic entirely, instead focusing on interrogating you. “You still haven’t told me how Mingyu is related to the movie list you made.”

That seemed to hold your interest. “Oh, of course!” Putting the list back into your bag, you began, “Well, the list holds my ex-boyfriend’s favourite films. I wanted to know your opinion on a few.”

He could not contain his sigh. Oh, he had an opinion on these films that you mentioned. Again, he would rather be buried with his thoughts on the specific genre than ever tell you. The curiosity, though, was eventually going to eat him alive.

So much for minding his business.

“I mean…” he began to think, trying to find the right words. “I don’t mind them? Godfather is a good film, but I’ve seen better from Brando. I like American Psycho, but again, people tend to miss the point of the movie.”

As you nodded, listening to his two-cents on the movies you mentioned, he paused, furrowing his brows. “Why do you care about my opinion?”

You smacked your lips together, folding the list back. “I don’t know much about you, Mr. Filmbro,” you began, “But you don’t run a filmstore without knowing a thing or two about the films you sell.”

“So?” He crossed his arms atop the counter. “Shouldn’t you have asked the guy who you made the list about?”

“Trust me,” you said, your smirk turning more into a rageful flash of teeth, “I know exactly what he thinks of these films.”

Don’t particularly know what to make of that comment. “Well, I don’t know what my opinion for these films is going to help you in any way.”

“It has helped.” You paused then, waiting to see if he would egg you on, asking how his seemingly tame opinions would play into the grand scheme of things. “All part of my master plan.”

Master plan? Vernon may have been interested before, but he was certain that, before, he could have hid it without letting you catch onto it. In a sudden flash, though, as if his mouth was beyond his control, he regrettably slipped out the words which had you smiling more than he would have liked.

“What master plan?”

He almost closed his eyes. Shit. Now I’m fucking invested.

The corners of your mouth, lifting upwards, had him almost nervous. “I was hoping you would say that.” 

Great. Brilliant. Fantastic. Fucking Stupendous. Vernon could not think of other pretentious synonyms. “I will tell you, Mr. Filmbro,” you began, once again settling your locked hands on the counter, “If you help me out with it.” 

That had his eyebrow shooting upwards. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what I intended.” A pause. “Look, I know it’s a little crazy…being asked by someone to help in some mysterious plan. But hey!” you added, “You know who the target is, and you know I can be trusted.”

“Calling your ex-boyfriend a target makes this sound like a contract killing. Also, I actually don’t know that,” he corrected, crossing his arms. “The only thing I know about you is your weird obsession with children’s movies.”

“Well, buddy, that’s basically my entire personality, so you don’t need to know any more!”

Vernon sucked in a breath. “I don’t even know your name.”

Your eyes darted to his features, the sharp brows, the speculative eyes, the flared nostrils. His lips, which were twisted in a curious, bemused line. “That’s an easy problem to solve.” You decided to battle his frown with a smile. “_____.”

_____. At least he knew one important thing about you. He swore Mingyu had mentioned your name before, but then he should not also hold certainty—that boy’s favourite subject had always been himself. 

You snapped him out of his thoughts. “This is when you tell me your name now…or do you enjoy being called a filmbro?”

Man…he could not look you in the eye afterwards. “I don’t…” he got out, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “And it’s Vernon. Chwe Vernon.” 

“Vernon,” you repeated, lips curling upwards. “Alright, Vernon, since both of us know each other’s names, you can definitely help me now!” 

The said-boy tried to smile, which was more a grimace. “Well…”

“Tell you what,” you said, trying to find something in your bag. “Wait, give me a second…shit, where is that piece of paper…?” You finally managed to fish a crumpled piece out. “Right!” After catching sight of a pen lying around the counter, you took it and scribbled something quickly, sending it his way.

Taking it, he looked at the messy scribbles—your number. “You’re looking at it as if I passed you a death threat,” you snickered. Vernon gave an uneasy smile. “Just think it over. I need movie expertise, and there’s no one else I know who can help me more than a guy who runs a film store.”

The boy behind the counter listened to you, paper still in hand. Maybe Mingyu made some points breaking up with you—you did not know who Vernon was, save for the name that was tied to him, and the job he was forced to do by his parents. Realistically, he had to decline, because if he has ever learned something in his life—or from watching a myriad of golden age romantic tragedies—is that you never trust the beautiful, crazy girls. 

“Hey,” he heard you say, and he swore your chirp had softened. “I’ll go ahead with my plan in a week’s time. If I don’t hear from you, then I’ll know your answer. You don’t have to tell me now.” When he looked at you, he saw your expression shift. “That’s why I only gave the paper.” 

He supposed he could appreciate this sentiment. “Thanks,” he could only say, pocketing your number. “Is there…anything else you want? Aside from the—” a snide glance at the DVD set—”the movie?” 

“I saw that,” you scoffed, taking hold of the movie set. “And no, I’m alright. I’ll bother you about children’s movies another time.” 

“I’ll make sure these children’s movies are all conveniently sold out when you come,” he countered without thinking. 

You could only shake your head, trying to contain your laugh. “Careful, or I just might bother you after the plan.” 

Vernon did not know what he felt at that notion—would he want that? However, he did not have time to ponder, since you were already heading for the door. As you nearly left the store, bell ringing, he did not hear the door close. He glanced up, catching you looking at him with an indecipherable expression. “Yes?”

You waited a moment before parting your mouth. “I hope to hear from you, Mr. Filmbro.” 

With that, you swiftly exited the store, leaving this Mr. Filmbro even more helpless than he was between the seven days between your first encounter, and now this very second. 

“JO MADE SENSE WITH FRIEDRICH AT THE END. SHE SIMPLY…NEEDED A MAN AFTER PINING FOR LAURIE.”

The professor listened in the small circle, the rest of the students typing or writing down the answer. “Like, realistically,” Mingyu went on, twisting his mechanical pencil between his fingers, “The whole point of the movie is her relationship with Laurie, and that was shattered the moment he married Amy. Friedrich was like…” he pouted in thought, furrowing his brows. “The light at the end of the tunnel…does that make sense, Minghao?”

The said-man nodded. “Interesting take,” he noted, walking closer to the circle he was teaching. “So you agree that Jo needed Friedrich at the end of the film?”

“Absolutely.”

There were a few murmurs around the room, majority of them agreeing with the golden boy who was sitting at the head of the circular, white table. Vernon, who was sat one girl away from him, typed furiously in his laptop, adding to his notes. MINGYU IS A FUCKING IDIOT…CINEMATICALLY ILLITERATE…BORDERLINE MISOGYNIST…Okay, perhaps he was exaggerating on the last one, but his analysis of the question pissed him off. 

Did Jo need Friedrich at the end of the movie? Was what Professor Minghao had asked them about an hour ago. Vernon knew the answer immediately, and, although did not share it with the seminar, was surprised to be disagreed by the majority of the class. Not surprising, however, when his class was filled with men who could not imagine a woman in a film wanting anything else but a man beside her. 

Whatever, he thought, straying from the web page and instead checking the release date for Oppenheimer when he heard your name crop up amongst the discourse in the table. 

“Did _____ actually?” 

“Oh, yeah, said she thought Jo should have been on her own.” A click of tongue. “Not surprising, coming from her.” 

Vernon instantly perked up, fingers pausing on the keyboard. Not surprising? The boy was actually floored at that opinion—and how valid you were for expressing it. 

“I mean,” another girl, right next to him, chimed in, “Didn’t you say she was really stupid, Gyu?”

“God, I don’t know where to begin,” Mingyu said, aghast, and the boy who eavesdropped felt a little dread at every word that escaped his mouth. “Everytime I watched a movie with her she always got bored, or argued with me when I tried to explain shit to her.” 

“I remember we sat with her while we were tryna do our film project last semester,” the boy beside Mingyu recalled. “She had no fucking clue who Martin Scorcese was, man!” 

The group audibly gasped, save for Vernon, who could not help himself, refusing to mind his business. Nasty habit this—he made a note to call you out for this later on, should you walk into his store again. 

Fuck. He did not want that. Of course he did not. He should stop thinking about it too. 

You, that is.

“She’s gotta be the dumbest one yet, Gyu,” the boy snickered, snapping his laptop shut. 

“You don’t even know the half of it,” the dumper groaned, raking through his locks. “You know she was always watching those fucking Disney princess movies?” Vernon’s eyes widened a little. “Man, I remember she wouldn’t get enough of them. Like, what are you, six? Why the fuck am I watching a movie about a midget dragon?”

Then, Mingyu said the words that made the eavesdropper’s spirits shot down. 

“_____ may have been hot, but she was one stupid bitch. Thank god I got rid of her.” 

The others agreed. He may have spoken more on the matter of your lack of media literacy, but the professor was back, and the seminar had quietened, all in focus. 

All except for the boy who had not given his two cents on the matter, frozen solid at the conversation that occurred. What the fuck was that? He had first thought, over and over to the point that he nearly typed it in the seminar document. He had always known Mingyu was an asshole, but what he said about you gave him a very uneasy feeling.  

What sent him over the edge was that a lot of his grievances sounded identical to Vernon’s own words. 

Miss Disney Hag he had called you—to your face he had insulted your taste in films, and you had only laughed. He wondered how you felt when it was Mingyu amplifying those very opinions on a daily basis. 

A frown marred his features. Damn it. He knew he was a loser, but he did not know he was an asshole. Like Mingyu…

Vernon visibly shivered. 

As Minghao voiced out the objectives for the second half of the seminar, the boy brought his hand into his trouser pocket, slipping out the paper. He looked over your number, the messy scribbles dancing in his eyes. Darting to his phone on the table, he held it in his free hand, looking over the contacts. 

“Damn it,” he said under his breath. 

Was he going to regret this? Most probably. Will you probably make him do something that would result in a fatal injury, and land a permanent stain on his social record? One hundred percent. 

If he knew these things already, then what he should have done was toss the paper in the nearest bin. What he did instead, as he typed in some vital information in his phone, was something that changed his life (or at least the life he will live for the next few weeks).

vernon: u dont have to wait till next week 

vernon: ill help u with the plan

There. And now, he shall wait.

Which, he pondered as he saw the immediate response, was not very long. 

normal disney enjoyer: wait who tf is this??

Oops. 

vernon: oh mb this is vernon lmao

vernon: from the filmstore

normal disney enjoyer: oh damn why didn’t u say so !! freaky ass text 

vernon: ??? ive said it now tf

normal disney enjoyer: and im happy u have ;)

Well. Vernon sighed a little, trying to focus back on his work, but to no avail.

Let’s see what you have in store for the next week.

VERNON WAS WONDERING WHETHER HE STILL HAD TIME TO KILL HIMSELF. 

It could be quick—maybe if he jumped in front of the next incoming car, full speed, he might suffer a haemorrhage in his brain, and die bleeding out as his parents took him to the hospital. Of course, that does mean that it would be slow and excruciating, but he thought that nothing would be as painful as whatever you had planned for him.

Come on…maybe it won’t be that bad. Perhaps his thoughts were spiralling too quickly. Perhaps his assumptions of you were a stretch, and that all this anxiousness, pent up in him, would wash away the moment he saw your car pulling up to the store’s driveway.

He felt himself prepare mentally as, eventually, your small, red car slowed in front of him. Right before him, he saw the passenger window roll down, and he caught sight of your smiling face, teeth showing. 

Perhaps it truly would not be as bad as he imagined. 

“Get in loser, we’re going trespassing.”

Nevermind.

“Oh my God,” was the unsatisfying answer to your perfect reference. Seriously, you should not bother saving your precious material on such a lame boy, but there was something so exciting about his eyes sharply rolling, colour staining the tops of his cheeks. “I’m not doing this if you’re going to quote terrible movies the entire night.”

“First of all, fuck you. Mean Girls birthed half of your customers.” You flicked the lock on the passenger door, pushing it open. “Second, you don’t have a choice. You’ve agreed to ruin Mingyu’s life.”

“First of all yourself, I did not agree to that.” Begrudgingly, he settled shotgun, snapping the car door shut. “Second, Mean Girls was a waste of Rachel McAdams’ talent.” 

You scoffed, starting the car. “I don’t take opinions from men who can’t drive.” 

This shut the boy up nicely, clamping his lips together in quiet shame. He wished he could argue with that—you, he feared, had a good point. Despite that, it was not his fault that his parents insisted on the reliance of public transport; the bus was his greatest villain—aside from the middle school kids in his store that always ask for the next FIFA game. 

You could not help taking a second glance at him, chuckling at his defeat. “Don’t be sad, Mr. FIlmbro,” you reassured him, changing gears. “I like my men a little pathetic.” 

That did not help at all—his eyes widened, gawking at you, but you were already looking ahead, pressing your foot on the accelerator. 

“Jesus!” he exclaimed as he held onto his seat, taken aback by your sudden rush of speed. “I thought you wanted to kill Mingyu, not yourself!”

“My bad,” you only said, turning right. “I’m just so excited! You know, getting there.” 

“I can see that,” he mumbled, looking away from you into the back. Strapped in with the seatbelt, bizarrely, was Sofia’s Disney Princess Set, as if the dozen-movie box was a toddler in need of extra assistance. What the fuck…?

“I’m having these films in pristine condition, Vernon,” you explained, though it still made no sense in his head. “You understand, don’t you?”

Of course not. “Sure.” 

He waited for further explanation, which, as the silence continued, you decided to throw him the conversational bone. “I don’t just carry the set around with me, you know.”

Sure. “Of course not.” 

“It’s relevant to today’s plan,” was all you would offer, speeding more to reach the destination quicker. Vernon held onto the belt a little tighter, still eyeing the movie set rather suspiciously before focusing back on the road. 

The drive was not long—perhaps thirty minutes at most—but he knew he was leaving the rougher parts of the city when nicer neighbourhoods welcomed his vision, the litter on the roads disappearing, instead trees in an orderly line painting the sides of the pavement. The further you drove into these suburbs, the more he was surprised at the sheer luxury of the exterior of these houses; granted, he did not originate from poverty, but his idea of a holiday was three days in the comforts of his bed, bingeing the Miyazaki collection with a lifetime supply of mint chocolate chip ice cream on his lap. 

Vernon had to save his mouth dropping to the seat of the car floor when they rolled into the Kim household’s drive. 

He was aware that Mingyu derived from wealth—the former could not help noticing his pricey, flashy brands every time the taller boy sauntered into the Film Sound classes, but he did not expect this Bridgerton-ass looking house, nestled in between the other million-dollar homes in the neighbourhood. He was greeted with a clearer picture the closer you parked in their drive, surprisingly empty; it was around that moment that you noticed that all the lights were turned off in the house, almost a haunting image. 

The boy was on his way to make a comment about your terrible spying skills when you rebuffed him immediately, saying, “I know what you’re thinking. I have it covered.”

“Please tell me, Miss Bond, how are you planning to carry this out?”

You offered him an incredulous look. “I don’t know what that reference means, I’m too pretty.”

His answer to that was a thin, long line of his mouth. You chose to ignore it completely. “Mingyu’s parents are out of town right now, and his sister’s on a ski-trip in Austria.”

A glance of confusion. “In the middle of March?” 

A shrug. “You know what rich people are like.” Weirdly enough, he knew exactly what you were talking about. “But it worked out great for us.” With a hard exhale you got out of the car, the boy beside you reflecting your actions. “All the easier for what we have to do.” You opened the car door behind the driver’s one, unstrapping the seatbelt and carefully bringing out the movie set. 

“How’re we getting into the evil lair, then?” he asked dryly, crossing both his arms. “I assume the millionaires don’t happen to put a spare key under the carpet?”

“Imagine,” you said, sighing melodramatically. “I tried making them do it so I could sneak into his house, but for some reason, Mingyu never agreed to it.” 

“I wonder why,” he muttered.

“Worry not, young grasshopper!” You strolled to the very right of the house, where a thin wooden door was almost hidden from view. “Where there is a door closed, another is mysteriously open.” 

With a hard push, the door trudged back, swinging heavily away. He stared at it, not quite believing how someone can be so careless to keep their gates unlocked. “Another weakness of Mingyu’s—” You pointed at the cleared path into the house—”whenever he leaves from the garden, he never locks the gate.”

Vernon could not quite believe it. “Either the wealthy are incredibly secured in their safety, or stupid as fuck.”

“I think you know the answer to that,” you joked, going further into the journey, ushering him over. Like a siren calling his name, he followed you, unaware of the shit you might be getting him into. 

Into the fancy garden they arrived, clean-cut hedges bordering in dozens of flower bushes, peppered also with a few fruit trees—berries of every kind ripening on the green. While Vernon admired the natural luxury, you hurried to the nearby shed, where a ladder was situated right beside it. “Quick, help me out here!” you shouted in a whisper, ushering him over. Dropping the DVD set for a moment, you grunted as you held the large ladder up with his assistance, slowly making its way to the brick wall of the house. “Wait, line it up against that window over there,” you instructed, jerking your head towards the far right window, no doubt on the second floor. Once the ladder was lined up properly, you moved the boy out of the way, shaking the rails to make sure it stayed put. 

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” Vernon muttered, watching you take the Disney Princess set in one hand, the other making the first step on the calendar. “We can still…you know, not commit breaking and entering.” 

“You can happily leave, Mr. Filmbro,” you offered, looking up at your destination. 

That had him scoffing. “My ass is not walking two hours back to my house.” 

“That seems more like a you problem then!” you chirped. “Now are you following me up, or pussying out?”

Once again, pussying out seemed like the obvious choice for the boy. He was not made for missions such as these—he was merely meant to watch other people act out said missions in front of his television. Unfortunately, because he was too far away from the film store, it was either sitting it out, waiting for you to come out and do something diabolical, or at least watch over you should you cross a line (if the latter were the case, then Vernon had already failed). 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he kept uttering like a mantra, waiting for you to climb up enough to hold onto the ladder as he began to follow after you. He made the mistake of looking up as you climbed up, and he got a full, HD view of your ass. He tried his very best to look away out of some semblance of respect, but you also made the mindful decision of wearing the shortest skirt known to man. His fuck, fuck fucks! rang louder, causing you to shush him.

“Stop freaking out, my guy!” you called out, right on the top of the ladder. “I know my ass is crazy built but this is not the time.”

“That’s not why I’m freaking out, _____!” he countered, but knowing you, you did not care for his explanations. He only waited as you pushed open the slight-open window, all the way to the top before climbing inside.

As he reached the top of the ladder, he watched you dust yourself before glancing back at him, ushering him inside. “Here goes nothing,” he said to himself, hands on the top of the window ledge as he put his foot on the sill, pushing himself inside. 

Vernon dropped into the unknown room, an oof! leaving his mouth as he landed rather ungraciously on his feet. Quickly, he looked up, surroundings rather dimmed due to the lack of lighting. Still, with the help of the moonlight, he could slowly make out the huge smart TV in the middle of the bedroom, beneath it a wide shelf filled with DVDs, some opened and scattered on the carpeted floor. The bed was on the opposite side, right next to the window the two of you had entered in, black and gold sheets tousled and unmade.

As you turned the light on, the boy then made out that Mingyu, in fact, did not have a bed frame, but just a mattress, with the sheets barely done properly.  The wall on his left was a full black-shutter closet, where he could see the collection of his designer clothing behind the gaps. Posters were plastered on the rest of the walls, most of them being the Tarantino classics —a reclined, raven-bobbed Uma Thurman watching him with bedroom eyes being the most prominent—with certain papers of autographs also stuck next to the posters. There was another poster—American Beauty and the girl surrounded with rose petals—which had him quickly looking away.

“Jesus,” was all he could say, but he supposed he should not have judged. He himself had only his posters in his room—except he did not have the same taste as a middle-aged incel.

“I know.” You looked around at the familiar space, and the memories you had made here. “Imagine having sex in this hellsite.”

Then the image of you having sex with Mingyu on that messy bed came into his mind, and Vernon could have combusted then and there. “I can’t imagine,” he mumbled out, walking to the door, opening to make sure no one was inside. “_____, are you sure no one’s here?”

“Swear on my life, Mr. Filmbro.”

He had to trust you now—or you had very little respect for your life. 

He kept eyeing the DVD set you had in your hand. “Are you still not gonna tell me what we’re doing with that?”

You marched over to the shelf beneath the TV, settling yourself down. “Come here and I’ll show you.” You patted the empty carpet space next to you for added emphasis.

Hesitantly, he obliged, sitting cross-legged next to you. Finger pointing as it scoured the shelf, you carefully brought out one of the films from Mingyu’s selection, all the while sliding out a Disney film from your own set. “Now, tell me,” you began, as you showed him the two movies. “Do you think The Dark Knight and Mulan are a good match?”

First pulling a face at the choice, he then resorted to keeping his twist of features as he turned to you. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“So like, you know Mulan is a woman disguising herself as a soldier in order to defeat the Huns and save her father’s honour, right,” you explained, though you had a small feeling he was not particularly listening. “And Batman is the same thing, except he dresses up as a fucking bat…stupid furry.”

Vernon could not understand how you compared one of the most beautiful, nuanced depictions of a broken, three-dimensional superhero into a furry, but he needed to get to the bottom of your plan, once and for all. “No, I mean, what are you doing? Why the hell are we here?” 

You tutted extra loud. “I’m gonna swap the CDs, dumbass!” You held up the princess movie. “Thought Mingyu could say to me that Disney princess movies sucked, huh?” Then, the classic DVD’s turn to rise. “Let’s see how he’ll like watching a talking dragon in China instead of a talking bat in Fantasyland!” 

The boy could only watch, shock growing with the successful swap of the movies, the secret Mulan CD safely tucked into the The Dark Knight’s DVD case. “It’s Gotham, actually,” he murmured, but he knew you were not listening. “Wait, _____, we really just snuck into your ex’s house to swap a few movies?”

You looked up briefly as you began opening another DVD case. “I mean, if you want to trash the place, that’s fine, but you can’t do anymore than what Mingyu’s dirty ass hasn’t done already.”

Fair point. “I think you’re going insane. Like, clinically.” He kept looking at the door, which was closed shut. “He’ll kill us if he catches us.” 

“Forget about us, you’re barely doing anything!” you exclaimed, tossing some of Mingyu’s movies to him. “Can you actually help me instead of complaining?”

What he should have done was argue with you properly, perhaps even make his escape and leave you to dig your own grave. Sure, he could not drive, but was it not just three pedals, a wheel and a dream? He could have left, never to see you again. 

But then his eyes wandered to the Inception DVD scattered beside you, no doubt collateral damage as you took out the other Nolan films, and saw a Disney Princess movie sitting beside it. Sleeping Beauty, it read out, with the picture of some skinny blonde chick slumbering with a man overlooking her. He thought it a bit strange, almost creepy how this brunette was watching her. 

And then an idea came into his head. 

He closed his eyes for a fleeting moment, clamping his lips together. Please forgive me, Mr. Nolan, for what I’m about to do. 

Hand reaching out to grasp both DVDs, he opened one of his favourites, unclipping the CD. You glanced at him, swapping the movies around. You could not help your stare lingering a little, watching his lips pout, brows furrowed as he fixed the new CD in the Nolan set, as if the task was a serious one. Well, it was a serious task for you, but you expected more complaining. 

When he looked up, he managed to catch a small smile on your lips before he quickly looked away. “And now you’re slacking,” he accused, closing the DVD and setting it atop the newly improved. 

“What’s the plot for Inception?” you asked him, cracking open The Princess and The Frog. 

“I thought you knew, since you laughed at me for saying it was my favourite.” 

“I don’t know the full thing,” you admitted. “The only reason I knew about it was because Mingyu never shut up about it…sorry about that, by the way.” 

Vernon sighed. “It’s fine…if I made fun of your Disney favourites, then bullying me for Nolan isn’t the worst…I think.” He looked at your new suggestion before picking out Alien from Mingyu’s selection. “A thief has to implant an idea into this powerful guy’s mind, and he does this through infiltrating other people’s dreams. However, he has to be asleep while he does it.” 

As you began to laugh, he threw you an irritated look. You shook your head, unable to erase your smile. “That’s a really good match.” 

His eyes widened for a moment, mouth parting. For a moment (and he did not know whether he was going to regret making this assertion), he did not care for Christopher Nolan’s disrespect, after seeing your reaction.

With that, the two of you sat in near silence, the crisp opening and closing of the DVDs, the sliding of the discs being the only sound between the two of you. The Princess of the Frog was successfully matched with the Alien—you, unsurprisingly, had not watched the movie, but Vernon had watched both (one against his will, which you could guess), and thought it the best match. Brave was slotted into The Revenant's case, while Beauty and the Beast went straight into Pan’s Labyrinth’s. 

“Okay so…” the boy held up the Pocahontas CD. “Native American princess falls for the coloniser? How the fuck are you defending this?”

You could only offer a sheepish smile. “The soundtrack is really good?”

“Knowing Disney,” he crowed, cracking open the DVD, “They probably have a song on how terrible the poor Natives are.”

You eyed him, surprised. “How the hell did you guess that?”

First, Vernon made a face, as if he himself could not believe his excellent intuition. Then, he only laughed a little, taking out the Dances with Wolves DVD from the shelf. “I’ve watched enough Disney movies with my sister to know how they work.”

“Oh, so you have watched them?” you mused, watching him exchange the discs. “All that time I thought you only watched what Mingyu watched.”

“No, I watch foreign indie films like an asshole,” he clarified, shutting the cases, and putting Dances with Wolves back on the shelf. “The thing is, I still have my grievances against the super popular films. You know the list you mentioned to me the other day?” You nodded. “Most of these film junkies get off on those movies. I’ll admit I like them, but I’ve seen so much better.” 

You snorted. “Like Inception?” Vernon watched you for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. “What? You asked him, tilting your head. 

He followed your movement—he too, craned his head, his brown curls cascading along his forehead. “Like Inception…and better.”

“Better?” you gasped out, fingers rising to your bottom lip in shock. “Does Mr. Filmbro prefer a movie over Nolan’s grand—no, best release ever?!”

“Ha, ha,” he monotoned, only adding to your amusement. “It’s still his best film! But,” he added, shrugging a little, “I may or may not have lied to you the first time we met. Inception’s not my favourite movie.”

“What?!” you could barely contain your grin. “Oh my God, if I find out it’s a fucking Disney movie, I’m never letting you live it down!”

“Let’s not go that far,” he jeered, earning a harsh nudge of your elbow. “Hey! You should be thanking me for my honesty.”

“How about you extend that honesty and tell me which movie is your favourite?” 

Vernon mocked a ponder. “It’s a hard pass.” 

“Come on!” you pressed, scooting a little closer, almost reaching out as if to nudge him some more. “You’ve already committed a felony with me. Telling me your favourite movie is naturally the next step.” 

“Because that’s obviously how normal human interaction goes,” he countered, sarcasm clear in his voice.

“Tell me.” 

“No.”

“Tell me!” 

“Hmm…no!” he repeated, assembling the last of the DVDs. “Maybe if we raid Mingyu’s house next time.”

“Oh?” Leaning closer, you paused his hands on the movie sets. “Do you want there to be a next time?”

It was then Vernon realised the implications of your question, a consequence of his own suggestion. It was almost comical, how his eyes widened like full moons, and he immediately shook his head. “Now you know that’s not what I meant.” 

“Then what did you mean?” you asked him, and the way he exposed a slight stutter at your question had you laughing. “Would you want to see me again?”

What Vernon wanted to tell you was no, no, no, because another second with you would end with all the blood in his system rushing to his head, and other places. Damn everything and everyone, he would want to see you again—no. No. He wouldn’t. He would not. 

“You haven’t answered the question,” you said, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

The boy was about to stutter out an answer when the two of you heard a door slam downstairs. 

You whirled back, eyes instantly darting to the door. They then focused back on you, widened very much like his not long ago. “_____,” Vernon muttered. 

“Mr. Filmbro…”

The furrow of his brow appeared for a split-second before it disappeared at the shuffling underneath. “What the fuck do we do?” he gulped out, looking around to find anywhere to escape from. This was it—he thought he was getting away with trespassing just because you had convinced him to, but that fuckass ex-boyfriend was going to catch them in his bedroom, two inches away from kissing you, and—

“Wait,” you then said, catching his wrist in your hand. He barely had time to react to it before you shot up from your seated position, hauling the boy along with you. He stumbled, but then you nearly made him fall flat on his face as you ran to the shutter closets, sliding them straight open. The inside was a mess of branded clothing and boxes of sports equipment, but there was one opening with just enough for two people in trouble to hide. 

You first went in, and, with a harsh tug, pulled him in with you. He crashed into you, but you had enough control to slide the shutter door shut. There was so much commotion that when you both finally stilled, breathing harshly as you heard Mingyu enter the room, Vernon blinked back to see your face about two inches away from him. 

He was going to yelp—strong on going to, because you sensed his incoming shock, and smacked your hand against his mouth. His eyebrows could have touched the top of his forehead, but what you noticed the most was the warmth of his skin, burning the longer your touch lingered on his lips. 

The smile you offered him as you put a finger to your lips had him almost passing out. 

“Yeah, man, come round whenever,” was all Vernon could hear, still not comprehending Mingyu’s speech due to your hand. “No, Minseo’s not here, what the fuck? Why do you wanna know where my sister is?” 

Slowly, ever so carefully as not to alert him, you pulled down on one of the blinds of the shutter, spying the movie which he was about to see. Vernon should have been following your movements, but he could only sense you, inching closer and closer to him till you were pressed against him. Of course, you were only trying to better your vision of your ex-boyfriend, but the boy beside you could not focus. The hand on his mouth—God—he needed, so badly, to be put down. Your fingers were soft, and although his lips could not help brushing against your palm, everything in him resisted the urge to react.

Quickly glancing at your accomplice in glee, you dropped your hand from his mouth, silently urging him to watch. He could have rebelled against your pulling away, but he instead obliged. Bringing his face next to yours, he glanced at you one last time before peering at the vision that welcomed. 

There he was, the golden boy, raking his hair as he strolled into the middle of the room, observing the TV before him, and the DVD player sitting at the bottom. He kept humming, as if agreeing with whoever was on the phone. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll go to that party later…no, I’m not bringing _____! You know about that already!” 

The boy in hiding quickly snuck a peek at you, who soured a little at the mention. “Hmm? Yeah, whatever. What? Nah, I’m just gonna watch a chill movie before leaving.” Mingyu scanned the films on his shelf. Walking over, he leaned down, sliding out The Shape of Water from his collection, cradling his phone between his shoulder blade and his craned head as he opened the DVD. 

Vernon could not help pulling a face at Mingyu’s choice of a ‘chill movie’ being a film about a mute woman wanting to fuck a water creature. You probably did not understand the reference, but by the growing anticipation on your face, you only cared about the scene you two had created, and was about to unfold just then. 

Mingyu slid the CD into the player, pressing play as he made his way to his frameless bed, settling down in the sheets. “Yeah…no, no, it’s just starting.”

The two of you could hear clearly the opening credits, which began with the most obnoxious opening music of Disney’s intro. Vernon was taken aback by how Mingyu did not realise it from that very moment, but considering he was too busy chatting pure shit on the phone, laughing to himself, the boy assumed he was simply waiting for the action to occur.

“Any minute now, Mr. Filmbro,” you whispered, oh-so-fucking close to him. He did not respond, merely a nod.

Craning his head to see through the shutters, he noticed the animation come to life, the ship within dangerous waters sailing with uncertainty. He snuck a quick glance at Mingyu’s face, which started garnering a little confusion. 

“Are these extra credit scenes? I don’t remember any of this,” he heard the OG filmbro complain. 

You could not help the snort that escaped you. Vernon glared at you, but with little effect. “What?” you whispered. “I don’t remember him being this thick.” 

“What the fuck is this cartoon…” the two of you heard Mingyu pipe up. Finally, the buffoon is realising this is not the two-time Oscar winning animation, but the four-time Oscar winning CGI. “This wasn’t in the director’s cut.”

You still could not believe how your ex-boyfriend was taking this long for the realisation to hit. Even when Eric jumped up on the screen, holding onto the ship’s ropes, the watcher only regarded the character intently, as if he was somehow part of the stranger film. 

Only when, fifteen minutes in, Atlantis is finally introduced that something clicked in his brain. Mingyu tilted his head, thinking out loud. “What the fuck…?”

Getting up from where he sat, he ended the call, informing whoever was on the other side that he would meet later. He took out the CD from the player, examining its exterior. “Can’t see shit on this CD…” He was not wrong—you were smart, choosing the discs which did not have any images, confusing the boy all the more. “Maybe I put in the wrong one…”

He shrugged it off, taking out The Dark Knight instead, another easy, breezy movie to watch when The Shape of Water did not pull through. Now Nolan was a hard one to criticise—Vernon himself was a huge fan, but seeing Mingyu try to watch it irked him. A good thing, then, was it not, that he was bound for a second surprise?

Repeating the routine, he slid the secret CD, settling back into his frameless bed. “Great minds, huh?” you whispered to him, and Vernon only rolled his eyes, not enjoying the dig against him in the slightest. 

“You dated him,” he griped, watching the movie start up.

“Waste of good looks,” you whispered, your partner-in-crime nodding in agreement. The movie beginning had you both falling silent as a bird of prey hits on one of the soldier’s heads. The scene is set in the cold mountains of China, but the sole audience does not catch it immediately. 

“So fucking weird…” Mingyu trailed off again, leaning forwards. “This isn’t the robbery scene…”

Of course it was not—the idiot would not witness one of the best film openings in Vernon’s humble opinion. He would not feast his eyes to the workings of Joker’s bank robbery, nor the cold one-liners from the incapacitated bank manager. 

No, what he was served was the Huns crossing the Northern border, which, as the boy finally began to clock after a good ten minutes, was not what he was expecting.

“What the…” once again, he heaved himself up, walking over to the player. “Now I know something’s wrong…”

Both you and Vernon stretched further close, as much as the closet would allow, to peek at Mingyu’s frustration as he brought the CD out once more, examining the back and front. He then took out some more of his favourites, opening their cases and taking out the CDs, observing them closely. He was suspicious now. How could he not be, when he was expecting incel excellence, but was greeted with the same shit his younger sister—his crazy ex-girlfriend, even—would usually watch.

He blinked back. 

His deathly stillness had the two trespassers pausing. You two looked at each other, faces losing any humour, perhaps recognising that he had clocked on. You watched the scene as Mingyu rapidly added one CD after another, expecting one movie only to have a Disney-fied replacement, completely botching his plans. Every movie that received such Disneyfication further enraged him, the grit in his teeth heard, the tick in his jaw visible. 

The final straw was when the Godfather was slotted in, his all-time, unmatched favourite. There was darkness for the first few minutes, and he sighed too quickly in relief, about to lay back on his mattress. 

Then, a curly-haired girl, a toddler at best, in huge green glasses becomes visible, being told to open her eyes. 

“Is this where magic comes from?”

“What the fuck?!”

And as a conversation between the little girl and her elderly grandmother blossomed, there was a specific dialogue which sent the young boy over the edge.

“This candle became a magical flame that would never grow out…and it blessed us with a refuge in which to live…a place of wonder…An Encanto.”

You nearly burst out laughing. 

Mingyu, on the other hand, could have seen red. 

“Who fucked with my CDs?!” he demanded to no one in particular, though in his mind he knew there was a culprit. “My fucking CDs, man!” 

“Did you do the Godfather swap?” you whispered, barely able to contain yourself.

“Two special families with one heir that doesn’t feel connected to their lifestyle.” Vernon grinned at you, impressed with himself. “It was too easy.”

“Where did you even find the Encanto DVD? It wasn’t in our set.” 

“I found it in his little filmbro shelf.” He ticked his head towards the boy in physical agony. “My guess is that his sister is a Disney fan and left it in his mancave.”

“Oh my God,” you got out, watching the melodramatic scene of your dear ex show rage akin to a teenage boy losing Call of Duty online. 

“That fucking bitch,” he guttered, over and over again as he threw the Encanto CD across the room. Those words came out, and the boy behind the shutters stiffened. Okay—there is rage, and then there is straight up promise of violence. Vernon may not be much of a knight, but if they were caught, he knew he would have to protect you.

He hoped to everything that existed that it would not have to come to that—Vernon would rather fake having a heart attack and have you drag his body out of the Kim Manor. 

It seemed as that might have been a real possibility, until the boy called out a threat to a name they were not expecting.

“Minseo, I’m gonna kill you!” Mingyu roared as he stormed out of the room, undoubtedly on his way to destroy her room, even take his anger out on her Jellycat collection.

As you heard his frenzy disappear down the halls, the trespassers took this as the opportunity to escape the closet, Vernon already creating a little distance in case you come too close and cause his passing out.

“We need to get out now,” he declared as you crept out of the wardrobe, his head whipping to the door which Mingyu left from. 

You nodded, not quite looking at him as you dashed straight for the final DVD. “Oh, Jesus,” He groaned, watching you scramble for the movie, trying horrifically to hide it within your clothes. “You do realise he can come in any second!” 

“Okay, okay,” you said, hurrying over to the window. “Wait, you can go first.”

Vernon raised a brow, following after you. “How come you don’t want to go first?”

You only ushered him further, grinning. “You can peek at my ass again.”

“My eyes will be closed,” he sniped, already carrying it out, trying his absolute best not to imagine your ass in his mind—maybe stakeouts for goofy purposes were not for the weak-willed. “You know, just for that alone, you’re going down first.” 

“Whatever suits you, Mr. Filmbro,” you almost chanted, aggravating him all the more as you stepped out of the window, beginning the trek down. 

He looked down as you descended with one film in hand, still stealing glances at the only door in the room, terrified that the boy would burst through the door, see you both and bring about his downfall. Subconsciously, his fingers hovered just before his mouth, biting the skin around his nails. He knew he should have run himself over with an oncoming vehicle. A messy plan, but still fool-proof. 

“Stop panicking and come down here!” your voice snapped him out of his anxious frenzy. “I know you’re biting your nails off right now!”

The boy instantly repelled his hand, instead furrowing his brow. A little irritating—scary, as well, really—how predictable he was in your eyes. How quickly you had figured him out.

“Alright,” he said, absent-mindedly as he reached for the windowsill. He peaked down again, not realising how far down the descent truly was. Rationally, he knew it was not the worst drop he’d seen on the first floor, but the nerves had started affecting his mind. Now, this entire time he was watching you take one step, two steps down, but he did not have the strength to follow you. 

Still, he knew it was now or never.

Vernon was going to be at your heels (or, more anatomically correct, at your head) when he heard a shuffle from behind him.

He whipped his head around, anticipating the worst.

The worst arrived in all his golden-skinned, empty-headed glory. Holding one of his DVDs, Kim Mingyu stood at the doorway, his eyes widening with every second they beheld the intruder, one leg out of the house, the other a moment away from heaving him up.

Oh. Jesus. Christ.

“The nerd from film theory?”

Vernon’s face dropped. 

The Nerd from Film Theory? The Nerd from fucking Film Theory? 

It was then and there, in that exact moment of time, that the filmbro in question did not give a single care for what the popular boy thought of him. Vernon knew everything about this boy (whether he wanted to or not); his every class, his every terrible friend, even his film preferences, thanks to yours truly. Yet Mingyu did not even know his name—did not even bother to remember.

It was because of that that he managed to garner some essence of his bravado, finally settling both feet on the ladder steps. 

He also decided to add in some corrections to Mingyu’s knowledge. 

“Jo March did not need any man after Laurie…in fact, she did not need any male support, asshole.”

For added effect, he raised his middle finger, as if the burn was sick enough to hurt. 

Mingyu’s devastating response was a confused tilt of his head, clearly not understanding his reference. 

It was enough time for Vernon to hurry his descent down, catching the former more off guard. 

“What the fuck—” was all the boy heard before he quickly tried to travel downwards, feet nearly slipping on the steps by his sheer carelessness. Mingyu’s head popped out from the window, and saw the great ladder leaning against the sill, shocked gaze lowering to where Vernon was descending to.

When his eyes found yours, he could have choked on his gulp. Even more so when you smirked at him.

“_____?”

As Vernon finally dropped off the ladder, dusting himself off, he watched the two of you, staring each other down. When he gauged Mingyu’s fear of you, there was a small part of him that was filled with admiration.

Mingyu’s demand sounded more like a whimper. “What are you doing here?”

You only curled your lips further upwards, grinning like a wild animal. It chilled your ex-boyfriend to the bone when you held the Tangled CD up for him to see, with your other hand raising your middle finger. 

“This is for calling me a stupid bitch.”

His mouth dropped open. That gave you just enough time to grab onto Vernon’s hand, enveloping your fingers around his wrist. 

And run for your life.

Vernon let out a yelp as he was yanked forward by your hold, barely hearing Mingyu’s loud curses and retreating back into the house, no doubt to follow after you two—the trespasser could only guess, much too occupied by your hand, a guiding beacon of mischief, never absent in his life as you ran and ran and ran out of the garden, out of the sleek maze which you two first entered, catching sight of the open garden gate.

The boy heard distant footsteps coming from the house, and as you both saw your car parked beyond the greater gates, you fished out your keys, finally letting go of his hand to dash over to the driver’s side, jamming the key in the lock. Vernon let out a startled noise as the car unlocked, wasting no time to jump inside, heart beating loud enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear. Mingyu appeared at the main doorstep at the exact same time, even more shocked to realise he had not noticed his ex-girlfriend’s car casually parked before him. 

Just as you climbed inside, swivelling the keys into ignition, Mingyu began to run after the car, a mere ten seconds between him and catching you two.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, _____, just start it already!” the nervous boy in shotgun begged, his head swivelling back at every chance, heart lurching at every metre closer the filmnemesis crept.

The car revved to life at your signal.

It was time to get the fuck out of here. 

“GO, GO, GO!” Vernon screamed at the top of his voice, fisting the handle at the roof of the car as you slammed on the accelerator, racing out of the driveway with Mingyu’s bellowing following after you. Of course, since he was a mere, enraged college student, and you both were in a (slight) state-of-the-art vehicle, you zoomed out of the neighbourhood, his curses fading with every turn further out, you managing to escape. 

Vernon, because he had never done such a thing before, was still screaming to leave for the next ten minutes until you had had enough, swerving to the side of the road, not far from his DVD store. You almost crashed into the nearby park, frightening a few birds that expected peace within the sidewalk trees, only to be disturbed by a troublesome ex and a film-obsessed loser. 

You gushed out an exhale, fingers gripping tightly to the wheel, almost as stunned as the boy beside you, who seemed to take in the town’s worth of air in his little body. But then, you realised the gravity of the situation, the sole movie at the back which could not be swapped, and the valiant escape from something you never thought you would come out of alive.

Just then, you burst into laughter. 

The boy whirled his head to you, who could not stop the tumbles of laughter that escaped your mouth, hanging on to the car wheel as you cackled and cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West. Well, that was what you thought you sounded at that time, but you, as always, did not care.

Only that you were wrong—at least in Vernon’s eyes. You were wrong, because if you were laughing like some Disney villain, then he would have been more pissed off—enraged even. He was instead in awe, shocked at the raw guffawing that spluttered out of you without shame. Had the two of you not evaded a great danger? Nearly been arrested for your legally ambiguous behaviour? 

For the first time in his life, he was not embroiled with dread. 

There was no anxiety in his body, no essence of panic at the consequences of your actions. No, he could only stare at you and your mirth, and find himself raising his brows, the beginnings of a scoffed laugh creeping from his lips. 

The more he looked at you, the more his own laughter joined yours. 

And then you were both laughing, giggling beyond control at the narrow escape, and the near crash against some tree. Vernon knew how stupid this whole situation was, but strangely, he did not seem to care—not when you did not see it like that. A very odd prospect. 

After a few minutes, when it finally seemed as if you would settle down, you sighed, leaning back into the driver’s seat. “We should do that again.”

Despite the amusement lingering, he immediately shut the idea down. “Not a chance.”

You admired the ancient lining of the tree’s bark in front of the car. “The way you were laughing with me just now, you’d think you want to commit crimes from now on.” 

A dramatic roll of eyes. “I’m not going to jail. They don’t even have a TV there.”

“You and your fuck ass movie collection…”

That brought out another chuckle from the boy—you smiled at the notion. He then looked at the rearview mirror, where the last movie was splayed, all alone and away from the others. “Kind of a shame we missed out on one last movie.”

“Right?” You followed his line of sight. “Fuck, Tangled of all movies?”

“Wait, isn’t that the one with Rapunzel?” 

You let out an impressed hum. “A week of seeing my face, and you’re already catching on!” A mischievous raise of brows. “Another month with me and you can sing all the tracks from the film.”

“You really shouldn’t have this much faith in me, _____,” he said, shaking his head. “Plus, this might be the one movie I didn’t watch with Sofe.” He saw you perk up at the new name. “My sister. She’s the one who forced me to watch all those Disney films years ago.”

“I like her already,” you mused, a finger on your chin. You paused for a bit, looking down at your shoes, settled lightly upon the pedals. Then, you started the engine once more.  “So…Tangled is the only one you haven’t watched, huh.” 

A glance at you. “Yep.” 

You looked back, hoping to reverse away from the tree. “Right…” You checked your watch, the car slowly moving out of the pavement. “Interesting…super duper interesting.”

It was something insane, fantastical the way Vernon’s nerves seemed to hum at the implications. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“What? I just said that it’s interesting you’ve never watched Tangled…”

The boy scoffed, crossing his arms. “This is where you’re gonna force me to watch the stupid movie.” 

But then he caught the look of surprise on your face, as if you had been caught. “Oh, Jesus, you’re not gonna let me out the car, are you?”

“No, no!” you countered at once, raising your hands. “Well, yes as in I was hoping you would watch the movie with me, and no, I won’t force you.” You sighed a little, fingers back on the wheel. “You’ve already done so much today. If you want to go home, I’ll drive you straight there.”

He watched your expression, the prepared acceptance, the anticipation—the sliver of hope, hiding itself amongst the flurry of other emotions. In all honesty, he was tired; the entirety of this evening had exhausted his social battery (which he doubted he had to begin with) and he still had some sound image work left back at the college studio. If it was any other person asking, he would have happily bunked them off—pretended that he had suddenly developed a terminal illness in the span of minutes, and begged them to drive him back home to ‘live out the rest of his days’.

You, on the other hand, were a problem. He could not let you down—not anymore. Not after today.

When he let out a soft sigh, you were anticipating the worst. Then, he revealed the answer. 

“Let’s watch a fucking Disney Princess movie.”

VERNON DID NOT WANT TO WATCH A FUCKING DISNEY PRINCESS MOVIE. 

The moment you opened the door to your house—a shabby, student house about twenty minutes from campus—stepping inside, he realised there was no way back, and that he had to humour your wish, or else lose respect in your eyes. 

As you brought him down the small hallway, leading into the little living room, you quickly grabbed the takeout boxes of your flatmates, murmuring hurried apologies as you left the room. The boy looked around, the slight cracks of the blue walls, the 32” TV sitting at the opposite end of the fraying couches. Posters of Bridget Jones, Notting Hill, and other Hugh Grant movies were plastered on one end of the wall, while Vernon nearly had a jumpscare when he caught a life-size cardboard cutout of some Disney hero—this one unrecognisable. 

“That’s the love of my life you’re staring at,” came the voice behind him, and he whirled to see you, a huge bowl of popcorn cradled in your hands. “Why’re you standing in the middle like an idiot? Sit, sit!” Vernon obliged, making to settle on the sofas when you tutted. “Are you mental? No, sit on the bean bags near the TV!” 

How stupid of me to assume I could sit on furniture designed for sitting, he meant to crow, but the moment he settled on the bean bags, he instantly preferred their malleable comfort. When he let out a relaxed sigh, you huffed out a laugh, propping the bowl before him. “See?” 

“I was gonna say…” Vernon trailed off, watching you press a few buttons on the DVD player. “Where’s the CD?”

“Already in,” you said, picking up the remote as you settled in the beanbag next to him, scooting closer. Catching a look at his face, you bellowed, “Yes, Mr. Filmbro, I watched it recently!”

“How recently are we saying?”

“...yesterday evening.” 

“And this is the masterpiece you wanna show me,” Vernon murmured, sneaking a look back at the cardboard cutout. “Don’t tell me he’s the floozy that’s leading the film.” 

You turned the TV on. “Fine. I won’t tell you.”

He then looked at you. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Trust me!” you then reasoned, putting a hand on the boy’s knee—the mere touch had his brain rewiring, nerves all ceasing to work on the one point where your touch remained. You really had to stop—first your hand was on his mouth in that damned (blessed) closet, and now this soft reminder. He tried his best not to fix his eyes on your lingering fingers as you carried on, “This film is a modern classic. I promise.” 

Well shit, he thought. When you looked at him like that, you could have convinced him that Quentin Tarantino was a better foot fetishiser than a filmmaker. 

“Okay,” he said, almost believing in your words. 

With that, the landing page for the movie turned on, and there were the main characters; he assumed the chick with the long, blonde hair was Rapunzel, and the man behind her—which, Vernon thought, did not deserve to be celebrated as a life-sized cardboard cutout—was the love interest. Whatever. 

“Let’s just get this over with,” he mumbled as you pressed the fated Play, anticipating the worst. 

And as the two of you fell silent, Vernon still holding out on the popcorn, watching suspiciously at the screen, the voice of a man flooded the TV speaker.

“This…this is the story of how I died.” 

The boy immediately reacted, face dropping. “The fuck?” he got out, catching the WANTED! Poster of the very man he bad-mouthed not two minutes ago. 

“But don’t worry, this is actually a fun story…and the truth is…it isn’t even mine.” 

“Wait, this dude is already dead?” he asked.

“Just watch the movie!” you answered impatiently, making the boy sigh and lean back into the bean bag.

“This is the story of a girl named Rapunzel. And it starts…with the sun.”

You wanted to keep your eyes rooted to the screen, watch the unfurling of Mother Gothel’s backstory, but that was precisely when the incessant complaining began. 

“Now why are we already getting context of some random witch’s actions? Less telling, more showing, man!” Vernon kept his arms crossed, shaking his head at the TV. “Oh, great, poor little king and queen in their big ass castle!” 

“Having basic sympathy will take you great places, my guy,” you merely said, scoffing down the popcorn in the bowl. “Their kid just got stolen by some crazy bitch.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, piping down once more when the flashbacks ceased, and the present day was introduced into the story. On the screen, a small, green chameleon entered, camouflaging himself behind a pot of flowers. He guessed that the chick with the long hair—Rapunzel—would be finding him, and, lo and behold, he was right. In all fairness, though, it did not take a film degree to work that out.

He also did not need a film degree to guess that a musical number was about to be introduced, not even ten minutes into the movie. That he worked out all by himself, when the guitar riffs sounded. Beside him, you instantly brightened, smile widening as TANGLED morphed on the screen, the song about to begin. 

It was around that point when, as he spared you a glance, he realised you were about to sing along.

“Oh, Jesus—”

If his life was a romantic film, this would have been the perfect setup; the girl that made his heart flutter was seated dangerously close to him, bean bags already touching with shoulders barely following, watching the cheesiest animated movie. He could have seen the shot now, with his gaze turning rose-y as you would open your mouth and sing along to the song. Of course, you would sing beautifully, better than the original singer, and he would sit there, absolutely mesmerised. 

Oh, he was stunned alright. 

“SEVEN AM THE USUAL MORNING, LINE UP—!”

The boy flinched at the sheer volume of your chant—screech would be the better word for it, for he guessed singing was not one of your natural talents. 

You could not see his judgement at all, eyes closed and clutching your fists to your chest, continuing the song. “START ON THE FLOOR AND SWEEP TILL THE FLOOR’S ALL CLEEEEEANNNN—!”

A scoff escaped him, not quite believing the scene before him. He was shocked to silence, the movie’s music now in his background, the forefront being your attempt to outsing the princess. Either no one had told you how horrendous your singing was, or you simply did not care for the opinions of others. A part of him hoped that it was the latter—for you to be so comfortable in singing away, despite what others thought, made his judgement disappear. 

Shamelessly you sang the entire number, up to the point where the scene cuts and the supposedly hot love interest—whose name was Flynn Rider, apparently, which he should have known if he just read the poster at the start of the movie like a normal viewer—was now trying to steal the crown jewels. 

Vernon was too busy thinking about how stupid ‘Flynn Rider’ was as a name to realise that another song had just started. Immediately you changed your tune, your tone lowering, almost sultry. 

This time, you looked at him when you started singing. 

“Look at you, as fragile as a flower…”

“Ayo?” A glance at the TV screen, where Mother Gothel was now singing. “Another song?”

But you did not answer his question, only singing further as you reached your hand out to him. “Still a little sapling, just a sprout!” You continued, and, at that, your hand patted his mess of curls atop his head, mirroring Mother Gothel’s actions. 

Blinking back repeatedly, he could not even shrug it off, stunned once again by how you were casually able to touch him and not feel anything—while his entire system shuts down like a lagging desktop when it tries to run the Sims. 

The overdramatic flair was present in your singing, changed from the sweetness of the previous song. It was crazy how you remembered each word, not slipping at any chorus—you were a true fan, a committed admirer of the film. Even he could not comprehend knowing every single line of his favourites. 

It was admirable indeed—to love a film as you did this one.

It was what made Vernon smile a little, turning away from your melodrama and focusing on the screen, where Mother Gothel now threatened to never be asked to leave the tower. Again.

This time, he would give the movie a chance. Thank God he decided to wake up.

The movie picked up the pace instantly—he had not expected Flynn to meet—and be whacked out by Rapunzel’s frying pan—so quickly, and had reflected her dejection when the mother screamed at her. He could tell where this was going, especially with the thief now in the closet, but he found himself grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl without turning away from the screen.

By the time the third song of the movie came around, he was taken aback that it arrived further in, surrounded by the thugs of the Snuggly Duckling. Without realising, he turned to you, anticipating you breaking out into a song, but you were merely watching the movie, bobbing your head along to the beat.

Noticing his stare, you glanced at him. “Expecting a show?”

“Since you were giving them out without request, I figured this time would be like any other.”

You snorted, grabbing the popcorn. “I’m saving my heavenly voice for the best song, actually.”

Vernon mocked a gasp. “So you’re telling me Mother Knows Best isn’t the best feature?”

“Don’t chat shit, Mr. Filmbro, because Mother Knows Best is one of the top five.”

“I look forward to seeing which song you’re holding out for,” he only said, turning back to the movie again. The popcorn ran out about this time, and you shot up from your bean bag, promising more as you exited the room, leaving him to continue. 

By the time you returned, the protagonists were escaping, chaos ensuing all around them with the guards, his partners and that eccentric white horse chasing them. Ending up in the cave, they recognise a lack of way out, and although Vernon was aware that the movie ends on the happiest note, a small part of him filled with dread. 

That dread disappeared instantly when Flynn confessed his little secret.

“Eugene Fitzherbert?!” The boy demanded.

You chuckled at his disdain. “Yeah, Flynn Rider was hotter. Eugene Fitzherbert ages him about forty years.”

“Flynn Rider was silly, but Eugene is straight up diabolical.” 

“He is still fuckable regardless!” you shushed him, raising your pointer at him. “You wish you had his sex appeal.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, let me just change my name to Bartholomew Whiteman real quick.”

“Hey!” you whacked him on the arm, this time laughing heartily at his quip. “Let my man live!”

He decided to spare your fictional man any more bullying, taking in the town atmosphere where the two adventurers and Maximus had now ended up. “Ooooo, the castle dances are my favourite scenes!” you gushed, scooping popcorn in one hand and eating with the other. “Wait, look, look at the braid!”

“Jeez, I’m looking!” he insisted, watching the girls braid Rapunzel’s hair. Flynn—which Vernon is continuing to identify him as, because Eugene was too much for him—stared at her longingly at the results. Vernon used the popcorn as an excuse to gaze at you matching Flynn’s longing at the screen. Your head rested on your knees, locking your hands in front of them, forming a lazy smile. This smile remained throughout Rapunzel and Eugene’s activities, even to the point when the couple were settled in a boat, waiting for the lights. 

“It’s happening,” you declared, the smile widening as you released your legs from your hands. “Oh my God, it’s fucking happening!”

Raising the volume, the boy watched the screen, where thousands of lanterns were sparking alight at the king and queen’s signal. The lanterns’ lights broke across the borders of the town, melting into the sea, the docked ships. Rapunzel had not noticed though, too busy dropping flower heads upon the water’s surface, Flynn helpfully holding out the bunch. 

As the princess dropped another upon the waterbed, she finally noticed the beginning.

It was then Vernon heard your favourite Disney song.

“All those days, watching from the window…All those years, outside looking in…” 

You followed this time, not as loud as the other songs, quiet and soft, as if letting the blonde shine in her song. “All that time, never even knowing, just how blind I’ve been…”” 

You exhibited the same excitement as Rapunzel, who, noticing the lanterns, threw off Flynn’s balance, hanging onto the curling bow of the boat.

The boy, however, was not really focused on the screen.

Because the music that surrounded the two crept into his ears, playing the strings of his senses; because the lights were off save for the TV, shining its dimmed lighting upon your face, making you glow with the dark purples, blues, golds of the Tangled scenery. He lost all interest in everything because you were looking something out of a daydream, watching the events of the movie as if they were scenes of salvation. The two of you were definitely not on any kind of boat, merely sitting on bean bags. Despite all of that, he began to float—swaying from where he sat, as if he was truly settled on water. 

“Now I’m here—” You put your hand to your chest— “Blinking in the starlight…now I’m here, suddenly I see…”

You kept singing the lyrics, voice more subdued than your last outbursts, and Vernon could only watch you, the pure love of this song radiating off your very pores. Vernon’s anticipation rose with every octave of the singer’s voice rising, eyes never leaving your face, the parted mouth. 

“Standing here, it’s oh! so clear…!”

As the viewers themselves were about to observe the thousands of lanterns Rapunzel witnessed, Vernon himself waiting, he made the mistake of averting his gaze from you, if only to see the grand reveal.

It was what made you unconsciously envelop your fingers with his, clasping his hand with yours.

He whipped his head to yours, eyes widening to the point of spilling. 

You were already looking at him. 

When you sang the next lyrics, Vernon could have melted molten.

“I’m where I’m meant to be!” 

And as the lanterns surrounded the protagonists, lighting up the entirety of the night, you sang the chorus to the boy in your little college flat, no one to witness it but two of you.

“And at last I see the light! And it’s like the fog has lifted!” 

Your voice was hoarse now, all the screech-singing catching up to you. Vernon, in another lifetime, would have instantly resisted, ran for the hills if it was literally anyone else in the room but you.

“And at last I see the light! And it’s like the sky…is new…” 

But it was you—you holding his hand tightly, you looking at him with the light of the lanterns in your eyes, you opening up to him in your little haven, away from anyone else. Granted, you could have offered this performance to anyone, but he liked to think—shit, he was truly hoping—that you would not have done this for anyone else. 

You would have only sang your favourite song to him. 

“And it’s warm, and real, and bright! And the world has somehow…shifted…”

Vernon watched you halt a moment, waiting for the next verse, your hand tightening in his. 

“All at once…everything looks different…”

You were right—the world had shifted underneath him, stilled under the dimmed lighting of this dingy living room. The two of you now faced each other, music still tuning from the TV, but the characters long forgotten, as if they never existed. Yes, you were right in that everything looked different, seemed different, as if he was seeing you for the very first time. 

“Now that I…see you.”

Shit. You were rather beautiful before him.

You paused then, watching his reaction. You tilted your head, thoroughly amused by the sheer awe that radiated from his face, but then you noticed his chest rise and fall, more unevenly the longer you observed him. 

The next detail you caught was how his eyes darted down—down to your lips.

It was the lips, which were watched so intently, that parted.

You attempted at a little humour. “Out of all my talents, I guess singing isn’t one of them.”

But Vernon did not respond with words. Sure, he would have agreed with you, but singing was irrelevant now. Out of all these infinite talents you possessed—your natural charm, your ease in making him laugh, your trespassing and eventual escaping of such crimes—Vernon could not have given less of a shit about singing. Not when you were before him, bathed in an unnatural, extraordinary light, soft music playing in the background. Almost as if he had adorned the rose-tinted glasses, courtesy of the universe.

In any romantic comedy, he would have kissed her.

The boy was not known to be courageous—anything but brave. Real Life, Not Clickbait Vernon would have left by now. The Real Vernon should have pussied out. 

You, however, looked a little too beautiful to be treated with cowardice. 

“Are you going to kiss me, Mr. Filmbro, or are you gonna make me wait till the end of the movie?”

He parted his mouth for a split second, gob-smacked at your question. The twinkle in your gaze, though, had him spluttering out a harsh chuckle, craning his head down at the sheer absurdity of it all. But then he looked up, smiling, not quite believing what he was about to do.

“I should make you wait.”

That was what he said. What Vernon instead did was finally grow the two balls that were supposed to be hidden in his pants, leaning in and pressing his lips against yours. 

Now the boy always wondered whether the movies were right—when mouths would touch, move against each other, whether a fire would ignite between souls, whether one really felt as if they were not of this world.

It seemed like Hallmark-level bullshit to him, but the moment his lips touched yours, he began to float out of this room. A soft hum reverated from you, approval at his actions, and he could have burst as he felt you smile against him. 

Maybe Disney was right. God, he really did not want to be in such accord with that stupid corporation, but they were onto something with the fireworks, the orchestral singing when couples kiss. He himself felt a choir-like chant all around him as he brought his hand to your face, angling it slightly so he could gain better access, boost your pleasure as he delved slightly deeper.

He was unstoppable. He was alive and ecstatic and delirious, opening his mouth wider, his other hand now finding your waist, snuffing out any distance between you two. It was not like he was a pro in these situations—he had only ever had one serious girlfriend, and that was at an age where a boy could get away with merely ‘french-kissing’ (as the kids back then would have gloated) your significant other. Again, he may have fooled around a little in college, too, but never had he experienced this haze of lust, this newfound desire. 

This desire enhanced further when you slipped your tongue from the seams, sliding it along his as an invitation for more, and he could have honestly thanked that heinous hag Walt Disney for making movies you adored so much, to the point of showing him and landing him in this situation. Of course he indulged you, opening his mouth enough to let you inside. The sensation of your tongue slipping past his lips had a soft noise releasing from his throat. 

Tangled was all but forgotten, the two of you too occupied being entangled with each other. You pulled him even closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, fingers brushing against the ends of his hair. The soft touches had every strand of his locks standing on edge, a wave of delight washing over him. 

You were sagged into the bean bag, Vernon’s weight upon you sinking you further, but you did not mind it—relished it, his scent engulfing you, the sighs and soft murmurs of his every exhale haunting your eardrums. Who would have thought that a boy who could recite every Joker quote from The Dark Knight—Virgin Supremism you termed the talent—had this kind of game hidden underneath? How was he able to ignite such powerful emotions from you?

How was Vernon ‘Filmbro’ Chwe able to make you feel so good you did not realise Tangled finishing right before you?

The two of you could have spent all night intertwined in each other, perhaps would have gone past the boundaries of mere making out. However, between the haze of his soft whispers to you, your own mist swimming in your head, you heard the starting music of the DVD reverting to the home page, and like instinct you opened your eyes, finding that the movie had ended.

You must have paused, because Vernon immediately stopped, concern staining his pretty features. His knitted brow, eyes laced with nervousness, shamed you for ever stopping. “What’s wrong? Did I do something?”

“Oh, no, no!” You felt like a fool for the answer you attempted to give him. “It’s just, um…”

He followed your line of sight, turning around. Once he realised, he looked back at you, you surprised to find a little shock replacing his concern. “We were going for that long?”

Your smirk had his stomach knotting. “This is what happens when you make out with someone you like, Mr. Filmbro.” 

He could not respond, looking away as his flushed face managed to redden some more. You only laughed at him, playing with the hem of his shirt, his arms still steady as they caged you. “You are so lucky, you know.”

He quirked a brow. “And why is that?” 

“I would never miss the second half of Tangled for a man.”

It was so incredibly stupid, how he felt a semblance of pride at the notion.“Happy to know I’m an exception.”

“You do know I’m gonna make you watch it again so you can say you’ve watched it.”

Vernon tilted his head to the side, lost in thought. You watched him, anticipating. “This is the part where you say you’d rather Mingyu jump you than rewatch Tangled.” 

“Well yes, but…” He glanced over his shoulder, where your shelf of DVDs were stacked, a particular movie which had caught his eye previously now standing out all the more. “I, uh…” 

He looked back at you, and the self-conscious glint in his gaze had you watching his every movement. “I was hoping to show you my favourite movie instead.”

You were ready to make a comment on how you prided on avoiding Nolan films like the plague, but then you remembered the conversation at Mingyu’s house. Your eyebrows could have touched your hairline. “You said I could never know.”

“Well…” a small smile escaped him, slowly pulling himself away. “If I am to be your exception, _____, then I suppose you can be mine.”

Gaping at him, you could only keep silent as he, with great effort on his part, heaved off you, making his way to the shelf. He was lucky, you thought—had he been a moment slower, that comment alone would have had you kissing him again. 

What quickly caught your attention was him sliding his pointer finger through your collection, a series of your favourites. The anticipation was rising, you not quite believing that Mr. Filmbro’s favourite film was within your arsenal. Weeks ago, you would have bullied him relentlessly for the ironic hypocrisy.

When he pulled out the fated DVD, you let out the greatest laugh.

The boy instantly frowned, but you did not realise, cackling and cackling away at the selection, the final boss of Vernon’s favourite film, nestled between his fingers. “Shut up,” he mumbled, but again, you did not hear him, lost in the shrill sound of your laughter, erupting the room to life. 

“Oh, Jesus—” Your chortling did not seem to stop, almost to the point of hiccups. “Your ass…this entire time—!”

“And suddenly I’m leaving!” Vernon announced, getting up and about to drop the DVD. 

He did not last long in his determination when you grabbed onto the end of his shirt, grinning still. “Thank God you’re not a Nolan kiss-ass…that’s all I’m saying.”

All he could do was stand like an idiot, the tips of your fingers caressing the skin just above his trousers. “But I am a Nolan kiss-ass,” he murmured, crossing his arms. 

“That’s what I thought, too, but this film—” you jerked your head towards the prize in his hand. “You’ve redeemed yourself.”

“Stop it,” he only said, crouching down to pull out the Tangled CD, replacing it with the new, and, in his opinion, improved movie. “This is why I didn’t want to tell anyone.”

“And nobody will know,” you assured him, watching the movie’s main menu pop up, the PLAY option highlighted. “This’ll be our secret.”

“First the trespassing,” Vernon began, sitting down beside you, “Then the tampering of movies, and now this.” He grabbed the remote, about to play the movie. “How much more are we gonna sneak around?”

You looked at him, and the smile you offered him had him glancing away—only for a second. “Have you not had fun, though? Sneaking around with me?”

Normally, in a situation where he had zero balls, he would have evaded such a question, not fanned the flames of your fire. But tonight he had watched a Disney movie with you, felt your fingers caressing his skin, had even kissed you in the purple hues of Tangled’s light. Tonight, he could conquer the world.

What would answering a heated question do any harm?

Vernon locked eyes with you then, trying to fight his smile. “I think I could have fun with you anywhere…in secret or for anyone to see.”

As something in your gaze shifted, he turned the film on (an entendre which was completely intentional). 

Once again, the two of you were in the same position, watching yet another film, this time another’s all time favourite. The narrator began in a strange, European accent, explaining the tale of an unfortunate princess, much like Rapunzel, and her dire situation. 

Although it was undoubtedly his most treasured film, the boy had a very hard time paying attention when all he could feel was that penetrating stare of yours, capable of revealing his very soul from beneath his measly shirt. Even when the stranger main character was introduced, following his main routine in his strangest abode, Vernon was not particularly concentrating anymore.

Not when he heard your voice, a soft question amongst the gaudy music of the 2000s. “Do you mean that, Vernon?”

And perhaps it was because you said his actual name, especially when your voice sounded like…like that. Like something from a perfect movie soundtrack, akin to the end-credits of an unforgettable TV show. 

Because he was too occupied with simply admiring you, he merely nodded, biting the inside of his cheek.

And because you were too busy admiring him, his words, the entire night where you had felt pure, euphoric joy, you did Mr. Filmbro a little dirty by making a decision that negated his film.

You shifted closer once more, hands reaching out to hold his face. 

This time, Vernon was prepared when you kissed him.

There was a certain eagerness in your lips this time which was newer—more enjoyable to his senses. It made sense now, why all these couples in movies made out for hours and hours on end. He felt as if he could kiss you forever, move against your mouth, delve inside until his tongue memorised your very imprint. 

You moaned a little louder this time, and the very sound had his heartbeat racing, moreso when, as he pressed you against him, shifting upon his beanbag, he knew then and there that something in the air shifted.

Last time, you had stopped. This time, there was no such indication—the very thought had him skirting his hands around you, holding you tight enough to never let go.

Still—even with such possibilities, there was no way you and him would escalate to the point of losing his virginity.

Whatever happens though, he will still watch the end of his favourite film. 

Whatever happens, Vernon would not be having sex with you if Shrek was playing in the background.

VERNON LOST HIS VIRGINITY WITH SHREK PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND.

Certainly not his greatest achievements, considering he could not focus on his favourite movie, but it was certainly not his fault. You were—to put it quite plainly—hot as fuck.

He did not leave until the very next day because—as he had stated that night—he still wanted you to watch Shrek, and did, somehow, end up watching it properly. You did not stop teasing him, and he did not stop shutting you up by kissing you senseless. 

Unfortunately, the boy did have college the next day, so he had to leave at some point, but not without promises of meeting you again. This time, however, you two did not continue the crimes he committed with you. You and Vernon were not modern-day Joker and Harley Quinn.

When the two of you were not terrorising Mingyu’s livelihood, you decided to hang out at the filmstore, where it all began. Vernon would host weekly movie nights, and both of you would eat popcorn and watch each other’s recommendations, scoring them differently in accordance to what was most important for each other.

For the film majoring student, the rating was influenced not only by the actors’ performances, but also from the intricate storyline, the character developments, their relationships. A story, for him at least, was about relationships. Good cinema was about the chemistry between two actors, the emotional connection they had not just with each other, but also their effect on the audience. The actual editing of the film, too, was another bullet point in his criteria.

Your rating, on the other hand, differed slightly. 

“Michelle Yeoh is such a MILF,” was your only comment upon finishing Everything Everywhere All at Once. 

This comment nearly made Vernon lose his mind. “One of the greatest movies of this decade, and this is your only input?”

“But am I wrong, though?”

Vernon sighed a little at that—at the end of the day, you were absolutely in the right. There was a reason Crazy Rich Asians went platinum in his dingy little room. 

Of course, it was not just his personal recommendations that played. You had compiled a list of your all-time favourites, going beyond Disney’s borders, and Vernon was introduced to the dashing timeless genre of the rom-com. Now having a younger sister who (he thought) was a basic bitch meant he did possess some knowledge of the genre, but he had never really sat down and watched a rom-com without falling asleep in Sofia’s bed. 

For you, though, he braved the most famous romances, which he found himself enjoying more than he would have liked—more so when he found one of his favoured actors in 10 Things I Hate About You.

“Heath Ledger singing was something I never thought I needed,” Vernon commented as the ferocious couple finally kissed. 

“And this is the same fella who was the Joker in your little Nolan film,” you reminded him, as if he was not aware already. “Oh, and he was the gay cowboy in that movie.”

“Gay cowboy?” His confusion lasted for approximately thirty seconds before he groaned, pushing you over on your beanbag. “My god, are you talking about Brokeback Mountain?”

“Yes, that one!” you exclaimed, picking up the TV remote. “My guy has range, but him as a high schooler is still my favourite role.”

“You do realise how bad that sounds, right?”

“You know what I mean,” you said, waving him off as you began searching for the next movie. “Now, Two Weeks’ Notice or The Proposal?”

Vernon endeavoured to weigh in on the options. “Which one do you think I’d like?”

“Well, both have Sandra Bullock in them…”

He looked over both DVDs. “Now that’s a white woman I can get behind.” 

You scooched a little over to him, locking your hands together. “We can watch something you like…” When he knitted his brows together, not quite answering you, you went on, almost unable to look him in the eye. “You’ve been super nice, you know…sitting through all my favourites.” 

The boy could not help it, unable to let a smirk slip. “Is this _____ appreciating me for once?” The beginnings of his shit-eating attitude did not develop, since your smack on his arm completely snuffed it out. “Ow, damn!”

“You deserved that,” you muttered, beginning to scoot away until Vernon’s hand on your wrist stopped you. 

When you focused your gaze at him, he already beat you to it. “Let’s watch both today.” 

It was silly, how that made your heart beat faster. “Really? You would watch two rom-coms in a row?”

As his hand pulled you closer, his stare had you almost—almost—nervous. “I’ve done worse for you.”

“Very true,” you said, absent-minded, more lost in the twinkle of his eyes. “Very, uh…good point.”

Vernon thanked all the higher bodies that may have existed for the pure, unadulterated rizz he was attempting to spew. “I’m full of good points,” he crowed. “Now, are you going to stare at me all night, or are we going to watch Sandra Bullock?”

Although your cheeks burned, you pushed him off, earning a chuckle from him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Filmbro. The only man I’ll be staring at will be Ryan Reynolds in The Proposal.”

All of the boy’s suave attitude dissipated at his shock. “The Deadpool guy?!”

“Ryan Reynolds did have range before,” you explained, shaking your head. “Then the superhero bug bit him.”

“What a shame,” he only said, as if Vernon did not follow the Deadpool universe to the point of possessing special editioned comics in his room. Still, he happily slotted the CD inside the player, and excused himself to make more popcorn for the two of you.

As the boy prepared snacks, glancing back every time at the opening scene, he managed to sneak a look at you, eagerly watching the screen. 

He could only smile, putting all the popcorn in the huge bowl before hurrying back to you. 

THIS WAS PROBABLY THE FIRST TIME YOU WORE A SUIT TO A CINEMA. PERHAPS THIS WAS THE FIRST TIME YOU WORE A SUIT AT ALL.

Admittedly, it was not as if you had intended to go into the cinema in formal attire—or, at least the only formal clothing you had. Your first plan was to steal something from your father’s wardrobe, but when you tried it on, it did not fit properly, and you refused to look like an idiot in public.

Not that you cared much about looking like an idiot in public before, but there was another person to look out for. And that person, although had already done embarrassing enough actions for you, did not want to push it further. One more ceremonious act of humiliation, and Vernon would have run a thousand miles from you—or that was what you thought. 

You observed your cinema fit one last time before your bathroom mirror, fixing the lapels for the nth time. Your rented three-piece suit was almost a second skin, waistcoat snug underneath the tweed jacket, matching coloured trousers adorned alongside. You borrowed some Oxford brogues from a friend, which made you realise that you had more posh friends than you knew. You tried to find a hat similar to the one Cillian Murphy wore in the promotions, but because you did not have the wardrobe of a middle aged man, you resorted to let your head rest. 

All of this elaborate planning to see Nolan’s (apparently) greatest release yet—Oppenheimer. 

Because the cinema was not far away from you, you decided to walk, messaging your date to let him know that you were on your way. You were certain he was already there in the cinema; Vernon, since you had started hanging out more with him, had only ever talked about Nolan’s upcoming epic. You swore if you recited the IMDB plot out to him during sex, he would have spunked within minutes (a mental note to experiment on that later). His excitement had you booking midnight release tickets, which consequently made him so happy you thought you had invited Nolan to the town cinema. 

The night, furthering along, had beautified the black sky, stars twinkling on your journey. The consistent vibrations from your phone indicated the boy’s imminent excitement, and you smiled, double-checking your formal attire once more. You would have romanticised the nighttime further but living in student area brought you right back to fearing slightly for your life, so you quickened your step, cinema already a close speck in the distance. 

You knew you were nearer to the destination when the flocks of pink and black grew, the cowboy hats and fake pipes all piling up in your vision. Seeing the pink reminded you of Barbie’s influence, also being released tonight alongside the more serious counterpart. 

A small part of you really wanted to see the midnight release for the new movie. The original plan most people were following was either to watch Oppenheimer and then Barbie, or the other way around. You were so close to procuring tickets for the latter, but decided that it was important to accompany Vernon to the seemingly bigger release. After all, you were never as excited about films as the dear film major you had rather grown to like.

Another vibration of your phone, and you finally decided to stop ignoring said-film major and text him, possibly informing you of his arrival.

mr. filmbro: yo where u at

mr. filmbro: they’re too many pink mfs out here im getting suffocated

You rolled your eyes.

_____: im coming to save u kitten.

mr. filmbro: :0

Once you were inside, it was a complete sea of pink and black and grey. Two sides, which one would assume would be opposing, were all celebrating, sharing their drinks, anticipating when the theatre doors would open to let everyone in. Within this myriad of fans, you tried to search for the most mentally ill one—the one who you were certain had a finer three-piece set than you, who would have happily stolen Cillian Murphy’s set clothes to truly honour the movie. 

Strangely enough, after a few minutes, you could not find him, even after confirming your seats. You searched for anyone wearing anything devoid of colour, but did not find the boy. This time, you decided to bother him, calling him and pressing the phone to your ear. 

“Where are you, kitten?” you purposely growled, lowering your voice an octave. “Daddy’s waiting.”

“Kitten actually killed himself after hearing that,” was his purposeful monotone. 

“Can you resurrect yourself for me real quick? I’m tryna find where you are.” 

“I’m next to the Oppenheimer popup.” Immediately you tried to find it, scouring through the crowds. “I figured you’d find me easier.”

Scoffing, you ignored the Barbie stalls, walking further ahead. “How very smart of you to wear Oppenheimer clothing while standing next to it. So much easier to find you, isn’t it?”

He did not retort back, instead inciting your excitement. “Wait, I think I can see you…?”

Your eyes darted over to the fresh faces of the Nolan fans, all taking pictures of the cast pop-ups. What you were observing were the men and women, all lack of colour. 

What your gaze ended up on was someone completely different. 

What you were expecting was a mini-Oppenheimer, the too-large blazer, the sashed hat upon pretty brown curls. What you received instead was a boy engulfed in all the pinks of the colour wheel.

Pink was the colour of his top, bubblegum pink the colour of the stringy fur coat sporting over said shirt. Magenta was the colour of his flared trousers, whilst rose was the colour of his converse. What topped off the entire look was the hot pink cowboy hat, sitting perfectly upon his wavy locks, completing his fit—a fit which was perfect for the Barbie movie. 

It was around that point that he caught on to your stare—through the oceans of opposing fans, he, too, finally found you.

Vernon heard your curse murmur through the phone. “Oh my fucking God.”

That was when his own gaze roamed over you, shocked and shameless amongst the crowds. Not that the crowds mattered, not anymore. He was a little nervous, he had to admit it to himself, only because there were so many people, and they were only watching for the fad, for the trend. A part of him wanted just you and him in this midnight cinema, the biggest official date yet. 

But then seeing you here, in all your black-clad, Oppenheimered glory, had stunned him to his core. Although he had specifically brought you here to watch the movie, he had completely expected you to arrive in the pinkmania fit. Because you had kindly booked tickets for his anticipated film, he thought at least to participate in the Barbie craze fit.

It was like instinct, how his steps gravitated towards you, his phone still pressed against his ear, very much like you. You followed him slowly, hearing his ragged breaths through the speaker, watching him walk closer and closer until you both were a mere couple of feet away.

Only then did you drop the call, your hands at your sides as you admired him. It was a while before any of you spoke. 

Like always, you spoke first. “Tell me the fur coat is yours.”

A ghost of a smirk. “Sofia’s.”

“Stealing’s like second nature to you now, isn’t it?” you taunted. 

Like always, he dodged your taunts. “I thought you were gonna wear all pink.”

“I thought you were gonna wear all black.”

He tilted his head. “Well, I thought since we were watching both movies…”

Your confusion was clear, the corner of his lips curling further up. “Wasn’t Oppenheimer first?”

He then went inside his flared trouser pockets, fishing out two tickets—its colours matching his outfit. “I know how much you wanted to see Margot Robbie be silly.” 

“I did!” you exclaimed, taking the tickets from him, admiring how pretty they were designed, especially when compared to the Oppenheimer marketing tickets. In your admiration, though, you noticed a detail which had your excitement faltering. “Wait, are you sure? It says the movie’s at the same time.”

Vernon then checked the timings, mouth parting. “Oh shit. Didn’t think about that.” He shook his head, mouth straightening in a line, dejected. “This is what happens when I try to do something romantic.”

“I have to give points for effort,” you offered, bringing your hands to his wrist. “Hey, it’s okay. Let’s watch Oppenheimer, honestly. Cillian Murphy is still hot when he’s old.”

“No, no,” he countered, clasping your hands on his wrist. “It’s chill.” He glanced down. “Let’s do Barbie first.”

You attempted to argue him on this, but he simply let go of your hands, with his one hand wrapping around your waist, and the other hand’s wrist being checked for the time. You bit back a smile at his mere actions, relishing his fingers skirting under the suit, the waistcoat. “Vernon,” you attempted. 

“_____,” he said back, staring at you with an awe that you would have deserved had you worn a couture gown, not some rented hand-me-downs. 

You knew he would not take no for an answer now. “But what about Oppenheimer?” you asked anyway as the two of you made your way to the cinema. 

Vernon only pretended to think extremely deeply of the situation, making you elbow him playfully. “Now tell me, Dear Disney Hag, how did we enter Mingyu’s house?”

“Why, we walked straight in!” you answered like an over-enthusiastic student, in which he sarcastically clapped for you. 

“Right on.” As you both walked towards the Barbie theatre, the opposing movie was being screened right beside you, where people were bursting in. “See how everyone is walking in right now?” He gave you a knowing glance. 

That knowing glance had you scoffing in excited disbelief. “My God! Look at you, all ready to commit crimes!” you looped a hand around his arm. “I have taught you well, young man.”

He patted your arm. “Mr. Filmbro has come a long way from chatting shit about your movie taste.”

“So you admit it?” you leaned in. “Disney makes better movies than your flop directors?”

“That’s a completely different claim,” he clarified. “My taste in films is objectively better.”

“Still doesn’t change the fact you're watching the Barbie movie before Oppenheimer.”

He rolled his eyes, tugging you closer. “That’s ‘cause I like you a lot, Disney Hag…”

You did not stop your smile from lighting up your entire face. “You’re not the most insufferable filmbro I’ve dated I guess…”

”I better be the last filmbro you date,” he muttered, watching over the last of the crowds, where they now stood, waiting to enter the theatre.

The longer you waited to answer him, the more incredulous his face became, brows knotted in disbelief. You only chuckled, leaning in and pressing your lips upon his. Of course, he was taken aback, but surprises like these were pleasant, welcomed with open arms as Vernon closed his eyes, pulling you in. 

The moment the line started quickening you broke away, only to make sure no one skipped in front of you and him, and thus deal with yours and his passive aggression. You could not help the giggle that escaped you at breaking away from his lips, relishing in his dazed state. 

Honestly—you truly would not have minded being anywhere with him.

When it was finally your turn to go inside the Barbie screening, you held tightly to his hand. “Let’s go, Mr. Filmbro.”

Vernon only smiled. “Right behind you, _____.”

And as the two of you entered the theatre, hand-in-hand, the boy learned that perhaps he, too, would have gone anywhere with you. 

[edutainer2022]

To amuse myself amidst the bleak bombings I did a little fun(ish) thing within the general context of Timey-Wimey, the Future!Tracies crossover, but it could be perceived independently. It may be not the best idea to hack family video archives, while situated in a time paradox.

For more references of the Tracy future ever after in this continuity, see Piano Lessons and Worries. Indefinite thanks go to @janetm74 for inspiration and support.

WIBLY-WOBLY

The holovideo was shaky at first, someone with the camera was, probably, adjusting the hold. There was also a bit of a squabble going on in the background. The holocam tilted, recording a familiar side hallway in the villa. The walls were decorated anew, though, with pictures and paintings they never saw. There was also soft carpeting where previously they were used to hardwood. The frame was finally rectified and an unseen hand pushed the touchpanel of a door. A voice off screen, too jovial to be serious, declared:

"Tracy TV! Would you be amenable to take part in a poll?"

The brothers let out a collective gasp as a tall slim figure turned around to face the camera. Grinning at them against the backdrop of a summer afternoon was Scott. A twenty years old Scott. Upon closer look they could see the shade of meticulously styled hair was darker, so was the blue of the gaze. But the dimples were there, the posture, the bone structure, and the fond smile that could power a sun.

"Shoot, Squidletts!"

There were appalled noises from behind the camera, but a voice pressed on. A girl's, that time.

"Do you believe in love?"

"Oh... that's a good question! I believe..."

The young man stretched and squeezed his eyes dreamily. When they opened back up, the deep blue was brimming with mischief.

"I believe... I'd LOOOOVE a sandwich right about now!"

The young man burst into a hearty laugh and the Tracies hitched a breath in unison again. The resemblance was striking.

The holofeed shimmered in and out of focus some more through the turns and passages of the upper level of the villa. At some point it paused in view of a lanky freckled teen, curled up in a window niche, engrossed in some diagrams on a tablet. Despite the tropical heat, the boy was clad in layers of oversized sweatshirt and a truly hideous cardigan. The attempt of the "Tracy TV crew" to engage him in their poll resulted in a well-aimed trainer gliding their way at an alarming speed. The kid barely even got distracted from reading and the hapless reporters made a hasty retreat, before the canon shoe landed with a thud.

That brought them sprinting to the balcony, overlooking the lounge. The video on screen skipped up and down in time with the running. First only the sound was audible, then the holopicture stabilized. The spacious area was filled with viscous rue of Puccini's "O mio babbino caro" in a velvet female voice, swirling all the way up to the glass ceiling. The pianist concealed by the raised top, but for a streak of red and black flanel, the camera focused on the singer. Thick black curls in a French braid, soft brown eyes, full forms, a green sundress. The girl looked remarkably the way Virgil did when he lost a bet to Gordon that one time. Or rather, if Thunderbird Two were a girl come alive. The voice seemed to reach through the gossamer veil of the holovid and envelope them all in their current strange surroundings. Nobody dared speak, lost for breath with awe.

When the aria ended there was a low whistle off screen. Then followed enthusiastic applause and a resounding "Bravo!", in a voice they knew all too well that time. The camera jumped again and recorded a startled shriek:

"Uncle Scott!!!"

The Tracies exchanged anxious looks. The frame shifted to accomodate a newcomer - too tall to fit he bent slightly to be eyelevel with the 'reporters'. Slim figure as fit as ever, the grey suit made the blue of the eyes stand out. The right shade, this time. But the hair was all steel and silver, much like Dad's. The smile was also different. The brothers hadn't seen that one since when Mom was still alive.

"Now, what are you two up to?"

There were more dimensions of levity in the grin and the lines that flanked bright blue eyes.

"Solemnly up to no good, sir!"

The twin chorus off screen declared eagerly, with audible delight. That was obviously a well practiced routine between them. The Double Trouble scrambled to remember the purpose of their noble endeavor.

"Uncle Scott, do you believe in love?"

The smile deepened the dimples on the man's face, he reached one arm to hug someone, the other lifted up to ruffle some hair, eliciting a universally recognizable sqauck.

"Of course I do! I love your parents and all you lot. More than anything in the world! I love the way your cousin Lucy sings. I love how you're always up to mischief. I love to see how smart and talented you all are. I love to see you grow up happy. And I'd love to make the world safer and kinder for you all!"

The camera dropped the frame again in favor of a brief fierce hug, before the transmission skedaddled to the elevator and down to the hangars.

It was hard to discern the details as the camera was facing the concrete floor for some time. Much as the brothers wouldn't mind a peek into the inevitable changes of the Thunderbirds' roost, the cracks and bumps remained as they remembered. They managed to see a red sign "Restricted Area", usually deployed by Brains, when experiment muse struck. But it definitely didn't deter the intrepid investigators. The video picked up a young ginger woman in lab coveralls, manipulating screenfuls of holodata.

"Hey, Sisi! Do you believe in love?"

Green eyes looked up from shifting datastreams, as the girl seemed to give the question some actual thought.

"Belief presupposes reliance on unverified and uncorroborated data points. Since I am aware of sufficient amount of proof that my synthetic biometrical makeup is not designed to produce chemicals usually associated with emotional affection in mammals, then no, I do not BELIEVE in love. But the complex neural connections I have elaborated over time allow me to experience strong cognitive affinity and preference for the select members of the Tracy family over all other representatives of the same species. And don't call me "Sisi", I am the Dawn!"

The sniggers off screen were drowned in a gasp their side of the holofeed, just as it was shut down forcefully. John was frozen in place, mesmerizing the same red-headed girl, looking not a day older, now frowning at them. Alan  jumped to his feet, indignant.

"You're not Dawn! You're Eos!!!!"

"That is an optimal deduction, yes."

Gordon snorted. John's brow furrowed in return. From behind Eos, the twins, Grant and Sally, were entering back into the room.

"Yo, you hacked our old reels! Neat! Tracy TV was a hoot! Ouch! Hey!"

A cuff up the head stopped the trip down the memory lane, as Kip caught up with the duo.

"You weren't supposed to get exposed to background data. That complicates the time loop, makes it harder to break without consequence."

"Well, duh, Carpenter! No kidding! What do we do now?"

It was time for another dramatic baited breath, as several pairs of eyes trained on the young man, shocked for a different reason their unexpected hosts might have assumed.

[ghostly-penumbra]

Ectoberhaunt 2023. Day Twenty-four

"Dora"

Ao3

i've seen both Dorathea and Pandora being referred to as 'Dora' so I'll use Pandora for this :3

- - -

As a resident of the Ghost Zone, Pandora was the best qualified to introduce King Phantom to the Greek pantheon’s God of the Dead. And as such, it was her whom Hades rounded on, and started blaming when the boy didn’t arrive on time.

“I don’t have the time for this!” The god was saying, pacing back and forth in the chosen neutral meeting point in the living world: that one Denny’s in the outskirts of Elmerton. “I am busy! I have duties to attend to!”

“And you think he doesn’t?” Said the Goddess, sipping on her black coffee. “He has many responsibilities too, you know? He’s a very diligent boy.”

“I don’t care if he has school,” continued Hades in a mocking tone, “if the kid thinks he can just stand me up, then I-”

Standing up to her full height, Pandora loomed over the human-sized man and crossed one set of arms and put her free hands on her hips. “King Phantom is not standing you up, he’s a good boy and I vouch for him. If he’s running late, it’s because he had no choice.”

Just then, the doors opened and in walked two boys, with their shoulders brushing and talking animatedly with each other.

“Ah, yes, something important for sure.” Said Hades, crossing his arms too.

Pandora raised an eyebrow at him.

“You don’t believe it important that a cute, crowned boy is talking to your very own son?”

As the boys approached, the Gods overheard what they were saying.

“… but if you’re ghostly enough, you should be able to fly! Or at least float.” The Ghost King said.

“Pff, I doubt it. The sky is my uncle’s domain, and he doesn’t take kindly to us flying, and he’s already tried to kill me.” The King of Ghosts replied, shrugging his shoulders and jostling the other’s arm, just a bit.

“Well…” Phantom began, awkwardly putting a hand on his nape, “if you’re interested but don’t feel comfortable doing it here, we could go to my realm? Gravity is optional there anyway, and, uh, I think it would be fun, if you wanted.”

Nico smiled and looked away. “Yeah, that sounds cool.”

Pandora was the one to receive the boys, giving Hades the (undeserved, if you asked her) opportunity to get a hold of himself, erasing the gobsmacked, horrified realization from his face before the children noticed.

Burgeoning feelings aside, this was a political meeting.

[litcest]

The House of Borgia: End of a Dynasty (Part 4)

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | References |

While the Conclave elected Pope Pius III, Cesare was occupied trying to find allies. His old friend, King Louis XII, came to his aid, issuing a statement to Romagna that their Duke was "alive and well and the friend of the King of France". Not only Cesare had the French's support, but he also counted on Ferrara's troops to protect his claim on Romagna, as Lucrezia had persuaded her husband and father-in-law to fight in her brother's defence.

Once Romagna was relatively stable and Cesare felt better, he returned to Rome, where he met with Pius III and had his position as Captain confirmed. Not only that, but due to Cesare's clever theft of the Papal Treasury, Pius III was left financially dependent on him. By all accounts, Cesare's life would continue on exactly as it had under Rodrigo's papacy.

Unfortunately for Cesare, Pius III died twenty six days after being elected Pope. The next Pope, Julius II, had been an old enemy of Rodrigo, and upon his election, was swift to force the Borgias to surrender their lands in Romagna, even ordering the new Captain of the Papal Forces to arrest Cesare when he refused to comply.

After Cesare's arrest, Julius decided to put him on trial and encouraged those wronged by him to file claims for financial compensation. Not only that, but Julius also charged Cesare with the murder of two cardinals, whose deaths were believed to have been arranged by Rodrigo. These trials never occurred, as in April 1503, Cesare was released in exchange for his remaining territories in Romagna. Once free, he departed for Naples, which was under Spanish rule and where the rest of the Borgias had taken refuge, with the exception og Lucrezia, who remained with her husband in Ferrara. Hardly had Cesare set foot in Naples when he was imprisoned again, as King Ferdinand of Spain wished to hand Cesare back to Julius II in exchange for an alliance against the French.

Cesare would remain imprisoned in Spain until 1506, when he managed to escape prison and seek refuge with his brother-in-law, Juan d'Albret, King of Navarre. Taking advantage of a civil war wrecking through Navarre, Cesare offered his services as a military leader to help King Juan reclaim the kingdom. This would prove to be Cesare's downfall, as on 12 March 1507, he was killed in battle by the revolting troops. 

Six weeks would pass until the news of his death reached Lucrazia, who was, by this point, the Duchess of Ferrara. It's said that upon learning of her brother's fate, she locked herself in her room and began to wail his name. In 1508, Lucrezia would finally give birth to a son by d'Este, named Ercole II, who would be followed by Ippolito in 1509, Leonora in 1515, Francesco in 1516 and Isabella Maria in 1519. This last birth proved itself to be terribly complicated and claimed the lives of both mother and daughter.

Rodrigo, due to being a pope, was given a tomb in the Basilica di San Pietro, near his uncle's resting place. In 1586, Rodrigo's bones were dug up and placed on a casket alongside Alfonso's, which, in 1610, was taken to Santa Maria in Monserrato degli Spagnoli, where the casket was set aside and forgotten about until 1864, when it was unexpectedly found. It would take until 1889 for the joined remains to be once again given a proper tomb, with a stone memorial being carved in honour of Alfonso and Rodrigo.

Cesare was buried in a tomb by Juan d'Albret in the church of Santa Maria of Viana, in front of the high altar. His tomb, however, was destroyed by the bishop of Calahorra some time later, with Cesare's body being dumped in a hole outside the church. In 1945, the remains were exhumed and an autopsy was performed. The remains then bounced from place to place until finally being reburied in the church in 2007. 

Lucrezia, meanwhile, was buried in Monastero del Corpus Domini, in Ferrara, alongside the other Dukes and Duchess of Ferrara. In time, Alfonso d'Este joined her, as did her children and grandchildren

Thus, the era of Borgia dominance came to a close. Although the family continued to hold titles in the subsequent years (most notably, Rodrigo's great-grandson, Francis Borgia, was canonized as a saint) they never reclaimed the formidable power they once commanded during Rodrigo's papacy. Yet, Rodrigo, Cesare, and Lucrezia did not fade into obscurity. Their legacy endured, capturing the public imagination for centuries to come. Indeed, as the chronicles of their lives spread through the courts of Europe, their reputation grew, blending reality and legend. Their lives continue to fascinate audiences, inspiring countless reinterpretations in literature, drama, and visual media even to this day.

[pynkhues]

So I know you’ve discussed this a little before and not sure if you’ve seen this (or care that much lol) but recently Jesse Armstrong confirmed that Logan treated all the boys the same when it comes to physical abuse. Link here to the clip if interested [just remove the parentheses https://twitter(.)com/princekendalll/status/1696683862976336042?s=20]. This aligns with my own read of the show too which is nice but if you listen to the clip Jesse further clarifies that the reason it (the physical abuse) stays with Roman in the present is because he feels like a victim or like he was bullied whereas Kendall and Connor have found a way to like…slot this into their worldview, I guess. I found this interesting because I tend to read Roman as having something of a victim complex but I also think this brings up a few other interesting ideas I’d love to hear your views on if interested.

If we think of Roman as understanding himself to be a victim or bullied within the family unit, do you think Roman is aware that his brothers have had similar experiences with Logan’s physical abuse, or does he think of himself that way because he think’s he’s had a unique experience? Further, how do you think Connor and Kendall were able to move past it. I tend to read Kendall as just…not thinking he was abused. But Connor’s the one that I find kind of fascinating in this context because his past is kind of a black box – narratively we have no one to give us little nuggets of his childhood the way the Trio are able to recount childhood stories of each other to shed light for the audience.

Thank you so much for sending that, anon! I hadn't seen it / heard it, and as someone who's always felt Logan was physical with all of the kids, but especially the boys, it's pretty vindicating.

Which is - - y'know, a weird thing to say about a topic like this ,I guess, but it's always nice to think your read of something is what was intended.

I'm pretty fascinated by victim complexes in general. This is a bit of a personal aside, but I'm really close with my uncle, who's my mum's baby brother, and he's bright and funny and has lived such an interesting life, but he's definitely got a victim complex. For him, he knows it, and he's trying to work through it, and it probably comes from a not dissimilar place to Roman now that I think about it - my uncle never felt like he was enough of a man to his father, and when his father died when he was just 17, he joined the army reserves to 'prove' himself, which went.

Not Well.

That kind of snowballed into a very complex relationship with his own masculinity, especially as my uncle was pretty heavily engaged in counter culture and queer and punk scenes in his twenties after being in the reserves only to get into rural journalism which - - y'know. Certainly didn't help his sense of being targeted and bullied, particularly as the organisational culture in rural newspapers as he was coming up were aggressive to say the least.

My point though is that his sense of victimisation is really tied pretty deeply to his sense of not feeling like enough of a man, which was a sentiment established by his father, reinforced by the army and further abused in male-dominated rural towns that he was reporting in.

While Roman, of course, doesn't have the latter, it's an interesting thing to think about in the sense of the first two with Roman clearly feeling his masculinity under threat by his father, and there is an argument to be made about that being reinforced by St. Andrews, but funnily enough, I kind of feel the opposite about that particular point.

Probably because I disagree with St. Andrews being a military school at all.

So let's talk about St. Andrew's

It's pretty widely accepted, I think, that when the show named St. Andrew's they were referring to the St. Andrew's-Sewanee School in Tennessee, in no small part because there were no other St. Andrew's it feels like it could've been. This is a wealthy school (in fact their school fees, with boarding, are almost exactly the same as Buckley without boarding where Kendall canonically went), and the show's attention to details like this feels too deliberate.

And I think it works in no small part because St. Andrew's had stopped being a military school in 1971, about a decade before Roman could've been born (in my timeline I will one day post, haha, probably when nobody will even want it, I think we can pretty cleanly put Kendall as being born in 1979/1980, so Roman at the earliest would be born in '81). It was also during the 1970s, long before Roman would've gone, that St. Andrew's became co-ed.

Of course, this is an area ripe for speculation, but I think it rings true of the show for the kids to treat St Andrew's like it was a military school when that was a fragment of a past (and not even technically a part of St. Andrew's past - it had merged with the Sewanee School, which was the military school). What St. Andrew's became was not the school that Roman actually went to, but a symbol of this sense of being victimised and ostracised. Cast out, in a punishing system, which - - looking at this particular school, while bougie is also co-ed, outdoorsy, freer than Buckley, but that doesn't matter.

Roman's not fixated on the conditions of it, he's fixated on the othering of it. He sees Kendall and presumably Shiv too going to school near Logan (although I doubt Logan was there all that much) in Manhattan, while he's out in the midwest. I kinda think you could argue he played up the military history of the school to perform a strength and masculinity for his brothers and sister he felt he lacked, which could also be a part of why the narrative stuck.

But yes, that's not your question, haha.

Do I think he's aware that his brothers have experienced similar abuse? Yeah, actually, but I think it probably has its ebbs and flows and takes on different meanings depending on the moment or the circumstances, right?

An Aside

So my best friend's grandmother's was in an extremely violent and abusive marriage (I promise this is relevant), and every now and then, he would hit their two daughters too. He died young and unexpectedly, when the girls were still teenagers, a blessing to everyone, but the elder of the two girls - my bf's aunt - has developed a very complex and sometimes hostile relationship with her sister and their mother.

She feels their mother should've protected them better, that she should've left their father years before he died, and she deeply resents her sister for forgiving their mother so easily.

That's warped over the years - both daughters are in their 50s now, their mother close to 80, they're genuinely all pretty close - but it's gotten to the point where the elder daughter feels she was The Most Abused.

I know them all pretty well - me and my bf have known each other for almost 16 years - I've vacationed with them, gotten drunk with them, been involved in multiple weddings, not just my bf's but other members of her family's too.

One night, I was chatting to her mum after she and her sister had had a fight at a party - my best friend and her brothers had gone inside looking after their grandmother - and she just said her sister couldn't move past it. That they all knew what their mother experienced was unimaginable, that he hit them every now and then, but what he did to their mother was so much worse, and that she just didn't see what the point was with holding onto any of that pain when they can just push forwards.

More than that, when you can move on.

My bf's mum became a neonatal nurse, and she thinks she can see it sometimes. Men like her father, absent usually from delivery and controlling or too physical in the ward after, and she feels it too. The way she can throw lifelines to women who are ready for them, or just let women who aren't know where the lighthouses are. It's not a perfect system, but she loves her job, and this part of it - - I think she finds it healing too.

My bf's aunt was a receptionist to a guy who works high up in a bank, and she married him.

She hasn't worked since they had kids 25 years ago.

But back to your question

I think one of the interesting things about the show is that it's showed Roman as typically fairly directionless. He's out of the company at the start of the series, and doesn't seem to have any other thing he's driving towards. Shiv has politics, Kendall has the company, but even Connor has Austerlitz and his water planning before he jumps on his presidential campaign.

I do think a lack of purpose probably can become a bit of a feedback loop psychologically which has caused him to stew in resentment and has probably rationalised his abuse as 'worse', because if it wasn't, then why's he the fuck up? Even just of the Golden Trio.

Probably helped by - as you mention - Kendall's unwillingness to acknowledge it, and the fact that none of them take Connor seriously.

With Kendall and Connor - - yeah, I think Kendall is, in many ways, a caged animal constantly trying to claw his way out of his own head. I think he distracts himself with projects, or people, or drugs, and leans into the whatever, it happened, hey, but right now... of his own circumstances. He knows what happened to him, but he can never talk about it, not to a friend at a funeral or to his own father on his death bed. Kendall's stutter exists I think in his own thinking too, a record scratch that lets him start the song where he has to instead of where he wants or needs to.

He's not quite disassociated, but he's not quite connected either.

And with Connor - - gosh.

I mean, it's interesting to talk about him in this sort of context, because as you said, his history is so much more of a black box. I do think him having a period of absence from Logan plays into his acceptance of it. More and more, I tend to think that the three years he talks about in 3.09 was before Kendall was born, and so I think he's stepping back into formal 'Roy' life at 15 with a lot of complexity that shapes his experience very differently.

Not only is there that tangible anxiety of being rejected again if you don't fall in line, but there's also these new and complicated feelings of being replaced / in competition with a new child (always fascinated that Connor so rarely expresses that in the series, but whenever he does it's with Kendall), but also I think naturally feeling immediately doting and protective of this scrap of family offered to you after a period without.

I think in that context that Connor probably long ago reconciled himself with the fact that if he wanted his father in his life, that was what it was going to be like, and that he was prepared to be the failure if it kept him out of the bloodsport between their father and his siblings. I think he does occasionally wish for a higher position, and wonder what it could've been if Dad had ever thought of him in that context, but I also think he, at some point, made the choice that none of the rest of them have been able to make, which is that he can always go home.

[chaosandcrimson]

no way is that RHIANNON BOWEN.. they’re a 29-year-old HUMAN notoriously known for being MESSY & SELF-DESTRUCTIVE but there are some people who have seen them being LIVELY & PROVOCATIVE. if you ask me, they remind me a lot of little white lines on a glass coffee table, the moment when the beat drops, and always living life like you're running out of time, but that could just be because they’re considered the HARD-DRINKING PARTY GIRL around town. just keep an eye on them & see if their true colors shine through..

I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser Midnights become my afternoons When my depression works the graveyard shift All of the people I've ghosted stand there in the room

OVERVIEW

Name: Rhiannon Elaine Bowen

Nickname(s): Rhi, Rhia

DOB: February 20, 2095

Age: 29

FC: Suki Waterhouse

Height: 5'8"

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Pansexual

Occupation: DJ at Club Delirium

Relationship Status: Single (Closed)

[+] outgoing, lively, provocative [–] messy, imprudent, self-destructive

BIOGRAPHY

tw: drug use

Rhiannon's parents, Kyle and Darcy, were only 19 years old when she was born. They were still just dating at the time, and saying that her conception had been a little bit of an accident would be an understatement.

It was her father's decision to name her after a Fleetwood Mac song. Her middle name, Elaine, is a reference to The Graduate and was given to her by her Uncle Kip, who was one of her mother's closest friends at the time.

Her early childhood was fine, for the most part, if a little bit rocky at times. Her parents did the best that they could to raise her well, but they were barely adults themselves, and they didn't always make the most responsible decisions when it came to parenting. As a toddler, she spent a lot more time than she should have at house parties sitting on the laps of drunken strangers. They were all very nice, but they probably should not have been babysitting her.

When she was 9 years old, her parents had saved up enough money to have her little brother made. They named him Kipton, after Darcy's friend who had passed away a few years prior, which made Rhiannon feel some type of way that she was too young to articulate at the time. She was barely old enough to wrap her head around the concept of death and was now being forced to use her dead uncle's name every time she talked about her baby brother.

It did not help that, because their parents had grown up enough to now be more responsible as caregivers, Kip was given a wildly different experience during his early childhood than she was. Obviously, she didn't want them to be irresponsible with him, but that didn't stop her from feeling a little bit jealous—especially when he started showing an interest in hockey and they started pouring most of their time and resources into finding ways for him to play.

At that point, Rhiannon was a teenager and it didn't take long for her to start acting out. Her grades slipped, and she started dressing provocatively, drinking heavily, doing drugs, and sleeping around. She could tell that her parents hoped it was a phase, but when she barrelled into adulthood an intoxicated mess and showed no signs of stopping, that was when they tried to get involved.

They tried to intervene, after which she angrily asked them where they got off trying to parent her now, and what right they had to police her for behaviour they had exposed her to. Out of all the things that she has done, that is perhaps the one that she regrets the most, because deep down, she knows it wasn't fair.

After choosing to skip college, her twenties passed in a blur of loud music, strobe lights, and more illegal substances than any human should consume. She worked a series of dead end jobs to get by, but eventually managed to work her way into a steady gig as a DJ for hire, which as it turned out, she was actually quite good at. After a few years of working various parties and events, she was given a permanent spot as an in-house DJ at Club Delirium.

Rhiannon is rapidly approaching her thirties and is still as much of a mess as she was in her teens. Deep down, she knows that she can't live the way that she does forever, but the truth is that she doesn't know how to stop. She has been this person for so long that she has no idea who she is outside of it.

The only person in her life that she shows any semblance of responsibility toward is Kipton. In spite of everything, she loves her little brother and desperately wants to be the kind of person that he can look up to. No matter how hungover she is, or how little sleep she got the night before, she goes to all of his games.

MISC

Rhiannon is a talented singer and makes her own music. Her style doesn't really fit the vibe of a nightclub, so she rarely plays her own songs during her sets, but she occasionally overlays her own vocals over the songs that she does play.

[goldeneyedgirl]

AILess Whumptober Day 7: CPR/Flatline

moribond. (day 7: cpr/flatline).

twilight, alice/jasper, pg, haunted-verse.

A follow up to Haunted, and will make no sense without it.

I am currently pretty ill; I have seen some delightful asks and will get to them ASAP (probably in the morning), but I haven't got a sensible thought in my head tonight.

To him, death smells like violets, ash, and rainwater.

—

He didn’t know how it turned out like this.

But then, he’s always going to be responsible for her deaths. He understands and accepts that. It’s always going to be her blood on his hands.

She gets off the bus on the other side of the parking lot; her uncle’s a long-haul trucker, and Alice is still saving for her own car. She bullied him into picking her up for school when she first arrived, but he’d gone hunting with Emmett over the weekend and told her to get the bus.

(He had still made a point to stop at the diner and get her that disgusting coffee drink that she demands every morning. He’s holding it, as a peace offering that she had to catch the bus.)

“Alice!” He calls out to her, shouldering his bag. She makes eye contact with him, and he feels the little spark of happiness - at the sight of her beverage.

And then she drops her phone.

—

This version of Alice frustrates him. A sharp, witty girl who with a low bullshit tolerance, she sticks to him like glue from that very first moment - a constant little voice of guilt in one ear, her emotions feeling hot and agitated against him.

(“You can give me a ride home, I’m never getting on that bus again,” she said imperiously the very second day they know each other, walking from class. “You owe me.” That becomes her catch cry - you owe me, Jasper. If she wants coffee before school, if she needs a lift somewhere, if she needs a few dollars for the vending machine. And he reluctantly pays his penance because if he doesn’t, she follows him around reminding him of every single way he broke her, of the pain and the grief and the bone-crushing fear that he left in his wake. Borrowing Emmett’s Jeep and giving her some crumpled dollar bills is a small price to pay rather than having to relive it all again.)

She calls him Jasper, Hale, Whitlock, or very occasionally, Major - usually when he’s pushed too hard, as a warning shot. The one thing they don’t talk about is all those years ago in the South, even though he wonders how much she remembers.

He calls her Alice, nothing else. If she’s being particularly aggravating, he refers to her as a brat, because that’s the strongest language he’d use around a lady - even one he’d like to choke the life out of some days because she just… never stops talking, and her favourite topic is always how many times he murdered her and how she had to remember every single time.

(He thinks that, and then he feels like a monster because how many times has he killed her? Twenty-five. He can’t even joke about choking her, he’s take away her life so, so many times.)

But somehow, this caustic girl has become his best friend. Or at least, that’s what it looks like. Everyone talks about them as they roam the halls. His siblings aren’t happy about the situation, but Edward clearly believes that Jasper is an unwilling participant in this, so they all leave it alone. To the others, Alice Brandon doesn’t matter. They’ll leave her behind without a second thought, so there’s no point making a fuss.

But it is the closest friendship he’s had since Peter, and that was forged in very different circumstances. (Alice would point out that was because Jasper executed her when her newborn year was up, and maybe she could have been like Peter to him as well, and the fact that he can hear her smug voice in his head reminding him of that makes him want to gag her for a day.)

It’s very strange to think that, out of all of them, he’s managed a quasi-high school friendship, even if it is with the reincarnation of his favourite murder victim.

He hopes Esme and Carlisle have noticed how well-adjusted this is.

—

One thing about Forks is that the local public transport system is a piece of shit. The two ancient school buses that run are over-full. The local buses are unreliable at best, and the closest useful stop on the route is four blocks over from the school - but it arrives either an hour before class starts, or twenty minutes after the bell has rung, if it shows up at all.

Which is why it’s practically a right of passage for the juniors at Forks High to get some kind of vehicle. It might be held together with duct tape and sixteen years of fervent birthday wishes, like the one Kirk drives, or it might be a shiny, good-as-new one like the one that Jennifer Ford has recently acquired.

He just stands there, and watches all the pieces come together. At Alice, who is so slight, leaning down to pick up her phone. At Jennifer laughing from the driver’s seat, leaning over to grab something, not even looking. She’s going too fast for a fucking car park.

Alice straightens up a split second before and that’s when he begins moving, the stupid coffee hitting the ground and spraying his boots with ice and and cream and slush.

The sound she makes when Jennifer hits her seems to echo and for a moment there is silence; everyone is frozen in place.

And then everyone begins screaming.

Except Alice.

(She isn’t moving.)

—

Alice is extremely sparing about her private life, but he’s gleaned enough from her monologuing to paint a picture of her life - her family were killed in a car accident, and she was the sole survivor with a head full of memories from past lives. Her bachelor uncle had been quick to take her in, even though he had no idea what to do with a grieving teenage girl.

Her uncle didn’t have a great deal of money, and she seemed aware that her presence was a financial strain - she worked at the gas-n-gro a few afternoons a week, a job she hated, to save for the much coveted car.

(He often wondered if that was why she asked him for vending machine money - so that she didn’t have to dip into her own money to pay for cafeteria food. That made him oddly sad; Alice was somehow incapable of being a figure of pity and yet...)

She’s alone a lot, when her uncle is on the road, forced to fend for herself. Maybe that’s why, when he picks her up, she seems to have trouble getting all the words out. Why she has so much to say, even when she’s not detailing all the ways it hurts for a vampire to, say, rip out her throat and leave her for dead.

And Alice really likes to ask him questions. She never says Maria’s name, but she sure as hell wants to know about Peter - her memories of Peter are hazy but unflattering, as she refers to him as a pervert and a man-whore several times. She was gone before Charlotte was changed, but she seems interested that Peter finally met someone, “that inspired him to keep his hands to himself for once.”

(He’s going to have to ask Peter about that.)

She asks about the Cullens, and she doesn’t care what he tells her - one day, in an attempt to drive her to boredom, he described all of Esme’s interiors to her in mind-numbing detail. It hadn’t worked - she’d just developed opinions about white-on-white decorating the next time she got into the Jeep.

(Emmett only loans it to him because he thinks it’s funny that Jasper’s being bullied by a five foot nothing girl into being her personal chauffeur.)

Sometimes he wonders if she learns as much about him during their conversations, if he gives as much away as she does. He can read her now, what each glare and sigh and huff and blink of those mismatched eyes means. He knows her coffee order, and that she’s failing Spanish. He knows that she keeps a shotgun near the front door when her uncle is away.

(He knows she’s terrified she’s going to die young again, and that it will be his fault.)

—

Alice is just lying there and she isn’t moving.

Jennifer Ford is screaming, a cluster of girls around her trying to calm her, justify the accident in her favor.

Jasper’s never moved so fast (at least, at a convincing pace for a human) in his life. He’s just so suddenly there, next to Alice. There’s blood and she’s surrounded with glass, and he’s so suddenly terribly aware that he cannot hear her heart beating.

(This was his doing. He shouldn’t have distracted her. He should have waited at the bus stop for her. He’s always going to be her killer.)

Edward’s at his side in a second.

“Jasper.” And the quiet pity in his voice tells Jasper that Edward expects him to leave her here, dead and gone. That this is the moment where he moves on and lets her go for good. That he can get up and walk away and no one will think less of him.

Instead, he ignores Edward and carefully turns her over. She’s cut up badly, and it’s all over his hands, but he doesn’t… he doesn’t want that. He wants her to open her eyes, to hear that soft reassuring sound of her heart beating in her chest.

(Her shoulder is all wrong, the way her arm moves. One of her legs, too. She’s going to be so upset that her jeans are destroyed.)

“She needs CPR,” he says hoarsely.

“She’s in cardiac arrest,” Edward agrees. “Jasper…”

“We’ve called 911.” The nurse is there. “Move away, please boys.”

The nurse and one of the teachers are crowded around her with efficient competence, the nurse pressing so hard on Alice’s ribs he’s sure that if they weren’t broken when the car hit her, they will be now.

Everything feels like its moving in slow motion, as they try to push life back into Alice. The tear-stained teenage girls watching from several feet away. Edward trying to talk to him, but his words just sound like white noise. He’s just crouched there, with her blood on him, using every ounce of his energy to push his gift into her, to try and inspire something inside her to catch and bring her back to life.

They’re still working on her when the ambulance arrives.

(He makes eye contact with Jennifer as she’s led away, and he hopes she knows that if Alice doesn’t open her eyes again, he’ll do everything in his power to make sure that she doesn’t ever forget what she’s done.)

—

She knows his siblings, of course. Mostly from sight; she doesn’t engage with them and they don’t approach her. Edward and Alice have a couple of classes together, unfortunately, and Edward is quick to point out that she’s crude and depressing and aggravating. Alice is quick to point out that he needs to stay out of her head if he has a problem with its contents.

“They don’t like me,” she says when he offers to ask them to let her sit with them at lunch. “I’m not going to waste my precious free time trying to convince a bunch of people I have nothing in common with that I’m worthy enough to sit on a metal chair and stare at cafeteria food with them.”

“I mean, aside from the vampire thing,” Jasper says. “Nothing in common at all.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Whitlock. Besides, you think your sister hates me now - imagine if she gets it into her head that I somehow outwitted that whole vampirism-is-irreversible thing.” Alice made a face.

“Rosalie doesn’t hate you.” Alice had laughed, a bark of laughter that sounded more jaded than he expected.

“To Rosalie, I am a cockroach. When I am within her eye-line, she loathes me and looks for ways to eradicate me. Outside of that, I can do as I please. So spare me the honour of meeting your ‘family’, thanks.” They’d arrived at the vending machine then, and she’d held out her hand for the dollar he was already rifling around his pockets for.

(Somehow the solution was shared custody - something Emmett joked about regularly. They had their table in the corner, where he would watch her eat vending machine snacks and listen to her talk, and on the days he sat with his siblings, she didn’t bother going to the cafeteria at all.)

—

The whole world is in slow motion when the paramedic takes over CPR. When they cut through her shirt (oh, she’s going to be mad) and try to restart her heart.

Once.

Twice.

(Third time lucky.)

The sound that he makes sounds like a sob, raw and harsh and desperate as whatever machine they’ve got connected to her beeps to life. They’ve got her, they’ve got her.

But whatever hope he has is lost as he reads the grim looks on the paramedics’ faces, the efficient way they move around her and get her into the ambulance. The way she’s so pale and limp on the gurney. Their emotions are distant, not allowing themselves to really invest in the dying girl before them because they have to do their jobs.

Edward had remained at his side silently, watching over proceedings. He doesn’t know where Rose or Emmett are. He can still hear Jennifer sobbing, and he wants her to shut up because her emotions are too revealing - she’s more scared than repentant.

They slam the doors to the ambulance and he wonders if that’s the last memory he’ll have of her still alive, broken and bleeding. If the next doors that close on her will be in an autopsy drawer, after her uncle identifies her.

He feels sick.

“Jasper.”

Edward’s voice sounds patient, like he’s been trying to get his attention for a few minutes.

“Jasper, we can go. They’re sending us home. Carlisle’s in the ER waiting for her. He’s going to do all that he can. He’ll update us when he gets home.”

Carlisle. Carlisle can put her back together. He’s good at that. He can wait for Carlisle.

Somehow, he stands up, and follows Edward back to the car - it’s like he’s on autopilot. He’s holding tight to something - her bag, he realises. He doesn’t remember picking it up.

(Emmett and Rosalie look worried, and he’s grateful neither of them speak to him. If he opens his mouth, he’s not sure what will come out.)

—

Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to run his fingers through her hair.

(He would never admit that to anyone, not under pain of death. And frankly, if she knew he had ever thought that about her, she’d probably murder him on the spot - humanity be damned.)

She wears it long, too long, and keeps threatening to cut it off. But it’s black and shiny and looks so impossibly soft. He likes watching her braid it, absentmindedly weaving the strands together as she talks, likes the way she wears it over one shoulder and plays with it as they walk the halls. The way it makes her eyes look so much brighter.

(Sometimes, when he’s alone, he wonders other things as well. Things that are embarrassing and stupid, and that he locks up tight behind a wall in his head. He’s just been alone too long, and she’d eat him alive.)

—

He waits in Carlisle’s office.

They send all the witnesses home after the ambulance departs, sirens blaring. There are parents arriving at the school, police roaming around, local news and media hoping for interviews. It's easier for everyone if the students just... leave.

He takes her bag with him. Most of the contents are destroyed, and he makes a mental note to ask Esme to order replacements for her make up - it had been important to her. Her phone is smashed to uselessness, but he’s certain they still have a few spares in the house somewhere.

Esme looks so worried when she sees them, horrified when Edward explains what happened. She goes to hug him, but he vanishes upstairs to wait.

Carlisle’s working the ER. Carlisle will fix her, Carlisle can save her.

(But would he? Would he save her if that was all that was left to do? Would he consider it or even think of it? Would Carlisle know that Alice was important enough? The worry, the fear, weighs so heavily on him that it takes all that he is not to start yelling or crying or … something.)

He waits.

Esme checks on him, tells him to shower.

Rosalie checks on him, tells him that she’s impressed with his control. Her blood is still under his nails, and he hasn’t thought about it once.

Emmett checks on him, to let him know that Carlisle’s pulling a double shift and won’t be home until after ten, with the sympathy that it’s another four hours to wait.

Edward stays away, having already dug Alice’s grave and seeing no reason to try and convince Jasper of the inevitable.

(Why is this time different? Edward wants to ask. You killed her twenty-five times before. Why is she special this time? And there aren’t words to explain the way she looks at him over her sunglasses and orders him to just drive, Whitlock. The way she has a permanently bruised elbow from jabbing him in the ribs. The way he can just say any shit to her about who and what they are and who he is, and he doesn’t have to hide anything because he’s already murdered her a bunch of times; she knows him better than anyone. And that’s why this time is different.)

The study is dark when Carlisle’s Mercedes finally pulls into the drive; Esme warns him as soon as he’s in the house.

He waits - Carlisle has a routine when he gets home (coat on the hook, bag under the table, a kiss for Esme, an update on the day from Esme and anyone else in the living room), and there’s no reason to rush. She’s just as dead or just as alive if he lets Carlisle greet his wife before demanding answers.

Carlisle looks shaken when he sees Jasper. At the haunted look on his son’s face, at the dried blood streaked on him. At the bald-faced desperate hope on his face, but the grief looming over his shoulder.

And maybe instead of words, Carlisle just reaches out and wraps his arm around Jasper.

(He should have been there to drive her to school.)

—

He gets a text two days later, from an unknown number.

(She’s in ICU, black and blue all over, with stitches bisecting her right cheek, casts and bandages, and a great chunk shaved out of her hair, flipping him the bird with Nice try, Whitlock. You owe me another coffee underneath it. And if the relief hits him so suddenly he has to sit down and take a breath, no one else needs to know. He feels wrecked and raw, the image of her unmoving amongst the broken glass burnt into his retinas.

(Death smells like violets and ash and rainwater. But so does his best friend, and she’s going to be okay.)

[dragonbanexxi]

Soul of Bronze; Blood of Fire.

Helaena Targaryen x OC Targaryen Royce

Son of Daemon Targaryen x Rhea Royce

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

The Heir of Runestone would often joke that he should be referred to as Rhaegar Stone. Seeing as his father (Prince Daemon Targaryen) had no want for him and his mother (Lady Rhea Royce) was long dead. All jokes end when he and Ser Gerold Royce are summoned to the capitol by none other than King Viserys the First of his Name. The King wanting nothing more than to bring his estranged nephew into the fold, Viserys offers Rhaegar his so called Targaryen Right. A betrothal to the Princess Helaena and the chance to claim a dragon. Will Rhaegar be able to claim such a beast? Even if his valyrian skills were lacking? Prince Aemond seems to think so. Though he’s mostly is just thrilled to finally have someone around who’s willing to be his friend. Also the court begins to notice that the Princess Helaena seems to have taken a liking to the new prince. Much to Queen Alicent’s dismay, who’s fighting tooth and nail to have the girl be given to Aegon. Something neither sibling wants. To Rhaegar everything was going smoothly until the news of Laena Velaryon death had dampen everything.

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

Chapter 1.

“We’ve been summoned to King’s Landing Lad.” The Lord Regent of Runstone said solemnly. His eyes shifted to his ward. A handsome boy of ten and four.

The boys face shifting with worry.

Rhaegar Targaryen Royce. The sole child born to the late Lady Rhea and Prince Daemon Targaryen. He had his mothers raven curls that he sported half up and half down; just as she had once. Ser Gerold was convinced Rhaegar was the boy Rhea always wished she was.

His ward was pure Royce; save for his eyes. Unlike their more common Honey Brown irises the boy’s Valyrian blood had been determined to shine through somehow; giving the boy sparkilng lavender ones.

Daemon Targaryen could not deny his son once he looked upon Rhaegar’s eyes. No matter how desperately he wanted to.

“Have we done something wrong uncle?” He asked brooding.

Rhaegar was ten and four going on to five and fifty. “Relax your face lad at this rate you’ll get wrinkles before twenty.” The older man teased.

Causing Rhaegar to laugh heartily. “King Viserys wants to see you.” The air was again serious.

Rhaegar couldn’t understand why the King would want to see him. In fourteen years Rhaegar had only seen his grace once; and that didn’t count since the heir of Runestone had been a mere babe.

Ser Gerold continued by reading a portion of the letter.

“The years haven’t been kind to me Ser Gerold. I’ll confess this to you in confidence; my health is deteriorating slowly and only the Gods know how much longer I’ll last. That is why I’m formally inviting you and my nephew the Prince Rhaegar to court. I wish to make up lost time with the boy. I also wish for the prince to make friends with my sons. Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond. I have something special planned for my nephew but I will wait until you both arrive to King’s Landing. I will eagerly await my nephew The Prince of Runestone.”

Rhaegar didn’t know what say. A part of him wished his sires family would just leave him alone. He was quite happy in the Vale; among the vast rolling hills and meadows. He could ride through his lands and hunt as he pleased, answering to no one but Uncle Gerold. Though even then, he wouldn’t have to for much longer.

“See the humor in this Rhaegar. All this time we have referred to you as Lord Rhaegar now the our gracious king informs us that it is in fact Prince Rhaegar!” Gerold used his so called ‘majestic’ voice to make the point.

The raven haired boy rolled his lavender eyes.

“And here I thought Rhaegar Stone had a nice to ring it. I’m not worthy.”

Both Gerold and Rhaegar laughing boisterously now. Their bellies were beginning to hurt from their outburst laughing.

“Well lad I believe we must begin to pack. It’ll take us a fortnight to arrive to capital. We mustn’t keep his grace waiting to long.”

The boy brooding was more. “I suppose we can’t refuse a king?”

Sighing the lord regent said “Aye, I suppose we can’t.”

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

[loverandservantoftheahlulbayt]

🍃🕊🍃 The Sixth Imam 🍃🕊🍃

Jafar Ibn Muhammad al-Sadiq (as)

The 6th Imam, Jafar Ibn Muhammad al-Sadiq (as)

Born in Madinah on 17th Rabiul Awwal 83 Hijiri (23.4.702 AD).

Died in Madinah on 15th Shawwal, 148 Hijri (7.12.765 AD)

Aged 63.

Period of Imamate 34 years.

It is known from various history books and various sources of Hadith that when Imam As-Sadiq was a young boy, he used to come to the schools and Madrasas founded by his father the 5th Imam and instead of learning as many other youngsters and older pupil did, he used to discuss serious matters of Fiqh and Jurisprudence with much older students of the Madrasas.

In one such discourses when he was only 11 years old, when he entered a class room where pupils were discussing on the subject of astronomy, he pointed out to the surprise of everyone except his own father, that the earth cannot be flat, because of the way the sun rises in the East and sets in the west and day and night change in 24 hours, it cannot be possible.

In his opinion the earth must be round, otherwise this would not have happened in such a precise manner. All the students were astonished but his father smiled and said nothing.

The above story was mentioned in a book compiled by Five French scholars at Strasbourg in France with the title, “The heart of the Shia Scholarship.” The book has been translated in Persian and Urdu and it is now being translated in English with possible references.

🍃 Upbringing

Up to the age of twelve years, Ja’far (as) was brought up under the guidance of his grandfather Imam Zainul Abedeen whose main concern was to worship his maker and reflect on the tragic events of Karbala’ and whose main avenue of teaching was through supplications.

Twenty two years had lapsed since then, yet the remembrance of the tragedy of Karbala’ was still fresh in his memory. So, as soon as Imam Ja’far (as) gained understanding, he was profoundly impressed by the continuous grief of his grandfather, so much so that he felt as if he himself was present during that tragedy.

He also contemplated on the presence of his father Imam Baqir (as) , who was only three years old, at that tragic time. Imam As-Sadiq (as) considered it his duty to convene the recitation gatherings (Majalis) about the sorrowful event of Karbala’.

He was twelve year old when his grandfather expired. Then up to the age of 31 he passed his time under the guidance of his father Imam Baqir (as) . It was the time when Ummayad politics was tottering and Muslims were approaching Imam Baqir (as) in thousands. Their need for knowledge was fulfilled by the Imams of the Ahlul Bayt.

In 114 Hijri(732 AD) Imam Baqir (as) died, and the responsibilities of Imamate devolved on the shoulders of Imam Ja’far Sadiq. Hisham Ibn Abdul Malik was still ruling in Damascus and political disturbances were afoot. The passion of taking revenge on Bani Ummaya was strong and several descendants of Imam ‘Ali (as) were preparing themselves to overthrow the regime.

Most prominent among them was Zaid, the respected son of Imam Zainul Abedeen (as) His religious zeal and piety were known throughout Arabia. He was Hafiz of the Qur’an and he had taken upon himself the stand of removing the tyranny of the Ummayads.

This was a very precarious juncture for Imam As-Sadiq (as) in regards to the tyranny of the Ummayads, he agreed with his uncle Zaid for whom he had a great deal of respect. But due to his far sighted judgement Imam could clearly see that Zaid’s rising against the well-organized Ummayad forces will be of no avail. He therefore advised him not to start this venture.

But Zaid was too far out in his zeal and he would not stop. Many thousands of Iraqis had sworn their allegiance to Zaid and he was quite optimistic about his success. He took his forces to Kufa, gave a great battle but was killed in the end. The Ummayads were as brutal as ever. They hung the body of Zaid on the gates of the city of Kufa which remained there as a reminder for several years.

One year after Zaid’s death, his son Yahya gained the same path and received the same fate. Imam As-Sadiq (as) was aware of all this but realized that this was not the time to take any such active part. His main occupation was to spread the religious sciences of Ahlul Bayt as much as possible while time was on their side.

🍃 Revolution

The last days of the Ummayads were ruffled by political disturbances. Changes in Governors were many and Imam As-Sadiq (as) witnessed the rise and fall of many kings. After Hisham, Walid, then his son Yazid, then Ibrahim, then Marwan al-Himar came to the throne. The capture of the latter terminated the monarchy of the tyrannical Ummayads.

During the last phase of the tottering Ummayad rule, the Abbasids were actively engaged in their anti Ummayad activities. They took advantage of the situation and formed an association with the slogan that “ Right to rule is for the family of the Holy Prophet.”

They pledged in one of their meetings in Madina in which Muhammad Nafse Zakiya, the great grandson of Imam Hasan (as) was present, that when the Ummayads state topples, the Khilafat will be reverted to the Ahlul Bayt. It is clear that to rule the Islamic world was not the job of every Hashemite or Abbasid.

It was the right of those divinely appointed descendants of the Holy Prophet whom God had chosen to lead humanity. But these high-thinking souls never wished to take undue advantage of the situation with the aid of cunning tactics. In short, the Imams, the descendants of ‘Ali (as) never tried to acquire power through political trickery.

But the Abbasids no doubt took the opportunity of the situation. Availing themselves of the silence shown by the Imams and of the compassion people had for the Hashemites (the Abbasids too were Hashemites) they saw their chances to rise to power.

But when they established themselves on the throne, they became the enemies of Ahlul Bayt, in the same degree or more than that which had been adopted by the heartless Ummayads.

One of the prominent agents of this revolution was Abu Salma al-Khallal who was especially compassionate towards the Ahlul Bayt. When he gained power in Iraq he wrote letters to Imam As-Sadiq inviting him to accept and share the royal power.

In political struggles, such opportunities are considered golden, but the Imam who was an embodiment of selflessness and self respect, declined the offer and remained devoted to his duties of imparting knowledge.

The supporters of the Abbasid cause and the followers of Abu Muslim Khorasani then took the oath of allegiance at the hand of Abul Abbas as Saffah on 14th Rabiusani 132 Hijri (30.11.749AD) he was acknowledged as the ruler and caliph of the Muslim world. In the year 136 Hijri Saffah died and his brother Abu Ja’far Mansur succeeded to the throne.

It has already been indicated that the Abbasids took advantage of the popularity of the Ahlul Bayt and had made their slogan to stand and protect the rights of Ahlul Bayt. They gathered the public around them on this pretext. But when they came to power and destroyed the Ummayads, they turned against the Ahlul Bayt, particularly the descendants of Imam Hasan (as).

Abu Salama who was known for his love of the Ahlul Bayt, was killed by Saffah. Abu Muslim Khorasani whose armies marched into Iraq leading to the Abbasids gaining power was also murdered by Mansur. He then turned all his tyranny against the descendants of Imam Hasan.

Imam Jafar Sadiq (as) was watching all this with great sadness but was unable to do anything about it. He expressed his sorrow for them in these words.

“The early Madinites (Ansars) had invited the Holy Prophet to Madinah under the oath that they would protect him and his descendants just as they would protect their own kith and kin. But today the descendants of those very Ansars act as silent onlookers and none stands up to protect the Prophet’s offspring.”

Having said these words, the Imam returned to his house and fell ill, and was unable to move for twenty days.

Among the prisoners of Mansur was also the aged Abdullah-e-Mahedh, the grandson of Imam Hasan (as) . His son Muhammad Nafse Zakiyah rose against the oppressive regime and fell fighting near Madinah in 142 Hijri. The head of the young warrior was sent to his aged father in prison who died at the sight of this atrocious act. Another son Ibrahim rose in Kufa and was killed in the year 143 Hijri.

Many Sayyids, the descendants of Imam Hasan were killed and many of them were buried alive as part of the building walls in the city of Baghdad. Even today a wall exists on the northern side of the River Tigris near the Jisre Atiq (the Old Bridge) with an inscription on the wall in Kufic script "In the building material of this wall many descendants of Imam Hasan Ibn ‘Ali were buried alive.

🍃 Maltreatment of Imam al-Sadiq (as)

In spite of all these atrocities against the Descendants of Imam Hasan (as), Imam As-Sadiq (as) went on silently propagating the teachings of Ahlul Bayt. As a result, even those who did not acknowledge him as an infallible Imam, nor knew his prestige or lineage, bowed before his knowledge and prided in being counted among his students.

Mansur the Abbasid Caliph wanted to remove the esteem in which the Imam was held by the people. He tried to bring scholars to compete with him but all of them proved incapable of arguing and succeeding even with his own students.

These so called Ulemas of the Durbar all admitted that their counterparts had acquired the religious learning from the descendants of the Prophet. The arrogant caliph ignored them and continued to undermine the popularity and respect of the Imam by other means. Failing this he decided to harass, arrest or to murder him. In every town and city hired agents were posted to monitor the activities of the followers of the Imam.

It was at this time that these followers were given the name of Rafidhoon, i.e. the rejecters. It was Mansur who coined the word Ahlal Sunna wal Jama’ah to promote a sect against the followers of Ahlul Bayt (See Amir ‘Ali, the Spirit of Islam). Anyone who was found supporting the Imam would be arrested, imprisoned or killed.

The Imam himself was summoned from Madinah to Baghdad, the newly founded Capital of the Abbasid regime. Until then it was Kufa, when transferred from Damascus after the fall of the Ummayads. Five times he was taken away from Madinah to Baghdad, questioned or harassed in one way or the other.

Mansur could never find sufficient grounds to order his imprisonment or assassination. On the other hand the consequent stay of the Imam in Iraq only expanded the circle of those who wanted to learn the teachings of Ahlul Bayt from him. Perceiving this, Mansur sent him back to Madinah. Even there, the Imam was not spared from persecution and harassment.

🍃 Character and Virtues

Imam As-Sadiq (as) was one of those infallible Nufus who were created by God to be models of moral excellence. The character and conduct of all those sages in different stages of their lives was the standard of excellence. The particular virtues of the Imam which were recorded by the historians included hospitality, charity, the helping of the needy in secrecy, the fair treatment of poor relatives, forgiveness, patience and fortitude.

Once a pilgrim visiting the Prophet’s Mosque in Madinah, fell asleep. On waking up, he hurriedly searched his belongings and found his purse which contained One Thousand Dinars was missing. Looking around he saw the Imam was praying in one corner of the Mosque.

He accused the Imam of having picked his purse. The Imam asked about its contents and was told that it contained one thousand Dinars. The Imam then asked the man to follow him to his house where he gave the man the same amount. When the stranger came back to the mosque satisfied, once more he checked his property and found that his purse was intact in another bundle.

Greatly ashamed of his conduct, he came back to the Imam, apologized and asked him to take his money back. Imam replied with these words, “We never take back what we once give away, but if you feel guilty about it, give it to the poor of the town. " The traveler gave all the money in Charity to the poor of Madinah.

During the days of scarcity, when people tried to hoard food and other goods, Imam asked his household manager Trenchab, “The price of corn is rising day by day. How much corn is there in our warehouse," Trenchab replied that the Imam should not worry as there was a large quantity of corn in store.

The Imam replied, “Give it away to the poor and let us face the situation along with others.” Then he ordered that pure white wheat flour should not be used in his kitchen, and should be mixed with equal quantities of oat flour. “We must share misfortune with the needy and the poor as long as it takes."

🍃 Disseminating knowledge and learning

His profound knowledge of religion and other sciences was famed throughout the entire Islamic world. People came from distant regions to learn from him. The number of his students reached over Four Thousand. Among them were scholars of Jurisprudence, Tafsir, Haidth such as Imam Noman bin Thabit Abu Hanifa and Imam Mali Ibn Anas.

Heads of other religions also came there to discuss with the Imams students many matters of dispute and on many occasions returned home embracing Islam. Sometimes he himself argued with the opponents especially atheists. Apart from religious sciences, he used to teach to some students mathematics, chemistry, medicine and astronomy. Jabir Ibn Hayyan, the famous pioneer of physics, chemistry and mathematics, was his disciple who wrote about four hundred treatises based on his mentor’s instructions.

The jurists who learnt from him and wrote several volumes of books on jurisprudence can be counted by the hundreds.

Perhaps the most interesting of all his pupils was Abu Hanifa who gave public lectures at Kufa that attracted much attention. In giving decisions, he claimed the right to exercise the privilege of deduction (Qiyas) and of using his own judgement (Ra’y) to supplement the traditions and for this departure he was severely criticized by the scholars in Makka and Madina.

His decisions were on the point of law of Islam, however he steadfastly refused to enter the service of the Government as judge. Thus it was as a literary or academic jurist that he was able to carry on his work in Kufa under both the Ummayads and the Abbasids.

It is probable that he strongly sympathized with the Alawids and resented the way in which they had been set aside. Masudi mentions in his history that once he had sent 10,000 Dinars to Zaid Ibn ‘Ali to help him against the Ummayads.

One is surprised to observe that these two contemporary scholars were able to carry on teaching in their respective cities, Abu Hanifa in Kufa and Imam Ja’far Sadiq (as) in Madina. The two men were on friendly terms with each other and often Abu Hanifa accepted the advice of his teacher Imam Ja’far Sadiq (as)

Ibn Khalikan relates a story about an anecdote that the Imam Ja’far Sadiq (as) had with his contemporary jurist of Kufa. The Imam asked, “ What would you say is the proper fine for one who breaks the front molars (Rubaiyat) of a deer”? Abu Hanifa answered, O’son of the Apostle of God I do not know the answer.

To this the Imam replied, “Can you then pretend to learning and scholarship when you do not know that a deer has no front molars, but only the incisors" (Thanaya).

On another occasion, Abu Hanifa remarked that if the Imam did not teach three things he would be able to accept him.

1. Good is from God and evil is from the deeds of men, “ whereas I say that men have no choice but both good and evil are from God.

2. In the final judgement the devil suffers in the fire,” whereas I say that the fire will not burn him, in so much as the same material will not injure itself (the Devil being from fire) “

3. it is impossible to see God in this world or the next, whereas I say that anyone who has existence may be seen, if not in this world, then in the next”. At this point Shaikh Buhlul who was one of Imam’s companions, but pretended to be a simple minded person, picked up a clod of earth and hit Abu Hanifa on the head, declaring as he made the hasty exit, that all three points are refuted.

Abu Hanifa made a complaint about him to the caliph who called Buhlul before him and asked him, why did you throw the clod of earth at Abu Hanifa. He answered, “I did not throw it”. Abu Hanifa protested, “you did throw it”. But Buhlul replied, “you yourself have maintained that evil is from God that men have no choice, so why do you blame me? And you have also said that the same material will not injure itself. The devil is from fire and fire of hell would not hurt him. Accordingly you are from dust of the earth, tell me how it could injure you? You have also claimed that you can see God as a proof of his existence. Show me the pain you are complaining about that exists in your head ?"

Abu Hanifa had no answer to that and he eventually agreed to what Imam Ja’far Sadiq (as) taught about these things.

Nevertheless Abu Hanifa was highly respected by those friends of Ahlul Bayt for they heartily endorsed a remark made by Abu Hanifa concerning Mansur and all such oppressors whether of the Banu Umayya or Banu Abbas. Abu Hanifa eloquently declared that if such men would build a Masjid and command him to the simple task of counting the bricks, he would not do it, “for they are dissolute (Fasiq) and the dissolute are not worthy of the authority of leadership (Majlisi,Tarikhul Aiemma).

Ultimately Mansur heard this remark and cast Abu Hanifa into prison where he remained until his death. Abu Hanifa’s remarks were based on the Verse in the Qur’an (Surah II,V 118) where God said to Abraham,” I am about to make thee an Imam to mankind”, and Abraham asked, “of my offspring also”, but God answered, “My covenant embraceth not the idolaters”.

On the question of the freedom of will (Irada) which was much under discussion at the time, the Imam taught, “that God has decreed some things for us and He has likewise decreed some things through our agency, What He decreed for us or on our behalf He has concealed from us, but what He has decreed through our agency He has revealed to us. We are not concerned, therefore, so much with what he has decreed for us, as we are with what he has decreed through our agency.”

As to the question of the power (Qadr) of directing one’s own actions, the Imam took a middle position, which is neither compulsion (Jabr) nor committing (Tafviz) the choice to ourselves. He was accustomed to say in prayer,”O’ God, thine is the praise that I give thee, and to thee is the excuse if I sin against thee. There is no work of merit on my own behalf, or on behalf of another, and in evil there is no excuse for me or for another”.

Yakubi in his Tarikh remarks in regard to Imam Ja’far Sadiq (as) that , “it was customary for scholars who related anything from him to say ‘the learned one informed us’.” When we recall that Malik ibn Anas (94-179) the author of Mawatta was a contemporary of the Imam Ja’far Sadiq (as) , at least a century before the time of Bukhari and Muslim, it is significant to find that it is the Imam Ja’far Sadiq (as) who is credited with stating what came to be regarded as the most significant and important principle to observe in judging traditions: “What is in agreement with the Book of God, accept it, and whatever is contrary, reject it”.

Yakubi also relates another saying of the Imam as follows;

"There are two friends, and whoever follows them will enter paradise”, Someone asked, “ Who are they?” He said, “The acceptance of that which you dislike when God likes it, and the rejection of that which you like when God dislikes it.”

Masudi, the famous historian, wrote one of the most important sayings of Imam As-Sadiq (as) ascribed through Imam ‘Ali (as) who is said to have related that when God wished to establish the creation, the atoms of creatures and the beginning of all created things, He first made what he created in the form of small particles.

This was before the earth and the heavens were created. God existed alone in His authority and power. So He cast forth a ray of light, a flame from His splendor and it was radiant. He scattered this light in the midst of invisible atoms, which He then united in the form of our Prophet. God most high then declared unto him, “you are the first of those who shall speak, the one with power of choice and the one chosen.

To you I have trusted my light and the treasure of my guidance. For your sake I will form spacious channels, give free course to the waters, and raise the heavens. For your sake I will give rewards and punishments, and assign men to Paradise or to the Fire. I will appoint the people of your household (Ahlul Bayt) for guidance.

I will bestow upon them the secrets of my knowledge. No truth will be hidden from them and no mystery concealed. I will designate them as my proof to mankind, as those who shall admonish men of my power and remind them of my Unity (Tawheed)”.

“The light descended,” the Imam Ja’far continued, “upon our most noble men, and shown through our Imams, so that we are in fact the light of Heaven and of Earth. To us is salvation committed, and from us are the secrets of science derived, for we are the destination that all must strive to reach.

Our Mehdi will be the final proof, the seal of the Imams, the Deliverer of the Imamate, the Apex of the Light, and the Source of all good work. Those who follow us will have our support in the hereafter.”

Imam died in the 10th year of the reign of Caliph Mansur, 148 Hijiri(765 AD). He had worn a signet ring with the inscription,“ God is my master and my defense from His creation.” He lived to be 65 years old. It is mentioned by historians that on Caliph’s orders he was given poison in grapes which caused his death.

Imam Ja’far Sadiq (as) was buried in the cemetery of Baqee in Madina by the side of his father Imam Muhammad Baqir (as) . Before the destruction of the Baqee cemetery by the Wahhabis, the inscription on the tomb said, “Here is the Tomb of Imam Ja’far Ibn Muhammad al Sadiq.”

.

[dkniade]

He’s from Snezhnaya??

Marcel: So that's why you suspected me... *sigh* Even after hearing your reasoning, I still can't help but find it a little preposterous.

Marcel: I'm used to it, though. You've always been an impulsive and sentimental child, Navia. It's one of your most endearing traits.

Silver: No need to appeal to pathos.

Navia is drawing conclusions from the evidence she gathered while Marcel is, as Silver states, appealing to pathos. Hm

-

Marcel: Alas, who won't feel at least a little hurt by an accusation of murder from a girl you see as your own daughter?

Marcel: But if I were to dismiss this completely, you'd also think I'm not being considerate of your feelings. Ah well, let Uncle Marcel teach you another lesson.

Marcel: Do you know what the biggest flaw in your reasoning is?

Navia: I suppose you're going to tell me anyways...

Marcel: It's "timing," again.

-

Marcel: I think you've done a superb job of dissecting your father's feelings as he neared the end of his life.

Marcel: But aren't you going against all of his wishes and expectations right now?

Marcel: He wished for you to become more rational, collected, and conscientious, instead of dwelling only on your own feelings.

Marcel: Once you've learned to be more considerate of others' feelings, and to stop rushing headlong into things, you'd have met most of his expectations.

Ironic, since he’s kind of describing himself here, and what he did to the women. As Navia points out later on, after the traveler brings in the edvidence:

Navia: You fixated your gaze on the lover that passed away, instead of paying attention to the living people around you.

Navia: So you never noticed how we changed, or how we grew as individuals.

Melus: You also never understood Boss' real expectations for his daughter.

Silver: Or our determination to see things through.

-

Warning: drug use, human trafficking/experimentation

Sinthe is known as 乐斯 (Lèsī) in Chinese. Phonetically they don’t sound similar, but as the Sinthe page on the wiki says, “The Chinese term for Sinthe, 乐斯 Lèsī, is possibly derived from the semantic meaning of the character 乐 lè, ‘joy, pleasure,’ referring to the euphoriant effects of the drink, and the Chinese transliteration of absinthe, 艾碧斯 Àibìsī.”

And before the trial (though this scene is spliced together with the accusation scene itself, which is great in terms of how the information is conveyed), Traveler and Paimon investigate the lair, and from a gaming perspective, this is environmental storytelling…

-

i. The Labeled Belongings

Paimon: What's all this... Ah, it's a bunch of really cute things!

Paimon: Pink accessories, a hair tie, a necklace, even a makeup box...

Traveler: There's a name, too.

Paimon: Oh, Paimon sees it too. But... why are all these cute things labeled with different girls' names?

Traveler: They probably belonged to the victims.

Paimon: Huh!? You mean, the girls from the serial disappearances... they were brought here!?

Paimon: And then, they were turned into water...

Paimon: And all these boxes of things... these names... that means... This is terrible...

-

ii. Vacher’s Notes

Paimon: What's this over here? Looks like some kind of place for research.

Paimon: "Experiment number sixteen aims to verify Jakob Ingold's research conclusions on the Primordial Sea, and use his theory as a foundation to achieve a breakthrough."

(—WHAT DID JAKOB DO. WHY IS IT HIM AGAIN. what is this Narzissenkreuz Ordo. Although if his research is used as the basis of Vacher’s experiments, did Jakob also do some pretty terrible things in his own research?)

Paimon: "The experiment was a failure. No individual managed to resurface from the Water from the Primordial Sea. Female specimens twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four were dissolved..."

Paimon: Waaaaaah!!!

Traveler: Calm down, Paimon.

Paimon: Sorry, (Traveler), Paimon will try her best! It's just that P—Paimon's never read something so scary before...

Paimon: How can someone write something that terrible in such a matter-of-fact tone!?

Paimon: You read the rest... Paimon's too scared to keep going...

Traveler: The goal of the researcher...

Traveler: Is to save his lover, a woman called Vigneire, who was dissolved.

Paimon: So that's why he did all of these experiments...

Paimon: But did he really think he'd be able to find a way just by dissolving people over and over? That's just insane!

Narratively, Paimon appeals to pathos and highlights the tragedy of the situation while the Traveler and to a more extreme extent, Vacher, reveals more information to piece together what’s behind the mystery itself, huh. So we get both the emotional reaction and the truth of what’s going on, with two characters. That… yes, that works very well together. This also happened with Navia and Marcel earlier in the trial scene, so Neuvillette’s comment in his demo was…

“The court is always filled with a cacophony of voices. Passion, schadenfreude, indignation, terror… Emptiojs burst forth from the depths of the heart, and surround their host like a dense fog.”

-

iii. Vigneire’s Diary and Marcel’s Name

Paimon: "Vigneire"... Isn't that Vacher's lover's name?

Paimon: Then, you found her diary? Let's see...

Paimon: Aw, it's just a normal diary chronicling their love story. She was so sweet too, Paimon feels even worse for her now...

Traveler: Take a look at this page.

Traveler: She made a list of baby names.

[image of a list of baby names]

Paimon: So many... A whole page's worth! But they're all crossed out. Was she unhappy with all of them?

Paimon: The final name she decided on was...

Paimon: "Marcel"!?

Paimon: Wait, but Marcel's pretty old... Has this case been going on for so long that he's Vacher and Vigneire's grown son?

Traveler: I've figured it out.

Traveler: Let's go, Paimon.

Interesting! So that’s where he got the name. And then, I’ve already watched the rest of this scene as the original post suggests

—

Childe: Ah c'mon, is this really necessary? Haven't you already caught the real criminal? Isn't it time for side characters like me to exit stage left?

Theatre metaphor…

Ah, so, this line from the 4.0 trailer:

You only have yourselves to blame! You set up this ornate opera house in pursuit of your so-called justice, your beloved drama, while turning a blind eye to the suffering of the people!

Is spoken by Vacher during his trial in Act II. That makes more sense in context. (He’s not Fontainian? Huh)

[thefuseoftemptation]

EDDIE WITH GN READER WITH ADHD OR AUTISM

Both? Both. Thanks for the request!!!

A/N: I’ve got both, so whatever is there is based from what I know of it because well, I have it. These are thoroughly general but some are based from what I go through, so just to let you know.

WARNING(S): cussing, brief stereotypes from others that they put, mentions/implied bullying, not much else? Let me know though if there are more.

. . .

Let me just tell you, Eddie has both so— let’s get to it. (There’s so much here). I tried to section/ label them into two but then I fucked that up so it’s sort of out of order.

Whether you’ve known him or you just met, your by each others side often. 

Just met? It was either through one of your hyper-fixations or someone was bullying you.

If it was through a hyper-fixation, one of you probably went up to the other when they saw. You might expect it to be Eddie but it was you honestly. You overheard him make some reference and you couldn’t leave without telling him something. Might’ve even interrupted him without even knowing.

Expect him to look at you with a parted mouth, his brows pulled together as he’s taken back that you knew what he was talking ‘bout.

“You know [where the reference is from]?” He gets up before pointing at you with his fore and end finger.

“Uh huh.” Punctuation on the latter word. And you pull out a chair and seat yourself next to him.

Cue you two talking for quite some time. Getting into the conversation as you both gesture. 

Honestly for you, it depends when it comes to talking— because you either talk too much or too little.

If one of you was bullied, then the other would’ve stepped in. Most likely Eddie.

It becomes instinct as time goes, not just because you both understand each other but because you’re never not together. You got the others back no matter what— even if you guys tend to be unsure sometimes or even threatened too.

There is too the hc of you two meeting by being partnered. Your both in class but neither of you are really listening. So when it comes to being set up, your both trying to put together the little you got from the instructions or you totally forget that you’re supposed to be working and are just talking.

The two of you sort of struggling when it comes to school. Whether it’s because you could never focus or because you were a little slow, it shows through your progress. It happens.

Expect to be stereotyped often. Teachers thinking you guys are just being typical students, typical teens (well not really Eddie since he’s in his twenties but forget that) where you’re just not listening and ‘choosing’ not to do it.

Or even just in general, wherever you’re at. Others are quick to put in their thoughts without even getting to know you. Or know that you’re not doing it intentionally. They should just put a foot in it.

Often being told that you’re too forward or literal, which people presume as you not having manners. ( I repeat, it’s NOT the same for everyone. These are typically what’s said to me or how I’m viewed. Those below too.)

Sometimes not quite getting subtext. It’s not all the time, you just every once in a while, you struggle to try and see the way it’s put. 

Trying to understand other’s feelings. Mostly on your part. Unless it was verbally stated, you won’t fully know. Non-verbal you struggle w/ a little more. Eddie though is more tuned w/ them.

Not using the ‘proper’ cues sometimes. 

Like the other day, when you were w/ Eddie. You met his Uncle who you hadn’t met before and when he went to greet you, your response to it was a nod and then ‘thanks.’ 

Or even Eddie too. He never quite understood or he does but would forget how often he gets in people’s faces. Unintentionally.

Not using the ‘proper’ tone either. Like where your tone doesn’t sync w/ your current mood.

Eddie would look at you w/ furrow brows as you talk.

“You okay?” And you just cock your head at his query.

“Mhm. Why?” As you follow in step with him and he just shrugs. “Nevermind.”

Not quite getting hints.

[cue reader not seeing the way Eddie is w/ them.] The guy is a total goner for you. Utterly so. 

Everyone knows of his feelings for you, except for well, you.

You guys are there for each other through everything. Trying to lend a hand wherever it may be.

Reference, if you’re stimming (especially in a case where it’s severe) and someone tries to stop you? NO. Eddie would more likely try to put himself between you and the unwelcomed person trying to touch you.

He might try to distract you too. He’s subtle with it.

You guys stim together. If you’re stimming, it triggers Eddie’s sometimes. And it’s the other way to. If he’s stimming, you stim.

Or if it’s for sensory sensitivity, getting the other out of there and then leaving them to settle.  

And if you got low tolerance to sensory that is. Where even the smallest to your senses can be extreme.

There was one time you felt lightheaded because of the lighting and then w/ the sounds that were there, it made your head hurt more. The overload was too much. So Eddie, pulled out his headset and put them on you.

Hyper-fixating together. Or talking ‘bout your hyper-fixations to each other. Eddie would be talking your ear off on the current campaign and then you’d go on ‘bout your interests. Both of you listening to the other. Sometimes even talking over each other or out of turn but it’s not intentional. You guys just get so into it sometimes. 

You’ll be duding each other every time one of you says something that just really peaks

“DUDE?!” “I KNOW—”

Eddie being there for you when your masks fluctuates.

It takes so much out of you so he’s constantly there to check on you.

When you feel your mask sort of failing, you tend to stutter, use less words or just go completely quiet. And you’ll more likely try to communicate non-verbally. It also means eye contact is out the door. So, Eddie will help you through it or change the subject of the conversation in order to get you out from under the constant stares.

If he’s not there, like say you’re at work or in classes, you’ll handle it but when you see him later— he has his arms extended out waiting to pull you into his chest. He knows. 

When Eddie’s nerves get to him, his eyes go everywhere. He stutters or in some cases just shoots out words to the point where you’re not sure what he’s saying.

You’ll take his hand in yours and rub it or link your fingers, letting him know you’re there. You got him. Nothing would happen to him as long as you’re w/ him.

When one of you can’t keep still (it’s a stereotype but what I’m referring to is when your not focused) the other would touch them in some way. Hands, squeezing the knee, back rubs, even holding out your end finger.

Or just talk. It helps and keep you guys close to the other. Plus, that’s when one of you tells the other more than they should. Mostly Eddie. He’s lowkey nosey or just happens to ‘overhear’ something and tells you later.

Like I stated before lending a hand whenever it may be. 

Eddie forgets some things quite often so you’ll keep telling him so he won’t forget. And if not, you’ll try to prep yourself for him. Like putting it in pen on your arm and even then, you forget too. Whether they’re simple or they take more. Subtle or more extreme.

He’s like that w/ you too.

The two of you are just there for each other in general.

You guys learning and or knowing the other’s compulsions.

Fidgeting w/ the others jewelry.

Eye contact? Not so much. Let me tell you. Eddie seems like he keeps it— you, no.

To an extent you could but other times, nuh uh. You try to keep it, you really do, but it’s not so simple.

Especially when you got these huge brown eyes staring back at you— looking at you and listening to you as if your his favorite song.

He’s so gone for you—

. . .

feedback and reblogs appreciated.

[mozart-the-meerkitten]

Wingfeather saga incorrect quotes?

ajhgkfalsj okay, sure. (oh my gosh I had too much fun with this I had to make myself stop, looking up incorrect quotes is a hoot xD)

Warning: Quotes reference things from all four books and therefore have out of context spoilers, read at your own risk

I think I’ve tried to do these before but I can only remember the one. The one I remember is:

(that one scene in The Monster in the Hollows be like- ) Janner: if I run and jump at uncle Artham he will most certainly catch me in his arms. Janner: *running at Artham* INCOMING! Artham: NO! I’M HOLDING COFFEE! *drops his mug and catches Janner anyway* Janner: *grinning while Artham holds him and rolls his eyes*

And now have whatever else I come up with:

Kalmar: the risk I took was calculated, but boy am I bad at math

Fang!Kalmar: I am jus a little creature, tha’s it

Tink: Who thinks I can fit 15 marshmallows in my mouth? Janner: You’re a hazard to society Leeli: And a coward. Do twenty.

Kalmar: If I die, my funeral is going to be the biggest party ever and you’re all invited Janner: If? Maraly: Great, the only party I’ve ever been invited to and he might not even die.

Leeli: What's a word that’s a mix between 'sad' and 'mad'? Janner: Disgruntled, miserable, desolated- Kalmar: Smad.

Janner: WHY. why did you give Kalmar a KNIFE?! Artham: I’m sorry. He said he felt unsafe. Janner: Now I feel unsafe! Artham: I’m sorry. Artham: ... would you like a knife?

Maraly: Someone will die. Tink: Of fun! :)

Nia: Okay, truth or dare? Artham: Truth Nia: How many hours have you slept this week? Artham: Artham: ...Dare Nia: Go to bed. Artham: I don’t like this game.

Yurgen: Fool me once, I’m gonna kill you

Maraly: I prevented a murder today. Sara: Really? How’d you do that? Maraly: self control.

Leeli: My life isn’t as glamorous as my wanted poster makes it look like.

(at the end of book 4) Nia: are you okay? Kalmar: no. I want to leave the country and start a new life.

Aurendelle: Physically, yes, I could fight a bird. But emotionally? Imagine the toll. (because of Artham get it? I think I’m funny)

Ouster Will: I’m sick and tired of being called 'mortal' like, you don’t know that. Neither do I. I have never died even ONCE. Nothing has been proven yet. Stop making assumptions. It’s rude.

Kalmar: Mama always says you can be part of the problem or part of the solution, but I happen to believe you can be both.

Maraly: In light of what you did for me, you can hug me for four to five seconds. Gammon: FORTY FIVE SECONDS?! Maraly: No! Four to five seconds! Gammon: Too late!

(I’m going to jail for this one) Artham: Punch me in the face. Podo: Punch you? Artham: Yes, punch me in the face. Didn’t you hear me? Podo: I always hear “punch me in the face” when you’re speaking, but it’s usually subtext.

Janner: Kalmar was banned from the chicken shack, so we had to go out of town to get some. Kalmar: Well, they shouldn’t say “all you can eat” if they don’t mean it. Janner: Kal, you ate a chair.

Nia: Can I offer you a bit of advice? Maraly: Is it about the way I’m dressed? Nia: Yes, but it’s too late for that.

Artham: *Gently taps table* Esben: *Taps back* Aurendelle: What are they doing? Nia: Morse code. Artham: *Aggressively taps table* Esben: *Slams hands down* YOU TAKE THAT BACK-

Gnag the Nameless: Who are you to stand against Gnag the Nameless, destroyer of empires? Kalmar: Kalmar Wingfeather, robber of ATMs!

Sara: Don’t be sad! Artham: Why not? Sara: Sara: I don’t have a good answer.

Leeli: is this juice or perfume? Kalmar: chugs entire contents of bottle Kalmar: Kalmar: that’s perfume.

Artham: What if mayonnaise came in cans Esben: Well that would suck because you can’t microwave metal… Nia: Good morning to everyone except my husband and his brother.

Leeli: would you consider yourself a morning or a night person? Peet: at this point I’m barely even a person

Esben: You must be out of your mind. Nia: What- Esben: Because you’ve been in mine all day Esben: winks with both eyes

Kalmar: what’s with midlife crises? what if someone dies young and they never knew when their midlife crisis was? you never know your midlife point. Janner: that’s why I’ve decided to have an ongoing crisis.

Kalmar: I’m an idiot Janner: Leeli: Sara: Janner: If you’re waiting for us to disagree, this is gonna be a long day.

Sara: you really put aside everything and came all this way for me? how did you even get here so fast? Janner: several traffic violations. Maraly: three counts of resisting arrest. Kalmar: roughly thirteen cans of energy drinks. Leeli: also, that’s not our houndrick.

Leeli, following Janner and Kal: This is such a bad idea. Kalmar: Then why are you coming along? Leeli: One of us needs to be able to talk the cops out of arresting us when this inevitably goes wrong.

okay I'll stop there xD this was so much fun oh my goodness

Bonus Wingfeather Falls one:

Stan: How would you kids like to do something for money? The Wingfeather and Pines kids: …. Janner: Can we have some details first?

[atthebell-moved]

okay well i think people focus way too much on labeling relationships and also dont take people at their word when they describe a relationship a certain way.

for the former i think trying really hard to nail down whats going on with c!clingy or c!quirky or whatever is really frustrating bc there isn't a clear depiction of what they are. sometimes friends are family, and there's no more clarity than that. sometimes you're friends with someone for twenty years, also, and it's not a family dynamic still. again, i have an enormous family and a huge amount of found folks in it and sometimes they're just some guy! sometimes they're my brother's friend jake! you don't have to slap a label on it if that's uncomfortable or just not the vibe. not to say that you can't declare someone family either-- my nephew is not biologically related to me at all but he will never know me as anything but his aunt/uncle and that's how it is. it's just different for everyone. tubbo doesnt have to be phil's son just bc he may or may not have found him in a box and brought him home (schrodinger's tubbo). even if phil did adopt tubbo, wilbur and him don't have to be brothers. family and friendship are far more complicated than people are willing to admit.

for the latter point like. not about in canon necessarily but at this point tommy literally just calls wilbur his brother all the time outside of a context where anyone knows they're not from the same family of origin. and i find it irritating when people act like he's crazy for doing so, especially as a person with chosen siblings. stop making it out to be a weird thing to find someone and feel so close to them that they are a sibling to you regardless of how you grew up. it feels gross and invalidating when people act like not growing up together/not being related makes you inherently never family.

the jokes about them being obsessed with the family dynamic are fine, but its just the ones where people act like tommy is weird for calling wilbur his brother at all that irritate me personally. it reminds me of people in college telling me off for referring to my sister as my sister like. the only person who gets to decide on my relationships is me, thanks. and the same thing goes for in canon stuff-- if someone has expressed that their relationship works a certain way or doesnt, take them at their word! don't push a dynamic on people that isn't there.

also found family as a trope is cool but its not always like. whats actually going on in a dynamic. sometimes people just know each other and that's also fine. idk i dont have a great way of explaining how i feel about it, i just think people are way too focused on creating family dynamics that aren't necessarily there in canon and then act like having found family irl is freaky instead of very normal and common, at least in my experience.

im not saying writing aus where people are siblings is bad, im just saying that i think the fixation on declaring what exactly is going on in canon is kind of silly and relationships are messy and complicated and not clearly delineated.

as someone with a lot of found/chosen family i have a LOT of thoughts about how this fandom talks about it but idk if i want to make a whole fucking thing about it

[rogue-durin-16]

KITCHEN SCRATCHER

Summary: For years, Eddie's go-to scratcher has been his beautiful neighbor. When looking in the mirror becomes unbearable, it's only fair for Y/n to be the one tattooing his scars away.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Genre: angst-fluff

Tags:

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @comfort-reads

Warnings: language, needles, scars, slight PTSD, mentions of death, vol2 spoilers (?)

A/N: idk this just came to my mind after seeing this post and I thought. I think it's cute. Maybe it'll cheer @celie-voss up. Enjoy my darlings <3

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

If God existed, he didn't particularly like me.

That was what I thought while moving the last one of my cartons, containing my tattooing items, into the camper van at the tail end of Hawkins Hills Trailer Park.

A part of me wondered if I had any fault in my father's death. So many times I had wished for him to banish from my life —well, now I had what I wanted, didn't I?

I had also wished for a fresh start.

Certainly, dropping out right before my senior year and moving to the worst neighborhood in Hawkins wasn't what I had envisioned.

Funny how life can turn upsidedown in a matter of days. One morning, you live in your modest yet supposedly lovely ranch style house with your asshole of a father, and the next you're being forced to move out by some guy from the military who's telling you doctor Y/l/n's body can't be retrieved from the Hawkins Lab.

Turns out, life can do yet another 180 in the brief span of a week.

My new neighbors were very nice to me, so it wasn't hard to get them to pass the word about a scratcher working right before the treeline at the trailer park.

Funnily enough, my first client was as illegal as my license to tattoo. Not that anyone cared to stop the sixteen year old when he knocked on my ajar door in plain sight around 4:00pm.

"... Hi?"

"Oh. Hey there." I gave the boy a small smile when he hesitantly pushed the door open. "You're my neighbor, right?"

"Yeah. I..." Clearing his throat, he climbed the couple of steps leading to my new home slash studio and stopped to stand at the doorframe, fidgeting with the pick hanging on a chain around his necklace. "I heard you're, like, a tattoo artist?"

"Well that's an exaggeration." I half joked, leaving aside the items I was moving from one shelf to another atop the kitchen counter in order to pay full attention to my first client. "More like a kitchen scratcher. Gotta earn money somehow y'know."

"I was wondering if I could... Get a tattoo?" He dug into his jeans' pocket and pulled out a couple of scrunched up twenty-dollar bills. "I really like the uh- the bats you have at the door." The boy, pointed his thumb over his shoulder, motioning at the piece of paper I had put outside with some designs and their respective prices.

"Sure thing." I resolved with a nod, walking to one of the compartments in the kitchen to pull out a briefcase containing the items I needed to tattoo, motioning at the couch on my way there. "Sit down, please."

"Have you done this before?" He asked, following me with his chocolate eyes when I came back to him, dragging a chair to place it by the couch.

"Uh yeah, on myself— see?" I rolled up my sleeves to show him the few tattoos I had given myself. My skin tingled under his touch when he reached out to trace the ink lines. "This is your first time?"

"Uhm yeah." He leaned back, digits leaving my forearm to rub his jeans in an anxious manner. "Actually, my uncle doesn't really know I'm doing this so—"

"I won't tell a soul." I assured him with a half smile. "Where do you want it?"

"Forearm?"

I squinted my eyes at him, pensive, resting my chin on my fist. "You wear long sleeves often?"

"Pfft not now." He snorted, referring to Hawkins's late summer weather.

"Piece of advice then," I lazily wiggled my index finger at his forearm. "Not the forearm— not yet anyway. Your uncle would notice."

He pondered for a moment before questioning me. "What about— what about here?" His finger traveled up to tap right under the left end of his clavicle.

"That's a cool place. You sure about it, though?" He hummed affirmatively and I began to pull out the needles, tubes and ink, along with my sketches. "Same design?"

"Nope, I still want the bats on my arm." I nodded and handed him the sketchbook for him too pick. Fast as lightning, he pointed at a black widow on the side of the first page. "This one."

"Copy that." I gestured at him with my head while I used both hands to put my hair back in a bun. "Can you uh... Take off the shirt?" Sheepish, he complied, folding the piece of clothing and leaving it on the cushion besides him. "Lay down, you'll be more comfortable." Taking in his tensed up lanky frame and nervous eyes, I decided it would be for the best to try and distract him. "I'm Y/n, by the way. What's your name?"

"I'm Eddie."

"Eddie, that's a pretty name." I gave him a small smile, setting the ink. "You go to Hawkins High, don't you?"

"Unfortunately." My mouth twisted further up at his sarcastic yet lighthearted tone. "You?"

"Same— well, not anymore. Had to drop out." The confession spilled from my lips before I could stop it, making me freeze briefly.

"Shit, I wish that were me." I breathed out a laugh cleaning the area in his chest that I was about to tattoo. "Hey, uh, this won't hurt right? 'Cause I'm not about to cry in front of you."

"It won't hurt." I soothed him, giving his bicep s light squeeze. "It's more like an itch."

"I can take an itch." He assured himself more than me.

"Atta boy."

That tattoo was done carefully in record time, with no complaints on Eddie's part, a lot of frowning from mine, and some healthy bickering from both sides.

Soon enough, Eddie was sitting back up on the couch with a hand mirror to check the job that had just been done.

"Y/n?" I hummed promptly, focused on putting the things back in the briefcase instead of on Eddie's form. "I hope you know I'll come back to get the bats too."

And he did.

He came back several times —seven to get more tattoos; countless more with a silly excuse to see me. Each time with longer hair, more and more punker clothes, bolder attitude and louder manners; he became less tender and more cynical —he kept the sweet smile and endearing sheepishness, though.

That's why I did not quite process any of the tragic events that took place throughout spring break. I didn't understand.

Eddie was a good, kindhearted person when we had first met, and that never changed, no matter how much shit the world threw at him. Wayne Munson didn't believe Eddie could have done it either, but it was our biased word against every shallow minded Hawkins' inhabitant, so the police ignored it, and we could only sit and watch how they hunted him down.

Then it got... Really weird. I didn't say anything, not because I doubted myself or thought people would take me for a crazy girl; I didn't say anything because when late at night, I spotted four kids in the dark sneaking into the Munson's residence and leave shortly after with four older people, I knew something wasn't right.

I knew weird things happened in Hawkins, I knew it had to do with the Lab, and I knew if I reported anything, I would have a target on my back, so I didn't say anything.

Neither in that moment, nor the next night when, before going to sleep, I caught a glimpse of the same group that had ran out of the trailer not even 24 hours prior. Eddie was in that group.

I didn't notice him when they went in, but I did hear someone crying out his name before some boy and two girls around my age dragged a limp Eddie out of his own house. I wanted to rush out of my camper van and help them, but I wasn't supposed to be seeing anything.

Four days later, Eddie was miraculously ruled out as the prime subject of the murders by Jim Hopper, who had been supposedly dead. Neither he nor his uncle came back to the trailer park right away —luckily so, because a group of jocks showed up in the middle of the night to burn it to the ground.

Wayne Munson moved back in eventually. Some guys in fancy black suits had set up an new house for him and his nephew a little bit closer to the Mayfield's house. It took a while for Eddie to join him, but after a couple of weeks he was being brought in.

It took him three months to approach my camper, and I wasn't even there when it happened. I only came to know about it when I arrived late at night from my shift at Melvald's and saw a note stuck by my designs. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of both his writing and signature.

'Need a favor. My trailer 4pm tomorrow. Bring a lot of ink and sketches. Don't tell anyone. —Eddie'

And so I complied. My wristwatch marked 03:58pm when I first set a foot on the short damp grass of the trailer park and made my way to the Munson's new home.

My palms sweated around my briefcase and backpack when I got to their front door, fist shaking slightly when it went up to knock on it.

He must have been waiting behind the wooden surface, because not even a second passed before it creaked while it was carefully unlatched —such a contrast from the previous times I had dropped by the Munson's trailer, when the door had flung open by a cheeky Eddie who took up all the space left for me to enter.

Now I could barely see him leaning on the wall by the entrance, tired eyes examining my form before actually throwing it wide.

"Hey, I'm uhm—" I whispered my barely coherent words into the crack, shaking my briefcase between us. "Y'know."

Giving me a what I could only read as a wary up-and-down look, Eddie kicked the door open. I took that as a clear cue to walk in, so I did.

After scanning the place, I noticed the new trailer seemed slightly bigger and much more stark, probably due to the recency of their staying.

"It's nice, the new place." I commented, doing a 360 to face Eddie, my voice feeling like scrap paper against the stifling silence. "I'm sorry 'bout what happened to the trailer."

"Yeah, well, Hawkins, am I right?" He finally spoke, attempting what I believed to be a joke while his right hand reached to close the door.

"Right..." With my lips pursed in a tight line, I left both my belongings on the bigger couch. "I didn't buy it, y'know?" I assured him, referring to the blame put on his shoulders a few months ago.

"Yup. Wayne told me." His aloof demeanor battled hard with my need to ease the environment. "I..." His eyes, until then remaining averted from mine, flickered at me. "I changed my mind. I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I... I think it's not— this isn't a good idea. You should go." Eddie cleared his throat, carding through his locks with his fingers. He was muttering something, but my senses cut everything out when I caught on the angry scar starting on his jawline and going down to his Adam's apple.

"Woah— The hell's that?" I stalked to him with concern on my face, suddenly noticing how odd his winter clothes were for Indiana's summertime weather.

"Wait- Don't!" Eddie recoiled when I was mere inches away from brushing his hair away from his face so I could take a better look, confusion switching to panic in his face when it dawned on him what I was questioning him about.

"But-"

"Please. Just— don't." He vehemently shook his head, tears threatening to spill from his widened eyes while he walked back in hopes of putting more distance between us. "Just go. Please."

"Eddie..." His name fell from my lips in a tender mumble, earning a flinch from him. "Whatever this is, it's not gonna faze me." I assured him, deciding it was best to refrain myself from trying to reach him. "And if it's-" I lowered my voice as much as I could. "If it's some kind of... Top secret bullshit, government kinda stuff, my lips are sealed."

"Gov... government stuff?"

"You know, the Lab. I'm not stupid, I know they're still here. I know they're doing something."

"How do you know that?"

"Did they hurt you?" He gulped. "That's why the note said 'don't tell anyone', right? 'Cause they're covering up their bullshit experiments again—"

A lightbulb went off in my head, sinking my heart into my stomach. 'bring a lot of ink and sketches'.

"I'm... Covering up scars, aren't I?" My inquiry had some dread to it. It wouldn't be the first time that I placed ink on top of unwanted physical memories, but this was Eddie. This was different.

"Y/n, leave. Please. I changed my mind." He pleaded me in high pitched tone his shoulders tensing.

"I can't leave you like this." I responded in a sorry tone, taking a sympathetic look at the ghost of what once was Eddie, in that moment reduced to a scared kid in baggy clothes. "I just can't."

"I'm sorry for leaving the note, okay?!" He shouted more than spoke, tears fighting their way down his cheekbones. "But I don't— I don't want you here right now."

"I'm not leaving you in this state." I insisted, taking a step forward; Eddie took a step back, making his back hit the wall. "I'll leave once you're feeling better, but—"

"You don't owe me anything!"

"I don't have to owe you shit, Eddie! I'm worried sick about you and this is not helping!" I yelled, wildly gesticulating at him.

"I'm just a c-client!"

"What the hell Ed?! You're my fucking friend!" I felt myself internally spiraling, too wrapped in my own trauma to notice Eddie's uneven breathing, nor his lower lip trembling. "Last time I saw you, you were getting dragged into a random car! And when you guys left I saw blood, Eddie! A shit ton of blood! And I bet it was all yours! I'm not asking you to tell me what happened that night, but let me fucking help!"

There was an ominous charged silence in which we both stared straight into each other's souls before Eddie slid down the wall to sit on the ground, becoming a silent flood of tears.

I didn't know what to do aside from stare helpless at his fragile, terrified frame that curled up in a ball on his carpet, and that broke my heart.

Gulping, I slowly joined him on the floor, sitting by his right. "I'm sorry. I didn't... Eddie. Hey." I let my left hand tentatively rub his back while my right one went to rest atop his covered forearm. "I'm— I'm here. I wanna help but you- you gotta talk to me."

"I want 'em off." He whimpered, pressing on his eyeballs with the balls of his hands. "I hate— I-I can't even look at myself anymore, Y/n." His teeth gnawed on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "I-I thought tattoos would... Help but you-" Eddie sniffed, shooting me a quick glance before involuntarily bracing his torso. "I don't want you to— fuck, they're so ugly."

"Can I see them?" Eddie stared at me as if I had grown two heads, bloodshot eyes opening wide again. "Eddie, you know I've seen some shit."

"Not like this." Before I could counter with anything, he spoke again, this time quieter, as if he was confessing a dark secret. "I don't want you to think I'm ugly."

"Oh, c'mon." I tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear, taking in his self-conscious expression. "I could never. You're the prettiest boy I've seen."

"You think I'm pretty?"

"The prettiest." I corrected him, resting my forehead on his temple. We had kept getting closer and closer without noticing. "Now let me see?"

With an uneven, rueful sigh, Eddie nodded and moved away from my grasp to peel off his sweatshirt, leaving him in a black t-shirt that uncovered both his arms, scarred with healed wounds similar to the one in his jaw.

"Jesus... Hey, wait." I pulled his hand and brought it to my lap when, at my exclamation, he attempted to get up and walk away. "Do they hurt?" Eddie shook his head in the negative slightly relaxing under my feather touch over the minor scar between his thumb and index finger. "Okay."

We both sat in silence while I analyzed his arm, my stomach twisting at the mere thought of whatever might have caused such bad wounds.

"It does sound very metal." He agreed in a soft voice, his head casted down when his hesitant eyes peeked at me through his bangs. "There's... There are more. Bigger."

"Maybe... A Hydra could be cool here." I suggested, passing my thumb over the side of his hand. "See? The heads would cover the scar perfectly, and then... It can go a bit up your forearm with a sick tail." I continued, gently twisting his arm with his curious eyes on me. "I have a Nazgûl design that would look bomb on you, so maybe here" I tapped on the bigger scar adorning his arm. 'or—" I pushed myself off the wall and pivoted to kneel in front of him, reaching for his left bicep. "Here too. You know, I don't do this for anyone but since you're my all time favorite client,"

The lightheartedly joking tone in my voice teared a small smile from him.

"I can sit down and come up with a customized design. Maybe something metal? I'm thinking..." I sat back on my legs, picturing the sketch on my head, completely oblivious at Eddie's loving eyes. "Black Sabbath? A 'War Pigs' tattoo sounds very metal to me, what d'you think?"

"Okay." I reached out to intertwin our fingers before giving them a squeeze. "May I?"

I thanked whatever was out there for having Eddie's eyes adamantly averted from me when he pulled off his shirt, because I had to choke out a cry at the sight.

What the hell happened to him?

"Told you." He muttered, wrapping his arms around the scars on his sides. "They're ugly."

"Hey." I swallowed my grief for his sake, pulling his knees apart so I could get closer to him. "What did I tell you?" My hands went first to his forearms in order to uncover his torso once more, and then to his cheeks. "Prettiest boy I've seen." I repeated, bringing him into a hug before planting a kiss on the side of his head. "Nothing's gonna change that."

Eddie snugged his head on the crook of my neck, bare arms squeezing me tight against him. "Promise?"

"Promise." I waited for him to pull away before letting my fingertips trail down from the pinkish marks on his chest to the bigger wounds on his sides that... Looked eeriely similar to gnawing. "I'm gonna give you the sickest tatties."

"I bet you will." He agreed, letting his left palm travel to my right, which rested on his abdomen. "Thanks, Y/n."

"Don't thank me yet, I might fuck up."

"Yeah sure, you fucking up a tattoo." He scoffed. "Sounds about right."

"There's a first time for everything." I shrugged nonchalantly. "You were my first client, it's just fitting for you to be my first fuckup."

He flicked my shoulder; another half smile twisting up the corner of his lips made my heart swell with pride. It felt odd, yet nice to be the one trying to make the boy smile and not the other way around.

It seemed like that dynamic would stay with us for a while, but I was fine with it as long as I got to be close to him again.

[cryxtal-moon]

Snaps – jjk

Summary: A tale of you as Jungkook’s assistant while he goes around with a camera strapped to his neck. More accurately, you being annoyed at him treating you like a mini helper and him cheekily taking more than six months to admit he loves you.

Genre/warnings: photographer!Jungkook, assistant/music producer!reader, neighbours au, fluff

Word count: 10k

Pairing: Jungkook x reader

Author’s note: This is my very first JK post. Thank you for reading!

Your ringtone and alarm must have decided to conspire together the night prior since both were screeching at the unconscious depths of your brain to bring you back to reality. Checking the caller ID wasn’t required – there was only one person who would give you such a rude awakening.

“Hel-“

“Snow! Finally! What took you so long?”

“... it’s seven thirty. In the morning. You told me to be up by eight.”

“But I’m hungry,” his whining on the other end was nearly as bad as the alarm, one you shut off with a slam. “I want bean sprout rice with kimchi, galbi and cold cucumber soup. And pork tonkatsu.”

Your face took on the same expression as an emoji with three short lines for its eyes and mouth. “Will that be all?”

“One cappuccino too, please.”

“Alright Jeon, thank you for ordering room service,” sweet sarcasm dripped from your tone like honey, “your food will be delivered shortly.”

Unbeknownst to you, your muffled groan was audible through the speaker, making him chuckle.

⊱✿⊰

A white pot of violet orchids perched on the small corner of your designated desk reminded you that your boss wasn’t as annoying as you thought. Jeon Jungkook didn’t buy gifts for you often, or even at all, so to say you were surprised by it six months into your time as an assistant was an understatement.

It confused you from the very beginning as to why a professional photographer had placed a job offer for someone to be his administrative assistant. You had soon discovered the reason after taking a curious peek into his online portfolio and resume – the number of pictures and videos he had taken during his time as a freelancer, all organised under specific categories you might add, starting from before college to various art galleries he had featured at, had made him one of the most sought-after photographers in your small town.

Weddings, parties, galas, magazine covers, news coverage, birthdays, family portraits, Christmas or Halloween... the list was seemingly endless. For someone at the tender age of twenty-two, he had a dream he set out and accomplished, but with the rise to fame came hectic schedules and tight deadlines, which was the entire reason you were there.

Saying “no” to events meant denying himself the source of his rather large income. Jungkook became aware with his increasing popularity that he needed someone to manage his time for him, answer calls for commissions, pen down his arrangements on a planner, freshen up between shoot sessions and made sure he ate three square meals a day. In essence, you felt like weren’t his secretary so much as you were his maid. You just thanked your lucky stars that your uncle’s chef expertise had rubbed off very well on you before you moved out of your home.

A combination of convenience and cooking skills were the main selling point for him to take you in immediately, not the degree you had in music and composition you actually poured your blood, sweat and tears into for four years. “Convenience” referred to the fact that your new apartment sat directly opposite his, yet his still insisted you go over five days a week to keep him, more correctly his kitchen, company.

Metal creaking jolted you out of your thoughts, stare shifting from purple and white petals to the figure gliding past your desk after Jungkook exited his studio, coming to a stop in front of you to shoot his smirk your way.

“Ready to go, snow?”

Your compulsion to roll your eyes at the nickname was overpowered by shoving a planner you used for him into your work bag. The only time you remembered him calling you by your actual name was when you had first met him along the corridor. Winter had overtaken autumn in November, the same month you moved in, snowflakes stuck themselves into your eyelashes and hair, refusing to melt and causing him to call you out for it.

You reviewed his schedule for the day after slipping into his car. Words you’d scribbled in black informed you of the location you were headed for the day; a magazine shoot for three important businessmen, who had gone from creating codes for protecting computers from malware to developing an artificial intelligence personal assistant to help the disabled, particularly those who were illiterate.

“Did you bring everything?” Jungkook spoke over the classical music streaming from his speakers, casting a glance at you briefly.

You peeked into a backpack you always brought along with you. “Water bottle, fan, spare batteries, extra SD card, and–“ you jabbed a thumb over your shoulder “–your tripod’s in the trunk.”

“And my camera?”

“Back seat. Or attached to your neck.”

He chuckled at your bluntness, “You know me too well, snow. How about lunch?”

“Lunch?” The grip you had to hold the book open went slack, thoughts picturing his fridge that you knew could use refilling, “I didn’t have time to cook this morning. You’re almost out of food, by the way.”

“Hm…” four of his fingers drummed in a wave pattern on the wheel, eyes fixated on the road, “then let’s eat out for today. Oh, and we’re going shopping after this, so add that in.”

“Shopping?”

“I’m attending a gala one week from now,” the words had you scanning the calendar for the exact date to write it down, “I need a new suit.”

“If you say so. Where’s the gala going to be held?”

“Luxe Resort.”

The five star hotel’s name would have made anyone else choke on air, but not you. Accompanying him extravagant places were something you had gotten accustomed to in knowledge of his line of work. He could knock on your door with tickets to New York, Milan or Paris and you wouldn’t even blink.

“Got it.”

Sky blue reflecting off the glass panels of the building’s exterior with steel lining the edges greeted you upon stepping out of the outdoor, sheltered carpark. Still, your time to admire the company’s name etched in gold on the glass double doors was cut short in order to pull the backpack and tripod, both of equal weight, over your shoulders, trudging behind him while frowning at the black leather strap he slung around his neck. His camera was the only thing he willingly carried with him.

Entering the reception with his long strides paired with his usual confident swagger caught the attention of the lady behind the counter, and this time you did roll your eyes at the wink he gave her in thanks for confirming the appointment. A fake smile pulled the corners of your lips when he slipped the guest ID lanyard over your head with an affectionate ruffle of your hair.

“There you go, snow. Now follow me.”

Once you reached the studio, you fell into your usual routine – Jungkook shaking hands with the set designer and models, you setting up the tripod where the camera was fitted on top. There were no interactions with anyone except those who approached you first. The models were especially off-limits, as well as those with a higher-up position who visited the set just to monitor the progress.

You positioned yourself in a corner at a distance from the rest of the staff where you didn’t bother them, but close so you could help your boss. This was him in his element, peering through a lens, directing the positions of the models in that polite yet slightly authoritative tone, making requests for adjustments to lighting, searching for the perfect angle and shot size.

Tripod standby came next, the part of the shoot where Jungkook transferred his camera to and fro from the stand to hand-held shots, you adjusting the height according to what he wanted, then pulling it away entirely if he didn’t need it.

It was in the switch from group to solo shots did he need you to be on what you deemed “assistant duties”, because nothing irritated you more than him snapping his fingers at you, a sign he wanted a drink from his water bottle. Gazes of those around you burned the same way your cheeks did watching you wait on him to finish taking a gulp, a second pat on your head prompting someone to murmur behind you Is she his assistant or his girlfriend?

You weren’t sure which was worse.

The end of the shoot came precisely when the hour and minute hands signified one on your watch, everyone thanking each other for their hard work, models clapping Jungkook on the back or shaking his hand as he promised them he could be back the next time they needed him. None, save a mussed-hair stressed intern who gave you a thumbs-up, spared you a glance while you packed up, trailing behind him to the car after depositing the lanyards.

“Where to now?” You sighed at him settling in the driver’s seat, placing the tripod in the backseat carefully.

“Shopping, remember? Seokjin said Jewel Mall sells the best suits.”

Three digit numbers slashed across price tags in bold set alarm bells off in your head, but it was his bank account taking the hit and not yours, so you voiced out, “Okay. You’re the boss.”

⊱✿⊰

More concerned stares were thrown your way, this time by the attendants stationed around the suit shop who watched the sole patron place blazers and pants over your outstretched left arm. After six, you lost track of the number, busy hoping your glare burned through his button-down shirt every time he had his back to you.

The fanciful changing rooms gave your feet welcome relief as you sank down into one of the cream couches, all of his choices laid out next to you to be handed to him one by one. Jungkook wasn’t kidding about the whole “personal assistant” deal. You just hadn’t see it coming that it included this, not as you picked at the gold fabric lining the exterior of a throw pillow.

You should have felt out of place in your casual attire – white shirt, light wash jeans, sneakers and clover green jacket – though you learnt three months into the job that the workers cared more about the person with a heavier wallet and sparkling credit cards filling the spaces between them. Piano music streaming through the speakers softly, a song you recognised to be Nocturnes in E Flat Major Op. 9 by Chopin and Rubinstein, relaxed your stature that little bit more into the back rest and had your hands gently tapping on the top of your jean-clad knees to the rhythm.

Till the curtain of Jungkook’s changing room was yanked aside with a dramatic flourish.

The number one reason females you met in his photo shoots stayed was because they were makeup artists, but being in the background, you observe their eyes trailing onto your boss and staying there, whispering to each other behind cupped hands to hide flushed cheeks. Because of one simple fact, a fact your imbecilic heart couldn’t deny since the first day you met him in the corridor.

Jungkook was undeniably more handsome than you gave him credit for. Watching him then, donning a navy blue blazer and matching dress pants in the same white button-down, your vital organ couldn’t help its little stutter. How he hadn’t dated anyone was a mystery to you; he had the ability to charm anyone into falling for him.

“How do I look, snow?” Long, slow steps accompanied the equally dramatic sweeping of his hair away from his forehead, coming to a stop inches away from you with a smirk.

“Try the rest of them on and we’ll see,” your flickering gaze was in time with mentally counting those laid on the couch. “You still have eight more to go. Yay.”

“Aww, come on,” the jut his lower lip paired with large puppy eyes almost had your heart doing another flip, “would it kill you to admit that I look good?”

“Probably. But…” against your self-control, you got to your feet and helped insert the sole button into its little placement, “you’ll have to find someone else to be your assistant when I die, and I don’t want them to go through that sort of pain, so yes,” you sighed, “you don’t look half bad.”

The effect of his scoff was diminished by the smile perking the corners of his lips up. “Half bad? Please. I’m handsome. Say it.”

“For real?”

“Say I’m handsome.”

“Why?”

One tug on your waist had Jungkook’s breath fanning your face, any distance between you eliminated, “Say it.”

His touch seared through your clothes, translating into rose clouds traitorously dusting the apples of your cheeks, silence stretching for a prolonged period of time where none of you were able to break eye contact, you being much too distracted by the sudden deafening pound in your ears to do anything.

When your brain could resume its normal function, you quipped, “You look better in a hoodie.”

His groan and complaint about your stubbornness made you beam for the first time that day.

⊱✿⊰

Twelve straps threatening to pierce through the sleeves of your jacket had the glare returning to the crease of your eyebrows. Jungkook had finally made his mind up to buy three suits. The first in navy blue you refused to admit he looked half-decent in, the second in black and the third in sea green which many other guests who weren’t him couldn’t pull off, according to a cashier who dared to blatantly flirt back.

His shopping trip didn’t stop there, evidenced by three bags decorating each of your arms like they were branches of a Christmas tree. A new winter coat, a flannel, a couple shirts, and two pairs of jeans nestled themselves in soft white tissue and weighed you down. Your own bag was the lightest thing on you, resting on your back so it didn’t get mixed up in his purchases, jostling between your shoulder blades with every movement.

Plastic bags hanging off the crook of his fingers soothed your annoyance just a little. He was nice enough to carry his own groceries but busy enough to let you organise them for him in his refrigerator, tapping a finger to the space between your narrowed eyes for you to loosen up.

You took the liberty to pour your irritation out on the stand-up piano back in your living room, taking full advantage of the forte and crescendo printed against the score sheet stored in the back of your memory, then disregarding them altogether in the next few bars in your refusal to play softly. Only by propping your phone on the leather bench beside you were you able to hear it buzz over the keys, eyes widening at the notification that wasn’t from Jungkook.

It was your other source of income – people who commissioned you to score their published, online comics or animated videos for YouTube videos where they credited you at the end – a job where your college degree came into play. A quick jab of the pad of your thumb to the fingerprint passcode later, you were reading the author’s stamp of approval of the music file you had sent to him two days ago, the first draft he referred to in the current message asking you to finish it quickly because he loved it and wanted to listen to the whole thing.

You abandoned the piano, tucking white jade keys beneath a velvet cloth, in favour of the keyboard in your studio. The same file the author cited on your monitor hiked up against the wall displayed colourful round-edge rectangles while you triple-checked the plug connecting your keyboard to the recording app.

Hours into the process of playing around with your equipment and instruments, hands only leaving both when you made notes to a hardcopy sheet music for piano you’d edit digitally on a later date, a melody one notch louder than the violin strings through your headphones and coming from behind you had you spinning in your swivel chair, just to receive a full frontal of Jungkook’s smoulder where his shoulder braced against the door frame.

“You look adorable while you’re working, snow.”

How he took advantage of you leaving your gate open for him wasn’t surprising anymore. “Exactly how long have you been standing there?”

“Five minutes,” the photographer crossed the distance between you in three long strides, but your gaze trailed to the bay window where sunset painted the sky in streaks of gold, realisation hitting you of how late it had become.

A ceramic turtle paperweight almost toppled over in your frantic scramble for his notebook lying on a file of old score sheets. Scribbled in neat handwriting on his to-do list was Complete video of photo collage for a young girl’s birthday, whose parents had kindly requested of him through a phone call you received.

“You’re done with work?”

He was a blur of black in plopping down onto the cream love seat, leaning against the L-shaped corner of the desk. “Yup, are you?”

“Almost.”

The notebook was discarded back on the wooden surface to unplug your headphones and switch to using two speakers resting under the monitor when you saw his curious eyes wandering to the play button.

You merely gestured to the mouse in silent agreement, wheels of the chair moving you aside so he’d have space to sit in front of the screens. It was the first time you could actually see how someone reacted to the music and nothing else besides it, rather than just give you feedback in the body of an email, and it had butterflies flitting around inside the confines of your stomach.

A worse reaction came three minutes and forty-five seconds later, which was the entire duration of the song, your pencil clattering to the pieces of paper as a sudden weight dropped itself onto your shoulder.

“It’s amazing,” he grinned, fluffy locks tickling the exposed skin of your neck and shell of your ear you failed miserably to ignore, “you’re amazing.”

You managed a short huff, “Compliments won’t make me cook your favourite.”

“I mean it,” Jungkook punctuated each word more firmly. “You’re talented. Always have been.”

You barely dared to move. Eyes flickered around the room like candlelight to find something interesting to watch but they fell on his hand, noticing how it lay limply in his lap, fighting the sudden urge to slot your fingers through the gaps in his digits to see whether they’d fit by gripping the edge of your table till white formed around your knuckles.

Then, quietly, “I still want curry, though… can you cook curry?”

The usual annoyance in your sigh was gone thanks to those butterflies perching on the edge of your heart, “Okay. For you, Jeon.”

He lifted his head with a smile you couldn’t see, “Snow?”

Three inches separated your faces when you turned to him, shutting you up for a second. You were so close, his charm took effect in the way you could almost count each of his midnight lashes the edges of his dark bangs fluttered against, the adorable slope of his button nose leading to his petal lips that you would kill yourself to admit appeared tantalising.

“Y-yeah?”

“You know you’re my plus one for the gala, right?”

That, you didn’t, but it sent a shockwave through your vital organ for the butterflies to jolt away. “You… could have told me that sooner.”

Jungkook had the audacity to shorten the gap by an inch for you to see stars glittering in his chocolate irises, “Why?”

“I need a dress.”

Crystal chandeliers, glass flutes of champagne and small portions of fine dining on china platters flashed through your brain as fast as camera shutters clicking at the remembrance of the five-star hotel’s name. Nothing in your wardrobe was even close to their standard of formal attire.

“Alright, we’ll go back to Jewel tomorrow,” his smile was a little too easygoing compared to the slight furrow of your brows.

“I can’t afford that type of dress.”

“Then I’ll buy it for you,” a casual shrug, “no big deal.”

“I can’t let you do that either,” your frown deepened. “Never mind. I probably have an old dress somewhere I can–“

His warm lips chastely pressing themselves to the middle of your forehead came without prior warning. You went silent for a different reason this time, completely, utterly speechless in the wake of his actions, capable of doing nothing except stare at him with your mouth identical to that of a goldfish.

If Jungkook was affected too, it didn’t show in the smile dimpling the sides of his cheeks, “I’m buying it for you. End of discussion,” his large palm ruffled your hair affectionately, trailing down to ghost against your jawline. “Gosh, you drive me crazy sometimes, you know that, snow?”

Only after he exited the room did the person manning the controls in your mind thaw from the frozen state his kiss rendered it in, his words registering within five seconds and it took you half that time to leap out of your seat after him, your indignant yell echoing down the hallway,

“I drive you crazy?”

⊱✿⊰

Jungkook pulled your hands away from the price tag you’d snatched up the moment you approached the first gorgeous garment on a rack an attendant led you to, turning your widened eyes from the three digit number to his.

“I already told you I’d pay, didn’t I?” A nonchalant tilt of his head towards the dresses was useless in soothing the nervous thrum of your heart, “Go ahead. Try them on.”

He settled on a white leather couch in the middle of the circular changing room, the effects of the role reversal crashing over you like tidal wave to freeze you in place between the floor-to-ceiling mirror and the door. Three beautiful pieces hung from hooks nailed into the wall on transparent hangers, waiting for you to try on, though the soft, pliable material between your fingertips nearly had you bolting out of the mall in fear of ruining their luxuriousness.

The first you pulled on was a black off-the-shoulder with a pleated skirt, the top half hugging your silhouette not tight enough to suffocate but not loose enough to enjoy parading around in it for a whole evening. Looking at your skeptical expression frowning down at the garment told Jungkook all he needed to know. The second one was white and had thin spaghetti straps pressing themselves into your shoulders, flaring out to an A-line skirt from the waist down, yet your boss ushered you right back into the cubicle on account of getting something that could keep you warm so no additional jacket was necessary.

All doubts gathered from the first two garments erased themselves when the final one settled around your form. Pale blue was calming to the eyes of everyone who you’d come across two weeks from now, lace going over your left shoulder to give the illusion of a strap, the rest of the smooth fabric modestly covered your chest down to your knees. The only part of the material that cinched around your waist flowed down the skirt in the same direction as the lace.

“Um…” you squeaked in the silence, a tad louder than the classical music streaming through overhead speakers, “Jeon?”

Footsteps shuffled on carpeted ground, two gentle knocks against the closed door separating him from the view of you that he probably wouldn’t recognise, “Everything okay, snow?”

Fabric pinched between your thumb and index fingers reminded you that this wasn’t a dream. “I think this is it… yeah. This dress will do.”

His chuckle was sweeter than the B major key still playing above your heads, “Are you gonna show me?”

Panic had you whipping around, one hand flying to the handle to double check the lock, the other grasping the hem to pull it up and off of you, “Nope. It’s a surprise.”

“But that’s not fair, snow,” being temporarily blinded by the blue coating your vision in tugging the dress over your head didn’t stop your mind from seeing the pout in his whine, “I let you see me in a suit.”

“Too bad,” your giggle resonated with the clang of hangers together as you hid the garment between the first two you tried on. “Be patient.”

You sped past him the moment the lock clicked open and granted you access to the outside world, heading to the attendant who had helped you out earlier where she waited by the counter. Long strides quickened your pounding heart – you wouldn’t be surprised should Jungkook manage to catch a glimpse of the blue fabric she was carefully tucking into a black and white shopping bag.

“I should at least know what I’m paying for,” his quipped, eyeing the black satin straps gripped in the curve of your left palm and then the playful smile pulling at your lips, making one dimple into his own cheeks, “but okay.”

“Thank you,” you meant it with all the sincerity you could muster, the second part as well, “you can take the amount of my pay check if you want.”

“What? No way.”

“I’m not sure how else I can repay you, Jeon.”

Fingers softly grasped the edge of your chin to tilt your head up where you were granted a full view of the constellations in his irises, “First, call me Jungkook.”

You hoped your mute nod would suffice.

“Second,” he let go but intwined his digits in the spaces between your free hand to lead you both to the exit, “you can cook curry tonight, after the shoot.”

The tingling spreading up your arm affected your brain’s regular function, though it pulled up the schedule you were filling in that morning for him at your usual desk that he had a wedding shoot in the late afternoon in time for you to mumble, “Sure, okay.”

⊱✿⊰

A combination of overhead and umbrella lights reflecting off the chandelier strung above your head cast silver flecks onto your bare arms where you bent to adjust the height of the tripod legs. What shadowed them caught your attention midway through unscrewing the tight leg locks, gaze trailing up midnight blue chiffon where it flowed from the bride’s waist like a waterfall up to her gloved hand that was sending you a small wave.

“Hi, sorry,” her name surfaced in three seconds for you to match it to her face, Jiyeon, “I saw you come in with Jungkook and I was wondering; are you two a couple?”

Scorching heat coating your face a rosy red appeared to contradict the next words spoken in a rush to amend the misunderstanding, “Oh, no, we’re not. He– he’s my boss.”

“Ah,” Jiyeon giggled delicately, pearl pink lips hidden behind her white satin-covered palm, “I see. Apologies, Joon didn’t mention anything about him having an assistant so I thought, well…”

You shook your head, “It’s okay.”

Her heels clicked against the marble floor en route to a sofa set up in front of a white wall, though she looked back at you, a gleam in her eyes made verbal in expressing an afterthought, “You two look cute together, though.”

For once, you were grateful for the distance separating you from Jungkook, leaning against a corner of the studio with his bag clutched in knuckles whitened due to your harsh grip. This wasn’t the first wrong assumption you’d experience, definitely one of the bolder ones where the models asked about your relationship status outright, but compared to the whispers of the makeup artists in the last appointment her comment had your head spinning.

Couple, dare you say it aloud yourself, had numbness returning to where Jungkook sponged his lips to your forehead the night prior. An impulse decision on his part that kept jolting you awake just before dreams could overtake your subconscious. You didn’t know what it meant, too indignant because of his final statement to question his intention behind it, not to mention the normal bickering you went back to after it happened.

A sudden possibility crossed your mind, instantly spinning the room and adding a slight stumble in your step over one of the stray wires from an extension cord on set when he called for you, ignoring his gaze searing through your skin as you hoisted the tripod away from his spot.

There was no way he liked you. You blamed the ridiculous thought on the theme of the photoshoot getting to your head.

Jiyeon’s groom, Kim Namjoon, was the next to approach you when you retreated back into the corner to tick Indoor studio off the top spot of the to-do list, your eyes scanning Beach as the next location before his polished shoes came into view.

“You must be _____,” He stuck out a hand, flashing adorable dimples straight at you, “I’m Namjoon.”

“Nice to meet you,” you smiled, “and congratulations on your wedding.”

“Thank you. Just curious, you’re really Kookie’s neighbour?”

“Yup,” a chuckle made its way past your lips, “crazy coincidence, huh?”

There was a teasing sparkle in his eyes, identical to his fiancée’s in her last comment, “Does he treat you well?”

You hummed in pretend thought, though you stuck to the truth, “If you consider going shopping with him, cooking for him everyday and managing his schedule as him treating me well, then yes.”

Loud and unabashed laughter startled you slightly, “You sound more like his wife than his assistant.”

Time was cruel in not giving you enough seconds to find a suitable response to the second romantic reference of the day, as well as not telling you that the guy in question would wrap his hand around your waist.

“Don’t worry, hyung, I’m working on that,” Jungkook shot you an equally unabashed wink, reaching out to shove his friend’s shoulder. “Not everyone decides to tie the knot as fast as you. Anyway, we better get to the beach.” A quick tilt of his head to the first hues of orange that had begun to streak through the azure sky, “Don’t want to miss golden hour.”

Said golden hour was a term photographers used to describe the sunrise and sunset, one of the perfect times during the day to capture aesthetic shots behind the click of his camera shutter. It was a silent fifteen minute drive where you perched next to him, piano keys from a song you knew to be Clair de Lune the only thing that settled comfortably in the air around you both, though you knew your boss was never one to listen to this type of music lest he was subjected to it by hearing you play from across the hall.

Your fingers itched for your stand-up instrument, but you clamped them down on a tightened grip on the bag you hugged to your chest. Noticing one of his hands resting unoccupied beneath the steering wheel left deep crescent moons from your short nails on the black straps.

Wind picked loose flyaways up where you’d gathered your hair into a ponytail upon opening the car door, and you could almost taste the saltiness of the water spraying upwards where it crashed against rocks near a harbour to the far end of the beach. Overwhelmingly bright sunshine had you facing sideways to switch your view from the magnificent blend of gold and blue to Jungkook, crouching carefully on the sand with his camera angled towards the couple, directing them in different positions with compliments you could hear over the gentle lap of waves against the shoreline.

Asking Namjoon to hold Jiyeon by the waist, then brush his hands over her cheeks, pretend to dance on the shifting sands, then dip her but nearly topple over entirely did nothing to steal your attention away from him. It took Jiyeon tapping your shoulder, asking you to help hold her bouquet of assorted flowers, that made you realise you were staring at the way light made the outline of Jungkook’s figure glow for more than five minutes.

You quickly found a distraction in white petals of lilies curving beside periwinkles and daisies. Pink and white seemed to be the theme for their ceremony even if the pictures they took had the bride dressed in blue. The soft texture and sweet smell messed with your imagination, crafting a scene in your mind in which a boy you liked in the future would present you with a different bouquet, holding it out to the shy smile that would adorn your lips.

But the fake bunch of flowers soon changed into a tiny white vase of orchids identical to the ones growing on your desk.

You blinked in time with a familiar camera shutter going off much louder in your right ear, bringing you back to reality, but seeing Jungkook’s pointing it at you had you second-guessing.

“What are you doing?”

He grinned, cheeky bunny teeth and all, “What does it look like?”

“Wrong subject, Jeon.”

The white light of the small, digital screen added an extra star to his pupils, seasoned thumbs fiddling with the buttons to present you with the one snapshot he wasn’t paid to take, “Can’t help it. You look too pretty.”

You willed yourself not to bite your lip or break eye contact, or worse, admit that it was a nice photo despite being unplanned.

“Does that mean I have to pay you if I want it?”

It was his turn to hum thoughtfully, leaning down so your faces were nearly as close as they were that night. “Just this one? How about the others?”

“There are others?!“

“I’m a photographer. What did you expect?”

His fingers brushing lightly against the shell of your ear to tuck a stray lock away sent shocks through your skin, “You’re my favourite thing to photograph, snow. I thought you knew that by now.”

Any sort of response died in the back of your throat when he turned tail to jog back to Namjoon and Jiyeon, sand kicking up in the wake of where he had been but you couldn’t find it in you to be annoyed.

Not when he took your heart with him.

⊱✿⊰

Soft, golden lighting from the sconces in the corridor provided some clarity for your blurry vision to make out the outline of the keyhole, jamming the key in after three failed attempts. The sound of metal clicking was somehow louder that the muffled patter of rain against the building, loud enough to have the door behind you slamming open to see Jungkook, hoodie ridden up and revealing a lick of skin where his hand combed halfway through mussed dark locks of hair.

“Snow?”

Rubbing your eyes spread a dizzying array of colour behind closed lids. “Hey,” you brought your hand up for a wave, though a small yawn had the back of your wrist covering your mouth instead.

He made his way over in four strides, worry replacing the usual stars glinting in doe eyes, “You’re back late.”

A client who wanted his soundtrack to be finalised had called you in for a personalised visit in the early afternoon, unlike the usual customers who stated their comments in a bulleted point list in an email. Jungkook had understood that you were going to be gone for a couple of hours once you were done answering a few phone calls for him, half of them to arrange future shoots, the other half to confirm those you already jotted down in the calendar.

The laptop, keyboard and MIDI device tucked carefully away in your backpack weighed heavier courtesy of the rain you had been caught in on the way home. You were too tired to be irritated at the memory of said client who had fiddled around with nearly every button, more out of insatiable curiosity than the desire to find the right sound for his comic strip. You were exhausted at yourself too, for giving into replaying the main melody of the song on the keyboard each time he discovered a new sound, just to endure him saying nope, not it, next two bars into the score.

His resulting indecision had layers of additional sound you hadn’t planned to add into the music at random, though appropriate, points in time. The multicoloured rectangles on your editing software blurred together to give you a headache that didn’t leave, instead manifested further in a dull ache in your fingers from over-exertion and the chill of the storm battering against your glass windows.

A lock of your hair, slicked down by droplets of rain, was plucked off your shoulder, gripped by the pad of his thumb and index, “Have you had dinner?”

You were, honestly, too worried about the client’s greasy fingers pressing down on your precious equipment too hard to remember to eat, so you shook your head. Jungkook sighed in tandem with guiding you through the door, hand not leaving your shoulders until you passed the threshold of your bathroom and he aided you in slipping your bag off.

“Go take a shower,” it was a gentle request from concern you could now hear in his voice, “I’ll see if I can find something to eat.”

Twenty minutes later, when you had scrubbed out the rainwater from your hair and soreness from your muscles, you stepped out into your hallway, lavender and vanilla scent of your soaps overwhelmed by that of something delicious wafting from the other end.

You found Jungkook walking to the dining table, a bowl of curry from a day ago when you cooked it for dinner and another of rice placed gently beside a pair of chopsticks and a spoon. He turned to grab something else but paused in looking at your pyjama-clad self, your grey shirt advertising a black cat sticking out of a small pocket and white shorts peeking out beneath.

“I hope you don’t mind, I, uh…” a quick gesture to the food, “I heated the curry from yesterday, but if you want something else, I can order in–“

“It’s great, Jungkook,” you slid into the chair, offering him a small smile, just the tiniest quirk of your lips upward, “thank you.”

He joined you after a quick trip to your kitchen island, returning with a mug of hot chocolate brewed by hand and not the coffee machine you used for making his drinks. At this hour, food didn’t re-energise you, just warmed you up on the inside to lull you to sleep later. Yet the tiredness clinging to your half-open eyelids didn’t help in pretending that he hadn’t taken his gaze off of you.

Maybe breaking the silence would help in distracting you from that little detail. “Did you eat?”

“You came back late and you’re still worrying about me? I’m touched, snow,” he chuckled, tugging on your shower-fresh hair. “How was your meeting?”

Your shoulders slumped, recalling how you needed to clean each crevice of your equipment still sitting in your bag. “He was being… difficult. Not because he’s a perfectionist; he kept changing the sound to what he thought was nice,” you sighed. “It’s completely different from the original now, and he wants it by tomorrow night.”

“I mean,” fingers gently rubbed your eyes that had you seeing stars, “I know I shouldn’t complain because it’s work, but-”

An equally gentle tug on your wrists had you seeing those same celestial bodies in his irises, paired with an equally brilliant smile though it was meant to comfort you more than stun you into silence.

“That’s not true. You’re allowed to complain. You were there to see me ranting sometimes too, remember?”

“I guess,” you couldn’t help the pout that pulled at your bottom lip, “but it feels… wrong. I love music. I’m supposed to love my work, too.”

“I’m sure you still do,” one of his hands left yours to cup your cheek, running his thumb over the pink blush that began to spread under his touch. “It’s okay to feel stressed at times, especially when you deal with difficult people. Sure, they make your job harder, but that doesn’t mean you love it any less. Just don’t keep it to yourself.”

The downpour had quietened down to a drizzle, soothing ambient music in comfortable silence that had settled around you both that had your tired stature leaning into his warm touch, absently wondering when it had begun to feel like home.

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that…” your own voice was soft, mind hazy, “makes it hard to find you annoying.”

Jungkook laughing merely added to the ongoing music, “You think I’m annoying, snow?”

“Not…” your eyes drifted close for longer than a second, “…not right now.”

Feeling yourself being lifted off the chair and braced against the broad planes of his chest, his arms supporting you so you didn’t fall, garnered zero protest from you as you succumbed to the sleep taking over your consciousness, not before the warmth of a blanket tucked to your chin registered in your brain.

A dip in the mattress beside you preceded his hand caressing your face again, “What do you think of me then?”

Right in that moment, the answer was simple, feelings you’d thought about all day escaping your lips in a sincere whisper meant for him, and him alone.

“You drive me crazy, Jeon.”

⊱✿⊰

Piano keys in C major streaming through the car speakers had you perking your head up where you were flipping through the schedule for that day, soft pattering of rain in the background of the track causing memories to resurface.

Jungkook’s smirk was directed at you, despite his eyes fixated on the view beyond the windshield, “Recognise this?”

It was a playlist of lofi songs you had mixed together from your high school days, per your friends’ request to make one for them to study or chill to. The earliest ones had been when you were experimenting with new equipment you were now familiar with, should muscle memory prove anything; the ones in the middle were created with inspiration from your surroundings, proven by titles such as Autumn Leaves, Train by the river and Winter Nights; those near the end lasting three minutes or longer after more thorough training from two years in college.

Uploading it to your personal Spotify account granted your friends easy access, though you didn’t know that those who followed were still listening to it in the years that had passed since you’d gone back to it, and certainly hadn’t expected Jungkook of all people to find it. Yet the melody was unmistakable and filling the chilled air around you as you continued to stare at him, unsure of what to think.

A clack of his phone resounded next to the gear shift, screen showing the first of one hundred and fifty songs out in green font while the rest were white and waiting for their turn, “I wish you told me about it sooner. It’s my favourite thing to listen to while I work.”

You fiddled with your fingers, “I forgot I had it.”

Juggling doing covers of songs with friends for their YouTube page as a pianist or drummer, preparing for finals, and creating original compositions for an incredibly talented and hard-to-please lecturer, you’d barely had time to get back to producing your own beats. Back then, you had been more worried about getting sufficient hours of sleep.

“Like I said, snow, you’re talented,” he reached over, patting the top of your head without the usual roughness. “Seriously, how’d I get so lucky…”

You pondered on what he meant by that for the rest of the trip, settling on him appreciating you as his assistant and his friend despite the corner of your heart that stood up to protest otherwise.

The adorable glass bell in the shape of a fish chimed to announce your arrival at Manggae Bakery but Jimin was already at the door to pull it open for you, excited at the sight of the camera slung around his friend’s neck.

“JK!” Said camera thankfully wasn’t squished between their chests in the hug they exchanged. Crinkled eyes turned to you over Jungkook’s shoulder, widening at your small wave. “Hi, _____!”

Jimin all but dragged the two of you over to a table in the middle of the shop, treats on display. Bright colours of the rice flour cakes resting on their stands, particularly the rosettes, were the first to overwhelm you then draw you in by eliciting hunger in your stomach currently filled with the sandwich you had for breakfast. A reminder in the form of a lilac sticky note pasted itself in the forefront of your memory to ask him for one before you left, while a real sticky note in the pages of his schedule told you that the gala was just two days away.

“You can start with these,” Jimin swept his hand in a wide semicircle towards the treats. “I was thinking you could take a pic of all of them first, maybe from different angles. There’s a wall there too–“ he pointed to his left where the tables for customers to sit had been removed, leaving space before a white brick structure with a brown window and tendrils of curving ivy from the top, “–if you want to use for individual shots.”

“Got it, hyung,” he was already fiddling with the plastic buttons beside the screen, the familiar mechanical sound of the lens zooming in reaching your ears.

A couple of red roses adorning the top of a white cake behind the glass counter had caught your eyes, till you saw the gradual approach of bakery owner through its reflection, the same grin you dared to believe was permanently etched on his lips fully directed at you.

“I’m glad you’re here, _____,” over the shutter clicking away, you heard a rustle of paper within Jimin’s pocket that he soon produced to you, save the flourish from earlier. “Do you know the company Namjoon and Yoongi-hyung work at?”

You nodded; it was hard to miss the skyscraper high glass and steel building whenever you drove to town for a shoot.

“They have a job opening for a music producer,” his index tapped the large black words printed on the top of the page. “Details are all here. You can try applying if you want. I’m not sure if you get to- wait, Yoongi-hyung said you will get to collaborate with them if you get it. Pretty cool, right?”

Silence overtook the bakery to allow you time to process this new information as well as allowed the words on the page to look like they would jump off and swallow you whole. You were blind to everything else except the feeling of Jungkook’s gaze searing a hole through your cheek, neurons in your brain screeching to a halt in their tracks the longer you stood there, numb.

You barely registered Jimin snapping his fingers alongside an excited comment of retrieving more of his creations from the back room, your eyes accidentally flickering down to the business email in (thankfully) smaller font at the bottom left of the page even though it froze your vital organ up all the same. A soft call of your name, quiet footsteps, and warm fingers softly touching the underside of your chin to lift your face up was what it took to break you out of your trance.

“Snow,” Jungkook’s voice was as gentle as the twinkle in his chocolate irises, “are you okay?”

“Hm? Oh…” you blinked, “yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He hummed. “Can you help me move that table? I need to start on those individual shots now.”

“Sure, of course.”

You placed the paper deep into the pocket of your jacket, thoughts swept by an imaginary broom to clear them to the back of your mind for future contemplation, or better yet, to be forgotten.

⊱✿⊰

The fluttering of paper caught your attention when you shoved your jacket aside. Just looking at those words on the shelf of your closet made a boulder press itself against your ribcage, threatening to crush the air out of your lungs until you hid the gift from Jimin away from your sight in a drawer. Two days had passed since you’d visited the bakery, however, another planned event scheduled precisely half an hour from the present time preoccupied your concerns more than the job opportunity.

A final check in the mirror atop your dressing table confirmed that you had put on the most expensive thing you owned, the blue shimmering beneath your warm bedroom lights. Thin, silver drop earrings sparkled in your ears, another check of your hair assured you that no flyaways were sticking at odd angles outside the intricate bun you wove your locks into, and the snow white asymmetrical peacoat made sure your boss wouldn’t have the chance to even peek at the dress before you got there.

The pound of your heart had you tripping into the short pair of white heels you pulled on for the night. If your feet were going to behave this way, you honestly couldn’t imagine spending three hours or more in those shoes on sleek, polished marble floor, but it was too late to consider changing into another pair upon hearing the door opposite your own click open.

Jungkook, somehow, appeared more handsome now in the black suit he’d chosen than he did in the changing room, or perhaps it was his effect on you that had changed from annoyance to something else entirely. It was the cliche feeling of time standing still between the two of you where you openly stared at each other, your eyes tracing the ethereal glow of his figure to the contours of his face lit by a combination of soft lighting in the hallway and the evening sun.

His fingers slid in the gaps of your left hand as if they were meant to fit perfectly, raising it up to his petal lips to sponged the back of it, “You look beautiful, snow.”

You couldn’t fight the upturn of your mouth, “I’d tell you that you look handsome, but I already did, so…”

“You said I didn’t look half bad.”

“And you don’t,” his playful scoff was in time with you looping an arm around the crook of his elbow, leading the way for him to his car.

A coat collection area had you pausing to remove yours, finally revealing the blue dress as you turned to face where Jungkook was waiting for you in front of the grand double doors. The gala was one of those rare occasions where he didn’t need to work – it was merely an extravagant party he was invited to, a night of fun and celebration of someone’s anniversary whom you knew to be the parents of his friend, Seokjin. Although, you doubted his friend would have the same reaction as him at the moment, the starstruck look he had on in the corridor returning to his features.

You tried to play it off with your own quip, “Alright, I admit it, you look dashing. Happy?”

Tingles spread where he slid his arm across your waist, never once taking his eyes off of you, “I’m happier that you’re here with me, gorgeous.”

A teasing smack to his chest didn’t stop his next words, or the heat rising to paint pink clouds onto the apples of your cheeks, “I mean it, snow. You’re absolutely stunning.”

Tables of fine dining lined the sides of the room boasting a chocolate fountain and fancy cocktails and other finger foods you weren’t able to name. Sparkles reflecting off an even bigger chandelier combined with other priceless gems strung on necks or circulating fingers covered by satin gloves were blinding to the eyes. Your brain reeled in thinking that the price of all the designer dresses could pay your tuition statements at least twenty times over, even as you tried to keep your eyes from widening to rival the moon each time you passed a guest with a spiderweb of jewels attached to her neck.

The grip you had on his arm was the sole thing anchoring you to reality. It felt like this place was a whole other realm of its own purely because of the grandiose facade it had, and maybe your vision was starting to get hazy from the splendour as you spotted a whole ice sculpture near the middle of the ballroom. Distracted by the decor, you startled at the call of Jungkook’s name, amusement lining his smile dimpling into his cheeks.

“Jin-hyung!” He exchanged a quick hug with Seokjin who beamed at you in acknowledgement of your presence, already tons better than the other guests who knew were silently judging you over the edges of their champagne flutes.

“JK, _____, glad you could make it. So,” a wide sweeping gesture to the rest of the room you were still trying to get used to, “what do you think? Fancy, no?”

“Very,” you nodded, “your parents really went all out.”

“Well, my dad wanted to make it special,” he turned in the direction of an older couple who, even from that distance, you could tell were looking at each other with unadulterated love. “There’s also going to be a dance later. Not just for them; anyone can join in.”

“Are you dancing?”

“Me? No,” Seokjin chuckled a little at Jungkook’s question, proceeding to eye you and him with a mischievous glint, “but I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”

“Oh, no,” you were firm down to the shake of your head, “I don’t dance.”

Music that suddenly began to stream from the small band you just realised had gathered on stage caused the surprised ah that left Seokjin’s mouth, glancing back at his parents who were making their way to the dance floor, among other people who were intrigued by the music.

“Well, I better go help my brother take some nice pictures of them,” the elder winked at your boss, straightening his blazer. “They won’t turn out as well as yours, but I’ll try. Enjoy the party!”

You were in the middle of wondering how a pair on the dance floor managed to pull off a flawless spin and dip when a hand came into your line of sight. Jungkook’s smoulder was purposeful this time, a butterfly fluttering around your stomach prior to his next request.

“Shall we?”

“Didn’t you hear me earlier?”

“Just one,” his arm and gaze were unwavering, “I promise I won’t step on your feet.”

Your mouth dropped open a little, “Does that mean you were planning to?“

“No. I plan to sweep you off your feet instead. Now,” he peered just that little bit closer, “may I have this dance, snow?”

It was the chance to hold his hand again, you tried to convince yourself, that you found yourself being led to and then around the marble floor. He was gentle in the way he held your hand and waist, guiding you into a twirls, some with the full extension of his arm before he was pulling you back in. You should have known the stars on the horizon making an appearance in his doe eyes would be the only thing that was able to outshine the costume jewelry in the room – you weren’t physically capable of looking anywhere else.

Neither was he, for that matter, both of you openly, willingly, gazing at each other for an indefinite amount of time.

“You’re not half bad at dancing,” Jungkook teased with a pinch to your hip, eliciting a bout of giggles from you rather than the usual irritated frown.

“I said I don’t dance, never said I couldn’t.”

“Good,” he winked, “because we’re gonna do this at our wedding.”

You would have landed another smack on him if your hands weren’t intwined, “Don’t joke about stuff like that.”

A quick twirl, then a tug of his fingers to draw you closer till the distance between your chests was thin enough to fit a piece of paper, “I’m serious, snow.”

“Is that so?”

“As serious as me saying you should send in an application for a producer.”

The room was the one spinning now as you broke eye contact, “Oh.”

He halted in his administrations, jabbing a thumb over to the outdoor balcony. “Do you want to talk outside?”

Leaving the ballroom brought back some semblance of normalcy. Jungkook guided you with a hand pressed to your back to a marble bench wrapped in fairy lights, reminiscent of your own at home, though more romantic since you weren’t alone. He made sure you were looking at him, serious in his tone but gentle in his gaze.

“You know something?” His hands were placed on his lap, inches away where yours lay on the seat. “I always meant it when I said you were talented in music. You’re passionate about it too, more than the job I offered you.”

“I’m a photographer because I love the art of taking pictures, but you,” only then did he intwine your hands, “you love music. And I don’t think what you’re doing now is as fulfilling as it can be. You definitely weren’t planning on being my assistant forever, and quite frankly, I don’t want you to.”

“Then…” you bit your lip, “why did you hire me in the first place?”

His smile had never been more beautiful under the light of the moon, “Because I’m in love with you, snow. I always have been. I’m surprised you haven’t caught on by now, but I guess it’s my fault for taking so long to admit it,” he sighed, genuinely apologetic. “That, and using the whole assistant job thing as an excuse to spend time with you.”

Your heart was about to burst, fingers tightening in his grip to remind you that he was real, and so was all of this.

“Promise me, when we go back home, you’ll write in to them?”

A pinky was held up to you with his free hand, and you held up your own, though you didn’t link it through his yet.

“As long as you promise me something in return.”

“Sure.”

“If I get the job–“

“When you get the job.”

You laughed, “When I get it, will you take me on a date?”

“Of course,” Jungkook wrapped his finger with yours, “but honestly, I already consider all the time we spent together as unofficial dates.”

“That’s just it,” your shoulders slumped, leaning your head on his arm, “I’m not sure if we’ll spend so much time together if I become a producer.”

Lips pressing to the crown of your head had you looking up at him again, “We can still, snow. When we both work from home, or when you have free time, you can come with me to shoots. It’ll be like nothing has changed.”

“I’ll cook for you. You won’t eat anything otherwise.”

“Good,” he leaned his forehead against yours, noses brushing, “I love your food. It’s way better than the steak portions they’re giving out in there.”

Another peal of laughter bubbled past your lips, “Jungkook.”

“Seriously, have you seen them?”

⊱✿⊰

You had expected Jungkook to pull you in for a passionate kiss once you stepped through the doorway of your home, but you hadn’t expected to see an album that you recognised on the dining table, gleaming within its plastic cover and waiting to be unwrapped.

“How was your day?” He spoke between sponging more sweet affections down your jawline, “Did you get the new flowers I sent you? I specifically asked the delivery guy to bring it up to your studio–“

Your lips on his cut him off for you to giggle, “Yes I did, Kookie. They’re lovely, now–“ an index finger was shoved in the direction of the table, “–what is that?”

Laughter filled the air around you, leading you by your entwined hands over to it, “Oh, I think you know.”

The protective plastic covering was ripped away by muscular arms in three seconds, tossed aside on the wooden surface before he was unveiling the CD you knew Namjoon poured his heart into, removing the little book inside with eager fingers turning to a specific page.

“How can you expect me not to buy an album that my girlfriend-“ a step to close the distance and peck your forehead, “-has producing credits on?”

“Aw, I’m sure Namjoon would appreciate you supporting him.”

“Snow–”

You slung your arms around him in half the time it took to tear the album open, “Just kidding, babe. Thank you.”

In the months that had gone by since you were hired by the panel of interviewers for the job, you had gone beyond making music for comic strips or small production videos (though Jungkook would disagree in the making of the small collage for your hundred-day anniversary), and you had never been happier. There was a plus side for the both of you; the money he had previously been wiring to your account was now used to treating you both to dates, or cooking him homemade meals that he insisted were better than the food at the gala that had brought you together officially.

“Kookie,” you rested your chin on his chest to stare up into his chocolate doe eyes, “do you like his music?”

“Of course I do, but,” he kissed the pout of your bottom lip, “I love you more.”

Your smile shone as bright as the stars glittering in his eyes, “I love you too, you dork.”