#great-tasting non-alcoholic beer

[crazydiscostu]

IMPOSSIBREW Enhanced Alcohol-Free Beer

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[mageless]

!!!

tell me in the tags either the worse drink you've ever had or what you do to alcohol to make it palatable

[hoshifighting]

WARNINGS: non-stabilished relationship, oral (f.receiving), big!cock vernon, semi-public sex, reader is bent over the university's rooftop railing, alcohol, hangover, ditch classes, mentions of getting caught,

thinking about college fling!vernon so badddd 😫

college fling!vernon that you would meet in one of those lame college dorm things that somehow ends up being packed even though the music’s trash, drinks are watered down, and you can’t move without bumping into some dude playing beer pong way too seriously. seungkwan’s buzzing around, doing his best “life of the party” impression, talking to anyone who’ll listen—mostly about how great his friend vernon is (the boy that looked too quiet for the setting) “you gotta meet him,” seungkwan had said earlier, face glowing like he'd just won the lottery. you’d been mid-sip of some cheap punch that tasted more like regret than alcohol. but you nodded because why not? you’re there, stuck, might as well meet the guy.

so here you are, watching vernon from across the room, trying to look like you’re not watching him. he's got this frank ocean shirt on, the one that’s slightly faded, like it’s seen too many nights like this, and you can’t help it—you have to comment on it, break the ice before this gets any more awkward. “nice shirt,” you say, sliding up next to him, trying to sound casual like you didn’t just spend the last five minutes psyching yourself up to say that.

vernon looks at you, and there’s this second where you swear he’s sizing you up, not in a judgy way, just like... observing. “thanks,” he replies, voice low, almost lazy. “you a fan?” you nod, and he gives you this small, almost imperceptible smile. it’s the kind of smile that makes you feel like you’ve passed some sort of test, like you said the right thing. and just like that, the awkwardness melts. he loves music, that much is clear, and suddenly you’re talking about frank ocean’s best album like you’ve known each other for years.

the thing with vernon? he doesn’t say much. but he’s got this way of looking at you—direct, almost too direct, like he’s daring you to break the eye contact first. you’re talking, yeah, but his eyes are doing most of the work. they flicker over you in that slow, lazy way, like he’s got all the time in the world to take you in, to make you squirm.

and you do squirm. because damn, when was the last time someone looked at you like that? like they see you?

he doesn't try to hide it either—the fact that he finds you hot. there’s no playing it cool with vernon, no pretending he’s just here for the conversation. but he’s not crass about it; it’s more subtle than that. like, instead of throwing some cheesy pick-up line your way, he just lets his eyes do the talking, like the way they drop to your lips when you laugh, or the way they linger on the curve of your neck when you turn your head. it’s fucking magnetic, honestly. you’re not even sure if you’re saying anything coherent anymore, but you’re still talking because it feels like a game now. you want to see how long you can keep this up, how long you can hold his gaze without breaking.

so, somehow, after that intense stare-off that lasted way too long, the night blurred after things got a little hazy after the third round of whatever cheap alcohol was in that red solo cup. the party faded into background noise, and all you could really focus on was vernon—how his hand would brush against yours, how his eyes didn’t leave your face, even when you weren't looking. and damn, the way he kissed you, slow at first, but chocking you at the same time, had you practically yanking him back to your room by the end of the night.

college fling!vernon that is butt-naked in your bed in the morning. as you wake up to a dull throb in your head and an even duller one between your legs, the kind of discomfort that reminds you exactly what went down last night. you hiss, eyes squinting against the light filtering in through your half-assed curtains, feeling the sheets sticking to your bare skin.

you groan, sitting up slowly, body protesting every movement. your legs feel a little wobbly, and as the blanket shifts, you wince at the slight sting between your thighs. it’s not intolerable, but enough to remind that you definitely overdid it.

vernon stirs beside you, stretching out like a cat before blinking his eyes open. he sees you, and without a word, sits up, grabbing a half-empty water bottle from your desk. instead of handing it to you like a normal person, he holds it out without the cap—just letting you sip straight from it. it’s messy, some of the water spills on your chest, but whatever, you’re too thirsty to care. you down it in a couple of gulps, the cool liquid soothing your dry throat.

you’re about to bitch about it, complain about your sore muscles or whatever, but vernon’s eyes are already on you, half-lidded but sharp, like he knows exactly what’s going on in that head of yours. before you can even think about capping the bottle, vernon’s already leaning down, shifting the covers off of you, and making his way between your legs. “gonna help with that hangover,” he murmurs, hands gently parting your thighs as he settles down, face close enough to your core that your breath catches. and yeah, you’re hungover, sore, but the second his mouth touches you, all that discomfort? gone.

he’s sloppy, so sloppy, like he’s thirsty for it. his tongue drags over you in these messy, wet strokes that have you gasping, body tensing under his touch. vernon’s got this way of eating you out that’s chaotic and precise. like, one second he’s all over the place, licking you like he can’t get enough, and the next, he’s right there, focused on your clit, swirling his tongue in tight circles that make your toes curl.

“shit, vernon,” you gasp, your hand instinctively finding his hair, tugging as he goes at it like it’s his fucking job.

the slurping, the little moans he’s making like he’s the one getting off—it’s obscene. he’s not even trying to be neat about it, just going all in, licking you like he’s lost in it, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. and honestly? u don’t want him to. not with the way your hips are lifting off the bed, chasing his mouth, chasing that high that’s building so fast it’s almost embarrassing. your hand shoots to his hair, tangling in it, pulling him closer because jesus christ, this is—

“so fucking good—ah!”

your body arches off the bed, thighs trembling as he pushes you over the edge faster than you can even process. the orgasm slams into you, fast and hard, and all you can do is ride it out, his mouth still on you, not stopping until you’re completely wrecked. you cum in record time, panting and shaking, and vernon pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like it was nothing.

“feel better now?” he asks, voice all smug and hoarse, and you want to say something—anything—but your brain’s too scrambled to form words. he chuckles, before crawling back up the bed, like he didn’t just ruin you before breakfast. he knows he’s got you.

college fling! vernon that when you’re sitting in class, staring at some powerpoint slides that you know you're never going to remember, your phone buzzes in your lap. half paying attention, you glance down at the screen. it's a message from vernon, and already, a smirk tugs at the corner of your lips because you know this dude barely makes it through class without some kinda stunt.

“yo. wanna ditch?” is all it says, and you can already picture him slouched in the back row of his own class, practically melting from boredom. god, he’s so bad at hiding when he’s bored. you bite your lip, torn between ignoring it like a good student or just saying fuck it—like you always do when it comes to him. why even pretend? with a quick glance to make sure the professor’s not paying attention, you text back:

“where we going?”

he sends the location pin. and it’s for the rooftop.

now, you know the university rooftop’s supposed to be off-limits. it’s plastered with no entry signs, and apparently, they’ve got some security guards roaming around to make sure no one goes up there. but vernon? he doesn’t give a fuck about rules, and, honestly, neither do you when he’s involved.

five minutes later, you’re sneaking out of class, the adrenaline already starting to build as you make your way up the stairwell, heart racing. when you finally push open the heavy door to the rooftop, vernon’s already there, leaning against the rail, hat on backwards, that signature lazy grin spreading across his face when he sees you.

“thought you might leave me hangin’,” he teases, eyes flicking down to your legs as you walk up to him.

“you wish,” you scoff, rolling your eyes but feeling the heat rise between you two the second you’re standing next to him. the air up here is cooler, but with vernon looking at you like that? it’s making it hot, at least down there.

“so... what now?” you ask, though you know exactly what he’s got in mind.

he doesn’t answer right away, just steps behind you, hands sliding down your waist, squeezing your hips as he pushes you gently toward the railing. “bend over,” he mutters.

you hesitate for a second, glancing at the drop below you. “you want me to fall off this fucking roof?”

vernon laughs under his breath, stepping closer until his body presses into yours. “nah, i got you. promise.”

you roll your eyes but do as he says, leaning over the edge, gripping the metal railing for balance. your heart’s pounding in your chest, half from the thrill of getting caught, half from the fact that you’re so fucking turned on. and when you bend over, purposely sticking your ass out, vernon lets out a low whistle.

“goddamn,” he mutters, hands gripping your hips harder, fingers digging into your skin. “you always gotta tease me like that?”

“maybe,” you throw over your shoulder, a smug smile on your lips as you give your hips a little shake, knowing exactly what you’re doing to him.

“fuck.” he groans, and you can hear him fumbling with his belt behind you. the sound of the metal buckle makes your breath catch, and soon his cock’s out, heavy against your skin as he drags it along your entrance. he’s teasing you back now, taking his time, like he’s trying to make you beg for it.

“you want it?” his voice a little strained. you can almost picture the way his brows are furrowed, cheeks probably turning pink from how hard he is.

“you’re too fucking big to be playing games like this, vernon,” you shoot back, though the words come out breathier than you intended.

that makes him pause, his grip on your hips tightening, and when he finally slides inside you, you feel the stretch—god, you feel all of him. it makes you gasp, your fingers clutching the metal railing as your body adjusts to how thick he is, pushing in until he's buried to the hilt. vernon’s groan is low and drawn out, like he’s losing his mind a little, too. “shit. you—” he starts, voice hitching, “you feel so fucking good.” you moan in response, pushing back against him, and that’s all he needs. he grabs you by the waist, holding you tight—so tight you’re sure there’ll be bruises tomorrow—and starts fucking into you, each thrust rocking your body against the railing.

“hold on,” he growls, one hand sliding up your back to grip your shoulder, pulling you back against him, making sure you don’t fall forward. the metal of the railing digs into your stomach, but you’re too lost in the feeling of him pounding into you to care. your knees r weak, but vernon’s holding you so tightly that you don’t even have to think about standing.

“fuck, vernon,” you moan, turning your head to try and catch a glimpse of him. his jaw’s clenched, beads of sweat gathering at his temple, but when he catches your eye, he looks embarrassed for a split second.

you manage a smirk. “you’re—fuck—big.”

he blushes, actually blushes, but he doesn’t stop. if anything, he fucks you harder, grunting something that sounds like an unite of a complaint and a thank you. his hat’s still backwards, so you grab it, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss, lips crashing together as his hips slam into you, fucking you into the rooftop’s edge.

he pulls away just long enough to bite out, “we’re gonna get caught if you keep moaning like that.”

“then stop fucking me so good,” you snap back, voice shaky as he hits that perfect spot inside you.

vernon just grins, all cocky now, and mutters, “never.” with a deep thrust that makes you see white, angels and everything.

he doesn’t stop until you’re both cumming, bodies so in sync that you don’t even notice the footsteps until they’re too close. panic flickers in your chest as you realize someone’s coming—probably a guard—but vernon just pulls out quick, shoving you behind a vent as the guard makes his rounds. both of you are a sweaty, fucked-out mess, trying not to laugh as you adjust your clothes, and vernon gives you one of those signature smirks.

“guess we’ll have to finish this next time”

[g1rld1ary]

chilli margaritas - spencer reid x bartender!reader

prev

wc: 852

cw: alcohol, one kinda rude man

you didn't expect to see reid back at the bar so soon. granted it wasn't the next time you saw the bau, but it was close. it must've been a long case since the team were all looking worse for wear, but you imagined they'd caught whoever they were hunting since they were in good enough spirits.

derek got the first round, as was tradition, but you counted more bau members than drinks ordered. you didn't even get to ask, morgan explaining preemptively.

"pretty boy says he wants another drink recommendation," he said with a smile, "i think he just likes you."

"tell him he's welcome over any time, i think he's cute." it was bold, even for you, but doctor spencer reid was fascinating and you really wanted to talk to him more. derek made a face that you hoped meant he was impressed with your forwardness and headed back to his table with the beers.

later in the night, spencer was finally back. you'd been completely in the zone for a while, giving drinks and taking payments as if you didn't even need to think about it. you did, however, almost spill some man's drink all over you when you caught sight of reid standing awkwardly at the bar, watching you work. you all but threw the drink at whoever had ordered it, racing over to where the special agent stood.

"hey," you tried to sound smooth, "back so soon?" spencer smiled softly, endearingly uncomfortable.

"last time wasn't as bad as i anticipated." he shrugged the non-answer.

"and yet i'm getting the feeling that i'm not getting a repeat order?"

"actually the drink wasn't bad! i like really sweet things, my coffee needs a lot of sugar too -- otherwise it's too bitter. so, um, yeah, sex on the beach was pretty good. but i was thinking that maybe you could show me some other drinks too? i never go out drinking and while I've researched different drinks i assume it would be more useful to taste them by someone who can make them properly. I'm twenty four and i've had one cocktail, i need to catch up." you vaguely wondered how he could get so many words out in one breath, but stopped to consider them.

"let's start with the fact that it's okay to not have drunk a whole heap of alcohol. i'm a bartender and i only really drink one or two. but i am more than happy to be your guide into the dazzling world of alcohol." spencer smiled at you again, earnest and trusting and you felt immense responsibility to make him happy. you moved to say something, continue the conversation, but a gruff man's voice interrupted your train of thought.

certain patrons had evidently lost their patience despite there being two of you behind the bar, and your supreme efficiency all night.

"save the flirting for after there's a beer in my hand," he called with a laugh. you turned to face him, dangerously slow, the night's exertion catching up in a moment.

"if you speak to me that way again, i will never serve you another drink for as long as i work here. understood?" your tone was icy, intentionally resisting a peacemaking smile that evidently threw the man off, used to being served hand and foot by women twenty years younger than him. he had the decency to look mildly ashamed, pushing away from the bar to go take a lap of the room.

you turned back to spencer with your good mood reinstated.

"i was thinking we could maybe take a different flavour profile to last time -- a chilli margarita?" spencer was staring at you, eyes wide and dazed.

"that was amazing... um, yeah, that sounds great." you laugh loudly, getting to work on his drink.

"hey," you say as you hand him the glass, "didn't you say you were twenty-four before? last time morgan said you were twenty-three." spencer blushed, avoiding eye contact.

"yeah, it was my birthday."

"and you didn't tell me? i thought we were friends -- i'm your alcohol guide! your drink is on the house then."

"what! no, that's okay i can pay!" you almost groaned at his obliviousness. you were trying to make a move! you argued with him until he surrendered, smiling graciously, though with that already familiar awkwardness.

you watched him go fondly. as your eyes passed the bar counter on the move to get back to work you caught some cash. spencer had tipped the entire cost of his margarita. you rolled your eyes, putting the cash in your apron with a smile you were trying to bite back.

the rest of your night consisted of you watching spencer try and surreptitiously lick the spicy chilli rim off his glass while his teammates were in conversation, and one of them inevitably catching him and teasing him for it. it was a good shift.

[kenzirr]

Warnings:

* Explicit language

* Non-consensual undertones (Rafe's intentions towards an unaware Y/N)

Rafe Cameron and his friends lounged at the country club, the sun beating down on them as they relaxed by the pool. Drinks flowed freely, and the air was filled with laughter and idle chatter. The opulence of the country club contrasted sharply with the rougher, more down-to-earth vibe of the Outer Banks' pogues.

Rafe sprawled in his chair, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, but his mind wasn't on the luxurious surroundings. Instead, he was fixated on Y/N. He'd noticed her around town, always hanging out with her pogue friends. There was something about her that drew him in, something that made him want to get close to her.

"Man, you seen that pogue girl, Y/N?" Rafe said suddenly, a sly grin spreading across his face.

Kelce, lounging next to him, glanced over with a curious look. "Y/N? The one who's always with those other pogues? What about her?"

Rafe leaned back, his grin widening.

"She's hot as hell. I can't wait to get my hands on her."

Topper smirked, taking a swig of his beer. "You gonna teach her a lesson or what?"

Rafe chuckled darkly. "Yeah, something like that. There's a party on the beach next week. I'm gonna make my move then. Catch her off guard, get her alone. She'll be begging for it by the end of the night."

Kelce laughed, shaking his head.

"You're a piece of work, man."

Rafe shrugged, unbothered. "Hey, а little fun never hurt anyone. She'll like it."

The night of the beach party, the shore was alive with music, lights, and the sounds of people enjoying the summer night. The bonfire crackled, casting a warm glow over the crowd.

Y/N was there with her friends, laughing and having a good time, completely unaware of Rafe's intentions.

Rafe watched her from a distance, eyes following her every move. He could see the way she seemed almost out of place among the rowdier partygoers. It made him want her even more.

Finally, he saw his chance as Y/N wandered away from her group, heading towards the quieter side of the beach. He downed another drink, feeling the familiar buzz of alcohol fueling his confidence, and made his move.

"Hey, Y/N!" Rafe called out, jogging to catch up with her.

Y/N turned, surprised. "Oh, hey, Rafe.

Didn't expect to see you here."

Rafe flashed a charming smile. "Yeah, figured l'd check it out. You having fun?"

She nodded, a shy smile on her lips.

"Yeah, it's been great. You?"

Rafe leaned in, lowering his voice.

"Yeah, it's alright. You know, you look fucking amazing tonight."

Y/N blushed, looking down. "Thanks, Rafe."

He stepped closer, invading her personal space. "Why don't we go somewhere quieter? Talk a bit."

Y/N hesitated, but Rafe's intense gaze and smile convinced her. "Okay, sure."

He led her to the back of his car, opening the door and gesturing for her to sit. Y/N, still oblivious to his true intentions, complied. Rafe slid in next to her, closing the door behind them.

"So, YIN," he said, his voice low and husky. "You ever been with a guy like me before?"

She shook her head, her naivety clear.

"No, Rafe, I haven't."

Rafe smirked, leaning in closer. "Guess it's time you learned, then." He pressed his lips against hers, his hands roaming over her body. Y/N gasped, surprised by the intensity.

"Rafe, I-" she started, but he silenced her with another kiss, more demanding this time.

"Just relax," he murmured against her lips. "You're gonna like this."

His hands slid under her shirt, tracing her skin. Y/N shivered at his touch, her breath hitching. Rafe's kisses grew more urgent, his tongue exploring her mouth with fervor. He pulled her closer, one hand gripping her waist while the other tangled in her hair.

Y/N's mind was a whirlwind of sensations, her initial hesitation melting away as Rafe's touch ignited a fire within her. She clung to him, responding to his kisses with growing passion.

"Fuck, you taste good," Rafe muttered against her lips, his voice rough with desire.

Y/N's hands roamed over his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt.

Rafe groaned, his grip on her tightening. He pushed her back against the seat, his body pressing against hers.

"Rafe," she whispered, her voice breathless.

He silenced her with another deep kiss, his hands moving to unbutton her shorts. "Just let me take care of you," he murmured.

Y/N nodded, her heart racing. She surrendered to the moment, letting Rafe take control as their intimate session intensified. The beach party continued in the background, but for Rafe and Y/N, the world had narrowed down to the back of that car.

[billdenbrough]

@naturecalls111 prompted me kevaaron + procrastination and was like ‘post grad’, meaning they’re not undergrads if it’s canonverse, & something abt the phrasing latched into my brain so we ended up with this vaguely professor au w/ the flimsiest excuse for a TA-adjacent situation ever instead. idk. as ever this was just for her texts & i’m coming off a 30hr migraine so pls forgive me LMAO <3

“I can see right through you,” Kevin murmurs.

“Oh, yeah?” Aaron challenges. God, he’s close.

“Mm,” Kevin says. “You just don’t want to mark the test.”

It's an accusation, but there’s no censure in his voice. He's amused, mostly; fond too, despite himself. It’s not exactly behaviour he should be encouraging, but—

Aaron huffs. “I never want to mark a test,” he points out. “Undergrads are fucking stupid. Or these ones are, anyway.”

“You were an undergrad once,” Kevin says. He very determinedly keeps his hands steady on the bench. Maybe he’s gripping the edge so he stays in place; so what? That's between him and whatever God Renee believes in enough for the both of them.

“These ones,” Aaron repeats, scoffing. “Anyway, I'd never have taken a history paper. Get real.”

Kevin can’t help the frown there. “History is fascinating,” he argues. Aaron scoffs at him again, but the way he watches Kevin runs counter to that. Like he’s listening to whatever Kevin says, regardless. “It is,” Kevin insists again, clearing his throat.

Aaron's gaze tracks the movement, eyes following the motion of his throat, and Kevin kind of wants to clench the counter edge hard enough to crack the formica. Jesus Christ.

“You like research,” Kevin says. He keeps his eyes on Aaron, watches as he steps in closer again. “History is an endless study of every mistake we’ve ever made—”

“—So we don’t repeat our forefathers’ mistakes?” Aaron asks wryly. “Hate to break it to you, but that’s a non-starter.”

“No,” Kevin says, shaking his head. “We’re bad at learning. Mostly, we don’t even see the patterns for decades, if not centuries.”

Aaron cocks his head. “Doesn’t that frustrate you?” he asks. “I've seen you watch sports. You get mad if people make the same fuck-up within, like, three minutes.”

An image floats in Kevin’s head, unbidden: the two of them at the sports bar, late one night after they finally convinced Jeremy to go the fuck home because the college wasn’t paying him enough to sleep at his desk to reply to nineteen year olds’ panicked emails at 11:17pm before a midnight deadline. Kevin had been unbelievably put-out by the Astros’ scoreline; Aaron hadn’t cared so much, but had seemed to find great entertainment in prodding at Kevin to express his opinion to a bar full of patrons who strongly disagreed with him.

Do you even care about baseball? Kevin had asked in the end, exasperated. He’d unknotted his tie and slipped off his jacket, heated by his opinions and the game and the alcohol and the way Aaron had sat there, head tilted, that clever mouth of his quirked up to the side like a smirk, like a secret.

Not really, Aaron had said, shrugging. He swished his beer a little. I played hockey at school myself. Before Kevin could get too excited about that—a sport! An actual goddamn sport! that wasn’t only worth watching European leagues for, cough cough Jeremy and Jean and fucking football—Aaron added, I like seeing how much you care about it, though, and knocked Kevin right on his ass, metaphorically-speaking.

That night had ended in a blur: Kevin’s flushed cheeks as he lectured the bar at large about heliocentrism after finishing his grumbling about the baseball, Aaron’s quiet snort and eyes that laughed more than his mouth did, alcohol-sticky wood beneath his feet as he made his way to the bathroom, the taste of Aaron’s beer on his lips, Aaron’s cool fingers a balm against his cheek, his mouth a searing heat burning all the way through Kevin.

Then when Kevin’s TA dropped out because of ‘unmanageable stress’ (which was not Kevin’s fault, no matter what Dan says, she and Matt can fuck off) and he had to scramble to figure out what to do, Abby had offered one of her tutors—but only for marking, Kevin, he has no base in history. He’s just smart enough to use a rubric and willing to help. Between this and Jean’s long-suffering offer to lead the tutorial that didn’t clash with his meetings with his advisor, and even Neil’s unlikely assistance in the form of helping restructure the syllabus, it all seemed pretty manageable. (The history department had quietly come to the conclusion that this was not, strictly speaking, acceptable by university standards, but elected to ignore this information until the conclusion of the semester. As far as Kevin’s been able to tell in his years in academia, this is how things tend to work.)

When Abby showed up at his office with Aaron, though, Kevin's cheeks had gone hot enough that she’d asked him if he was sure he wasn’t coming down with a stress fever. Aaron's face had stayed blank, but his eyes were – amused.

It was one thing when Aaron had been the regular third person in the staff room late at night alongside Jeremy and Kevin, rubbing his eyes as he scowled at whatever it was he was looking at. (Anatomy exams, Kevin found out later.) He’d been mostly quiet, but sharply funny when he’d ended up interacting with them, mostly starting with indelicate snorts at whatever madcap thing Jeremy was saying, then incredulous stares at Kevin’s rebuttal, and finally muttered jabs as he worked the coffee machine and Jeremy laughed delightedly and Kevin stared at him with disbelief and a slow-building warmth in the base of his stomach.

It was yet another thing when Aaron had been the guy he bundled up Jeremy with, the guy he got drunk with for hours in a sports bar, the guy who laughed at him and offered him buffalo wings so spicy that they made Aaron’s cheeks red and Kevin’s lips feel like they were on fire, until Aaron kissed him, tipsy outside the bar, the warmth spreading through Kevin overtaking both the chilly night air and the spice-stained echoes on Kevin’s mouth.

But it was another thing entirely for Aaron to be Aaron, meaning Abby's favourite postgrad and the guy who diligently read Kevin’s syllabus on top of his own work just to better understand the marking rubric and hater of psych majors everywhere. Aaron, with his tired eyes and quiet laugh and complete inability to answer a phone call from his brother in a normal way. (At one point, Kevin had been half-concerned he was ordering a hit—less about the morality or legality of the situation, more in a if you get arrested, I’m screwed again type way—until Neil had shown up half an hour later with lunch for Aaron and Aaron had gone, ugh and Neil had rolled his eyes, spotted Kevin, and turned to Aaron to say, you’re one to talk. Aaron had flushed a little, then scowled and flipped Neil off, and said fuck off, to which Neil said, gladly, then see you at dinner? And Aaron had waved his hand. If you eat your fucking vegetables, to which Neil had laughed, and flipped him off, and walked out. Kevin had stared at Aaron, nonplussed, but Aaron had ignored him, focusing instead on the test he was marking while he ate the sandwich Neil had brought.) Aaron, with his unbelievably rude opinions about Kevin’s lack of video game knowledge, and the genuinely unreasonable amount of sour gummies he can put away in an hour, and the unbearably soft look he gets on his face when he’s sleepy and huffy and Kevin has gently dragged away whichever test he’s marking or article he’s reading that’s made him so grumpy late at night.

Aaron, who Kevin actually knows now. And likes even more for it, which is inconvenient and inopportune and probably inevitable.

Kevin clears his throat. “People are meant to try and win in sports,” he says. “History is about things that have already happened. It’s a different ballpark.” There’s a moment, and then, “They’ve already lost the battle. I'm not rooting for anything else there.”

Something flares up in Aaron's eyes at that, and he snakes his hand forward, tugging on Kevin's tie. Kevin, hands still holding onto the bench, allows it.

“But sports are about victory?” Aaron asks. 

He’s not even subtle about procrastinating, Kevin thinks. He wants to laugh. He swallows a sigh instead, and says, a little warningly, “Aaron…”

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop Aaron, doesn’t do anything to stop him. Maybe leans in a little, even.

“Yeah,” Kevin says after a long moment. “History, you live or you die. Sports, you’re the best or you’re not.”

“That's a reductive way of looking at the world,” Aaron says, but it’s that tone he gets sometimes, the one where Kevin doesn’t know if he believes it or if he just wants to poke at Kevin a little. Kevin hates that he likes it as much as he does; that he lets it stoke him up, bites at the bit every time.

“You are not subtle,” Kevin murmurs. The tests are sitting on the table behind Aaron, staring up at the ceiling. Aaron's coffee is abandoned, probably cold.

You are not subtle, Kevin says, and means it, but Aaron’s cocked his eyebrow at him, and there’s something a little taunting in his eyes, and he’s still holding onto Kevin’s tie, and something in Kevin loosens. He sighs, and lets go of the bench, tucking his fingers into Aaron's belt loops instead and pulling him forward.

“Is this a sport?” Aaron asks, because he’s a dick and facetious and he knows just how to make Kevin want to shut him up.

“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” Kevin scolds, and then leans forward to kiss the rebuttal out of Aaron's mouth.

[doiefy]

dive // kim doyoung // preview

In the six or seven years that you’d considered Doyoung as more than just a friend, definitively describing your relationship with him had always been difficult. You were ‘lovers,’ essentially, but that sounded much too dreamy for either of your tastes; ‘significant others,’ perhaps, an all-encompassing and rather conservative term, but too harsh on the ears. ‘Girlfriend and boyfriend’ didn’t seem quite right to you, considering how private you’d kept it since the very beginning.

An entertainment agency with no fear of bankruptcy, scraping together a co-ed act despite its inherent unpopularity—the both of you involved—had made things awfully complicated. 

pairing: kim doyoung x f. reader (she/her pronouns) tags: non-canon idolverse (NCT and other groups don’t necessarily exist in this, I just took a lot of inspiration from the Korean pop industry. it feels like realistic fiction but also not really), somewhat slow burn, slice of life at times, friends to lovers, angst, fluff, it’s also at least 10% crack  word count: 6.8k preview, 40k+ full fic (fuck off, I’m not sorry) cw: preview includes mild language, alcohol. full fic includes smoking/vaping and drugs as poor coping mechanisms, anxiety and one instance of a panic attack, suggestive content

taglist available; reply or message me! I anticipate this will be out by end of August, I only have three more chapters to write!

additional notes:  - kard is the blueprint!!! they induce so much bisexual panic in me and I love them so much, it’s probably pretty clear that I took inspiration from them and their artistry for this fic hehe. - I have a lot of thoughts on this realistic fiction genre I’m dabbling in but will hold off on sharing them here… just know that it’s written to feel realistic but god knows what actually happens behind the scenes in K-pop; none of this is meant to be speculative or mean, I’m just having a bit of fun. if you’re someone who actually gets deep into the industry drama and how the industry works, don’t get hung up on the details. please. 

prologue: in the blur of the rain

For once, you were thankful for the rain. 

It was a momentary relief from the heat of Seoul summers: a gust of coldness to push aside the heavy haze of pollution, and a steady stream of water to wash away the smell of cigarette smoke always lingering around your building. Sprawled out on a lawn chair with your legs stretched out, you watched mindlessly as the rainwater spilled into and accumulated in the balcony above yours. The rhythm of the water hitting the concrete was mesmerizing. Woosh, splat. Like glass, the drops shattered into a fine mist that sprayed your bare feet. Woosh, splat. Next to you, Doyoung mumbled something about the weather. Splat, splat. 

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked. He’d joined you shortly after you stepped outside, disappointed by the gloominess of the low-hanging clouds, but content to sit with you nonetheless. Pleasantries, a couple of laughs over the beers he’d brought over from your fridge, then you’d sat in silence. Until the wind picked up a great deal and begged the inevitable question. 

You glanced over at him, quickly understanding what he really meant. Huddled in a hoodie with his hair damp from the shower and the circular lenses of his glasses starting to fog up, he was cold. A man of surprising patience and sympathy who was always willing to stay as long as you did, but you supposed his will was wearing thin in the rain. 

“Not really,” you shrugged. “You?”

“A little,” came a rather impassive response through a stifled yawn. He stretched his arms above his head lazily, then curled back into himself. “Mostly just tired. The alcohol’s making me sleepy.” 

You snorted, unimpressed. “Mina’s gonna be real unhappy when she finds her stuff missing from the fridge.” 

Doyoung grunted. “She owes me money.”

“For what, drinks from McDonald’s? Don’t we all?” you joked, patting his arm in mock reassurance. “You can go inside if you want. I’ll probably stay awhile.”

“Mm, I’ll manage.” 

It fell silent again. There was some hidden reminder in both his words and the rain: a constant backdrop, constant background noise that was bound to be brought up explicitly soon, as much as you wanted it to stay buried. It had been like this for a couple weeks, ever since Doyoung sat down with management and made the decision. You were all aware of his choice, certainly not thrilled by it in the slightest, but dutifully observing a countdown—only five days, presently. There would be another, after the first hit zero, but you’d already decided that you wouldn’t count the days until his return. 

There were plenty of crying, heartbroken fans of his who would gladly do it for you, anyway. 

As you reached into the pocket of your jacket for something, you suddenly felt a judgemental gaze following you. Doyoung watched with incredulous amusement as you pulled the vape pen from its hiding spot to take a long drag. It was a bad habit that your manager hated and Doyoung liked to make fun of, but neither of them made efforts to stop you. There were worse things you could’ve been doing.

“Oh, I see,” Doyoung laughed, reaching over to absentmindedly massage your shoulder, where he knew you always tensed up. Had the two of you been in public, that was one of the worse things you could’ve been doing: giving the people any reason to doubt the nature of your relationship. “Should’ve guessed this was why you came out here.”

“Yeah,” you admitted, then showed him the pen: newly-ordered with your last pay cheque, pale pink and sparkly. “Wanted to take the new girlie for a spin.”

Ever curious, or maybe just looking for another excuse to ridicule you, Doyoung plucked it from your hand and took a hit. “Gross,” was the final verdict along with an exaggerated face of disgust, as he handed it back to you. “I don’t know why you and Johnny do this shit willingly.” 

You shrugged. “Stress.” 

“You wanna talk about it?”

“About what?”

Doyoung stared at you like it was obvious, yet not impatiently—one of the many things you liked about him, especially when the industry had a mean little habit of making you feel dumb and oblivious. “What’s stressing you out?” 

There it was, the onset of the conversation you’d been waiting to have. “You. What else?”

He raised a brow, grinning sarcastically. “You don’t think I can survive two years in the military and fulfill a responsibility that’s to be fulfilled by every good and able-bodied Korean son in the country?” 

“Please. You can barely learn an entire choreography without bitching about back pain at least once.” You rolled your eyes and brought the vape back up to your lips.

“What about the good son part?”

You’d met his parents before: hard-working, upper-middle class folks from the suburbs who had undoubtedly wanted their kids to pursue law or medicine for sake of job security, only to get an actor and singer instead. Cackling at the promise of getting a rise out of him, you met his gaze with glee. “I think it’s really sweet that you buy your mama designer stuff all the time. But she probably wanted that money from a well-respected lawyer, not a K-pop idol who clowns around on national television for a living.” 

Doyoung glared and flipped you off, but it was all in good fun. “Right back at you.” Then in a disbelieving murmur from behind his drink, “I’d be a pretty fucking hot lawyer though.”

You sighed in agreement, the notion making you feel more dreamy than you would care to admit—but for good reason other than the fact that he would make a very hot lawyer. “Oh, how life would be so much easier.”

“We probably think that because this is the only life we’ve ever known,” Doyoung smiled softly as a certain sense of contemplation settled over the balcony. You both knew it was true, and would eventually settle for some semblance of normalcy when given the opportunity. You could hardly despise your jobs, nor could you fully embrace it. Like any other employment, it was just that. Only yours seemed to define you as a person much more than any other 9 to 6 in the city would a typical person.

“Will you be okay?” he asked a little later, watching you blow lazy smoke rings. The concern was more genuine than usual, prodding at emotions you’d kept bottled up for the better half of the week. “It’s… Sunday.” You knew he was counting down the days too. “I’m going on Friday.”

“I don’t know if it’s quite registered yet. It’ll probably hit harder once you’re gone,” you said. “But I mean, two years isn’t the worst. We’re used to it.”

“We’re used to not being with each other. We’re not used to being without each other completely.”

Ah. Another conversation to be had, when he came back. Now just a bit more dejected by the mere mention, you joked, “There’s a difference?”

“There’s a difference.”

You knew the difference, of course. You could explain it in great detail if you wanted to, covering the years of history behind it and the gruelling effort you’d put into keeping a story alive. But it was a story that never made it further than Doyoung and yourself, echoing just slightly to reach Mina and Johnny in muted detail as well. 

In the six or seven years that you’d considered yourselves as more than just friends, definitively describing your relationship had always been difficult. You were ‘lovers,’ essentially, but that sounded much too dreamy for either of your tastes; ‘significant other,’ perhaps, an all-encompassing and rather conservative term, but too harsh on the ears. ‘Girlfriend and boyfriend’ didn’t seem quite right to you, considering how private you’d kept it since the very beginning.

An entertainment agency with no fear of bankruptcy, scraping together a co-ed act despite its inherent unpopularity—the both of you involved—had made things awfully complicated. 

But in all the ten or eleven years that you’d known each other just as people, you’d never been apart for so long. You’d never been without him as just a friend. Even the occasional modelling or acting gig on his end took no more than a few months, while your solo work only peppered your usual schedules with overnights at the studio. The fact that he was enlisting alone was possibly the saddest part, with you and Mina obviously exempted, and Johnny too by his American citizenship. From seeing him almost every day to only once or twice a year… it would be hard on you all, but on you in particular. 

Sensing your low spirits, Doyoung still found it in himself to joke, “You’re gonna hate my hair.”

You groaned, refusing to imagine him with the dreaded buzz cut and green beret. “Fuck, don’t remind me. I’m not searching you up on Naver for the next two years.”

“You search me up on Naver?”

“Shut up.”

But he was unwilling to let it go that easily. “Aww, that’s cute. You know what? Between me and you…” Scooting closer with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes but hardly a waver in his voice, he whispered, “I search myself up too.”

“You’re so annoying,” you scoffed, blowing smoke in his face. 

“You love that about me,” he grinned, then leaned in to kiss you.

For years, you’d always jolted away when he did it—purely out of paranoia, always worried that someone was watching. But Doyoung was unbelievably meticulous: restricting himself to the dorms, his car, and occasionally his family’s empty vacation home. Never in the company building. Never anywhere else. It wasn’t often either; for the most part, you abstained from any romantic gestures, lest you got used to it and went too far in public without even knowing it. 

It became muscle memory after that, for you to startle away and for him to coax you back to him, for you to trust his judgement of your surroundings and safety. In the spur of the moment this time, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you gently into his lap. You knew he already missed you from the abruptness of his affection to the way he kissed you breathless. And while you thought about how he would be stolen away from you for the second time and reminisced all the times you had to hold back from going all the way, you were infinitely grateful for the stormy skies. 

Because in the blur of the rain, the world was none the wiser to who you were, or who you were to each other. 

i. never grow up

You met Kim Doyoung on your first day at the company, in a dingy storage closet.

You were eighteen at the time—fresh out of high school and your old entertainment company, where you had few prospects apart from amassing crippling debt and cameos on rigged survival shows. You couldn’t quite despise the shitty management though, or the hellish programs they offered. Because at the very least, they’d help you stick your foot in the door. Finding your next destination was hardly difficult, especially when a family friend of yours distributed the company’s business cards as a side hustle. 

Taeyong responded almost instantly when you asked him for help, then sent you a blurry picture of a pink card drenched in someone’s beer. Vitamin Entertainment. A quick Naver search brought up a number of decently-successful acts, mostly soloists and actors. And a recently-disbanded idol group, which was most reassuring. 

“Don’t I need to audition?” you asked meekly when he called to make sure you’d gotten his message. 

He was tipsy at a party, slurring and tripping over his words. “Nooooo, sweetheart. You’re hot and experienced, don’t waste your time. Either email them a link to your old YouTube channel, or I’ll do it for you.”

“I’ll do it,” you grumbled. “Speak nothing of the YouTube channel or I’ll kidnap your dog.”

“Okay, whatever you say,” Taeyong chirped, obnoxiously sing-song as always. “Well then, my dear, the bubbles are bubbling and the wine is flowing! Love ya, see you later, make sure to send that email, okay byeeeeeeee—”

The line went dead, and you reluctantly powered on your laptop to do as he’d told you. 

Imagine your surprise when someone got back to you two weeks later and asked you to come in. Either Taeyong had put in a word for you and your tape was impeccable (you knew it wasn’t, you’d filmed it at 2 AM), or they were desperate. 

Your expectations plummeted when Google Maps took you to a rose-tinted glass building in the scrappiest part of the neighbourhood. And they hit rock bottom when you found yourself in a lobby modelled tactlessly after a container of children’s gummy vitamins. 

The floors were a checkerboard pattern of blue and aquamarine tiles, while the uneven plaster walls were painted salmon pink. The furniture strewn about the foyer were made from cheap, hard plastic, resembling sheets of gelatin and brightly-coloured candy. Caricature drawings of Vitamin artists and CEOs stared at you from their glass frames while a manager took you on a tour. Your first response within twenty minutes of arrival was to check that your contact lenses hadn’t fallen out of your eyes; there was something very vague and blurry about the place, which seemed to bleed into the atmosphere and all the people you passed by. 

“New here?” a few of them would ask you in passing, be it other trainees or instructors, and you always responded with a polite nod. They’d shrug nonchalantly and welcome you with a simple, “Cool,” before moving on. You didn’t doubt that they were busy, yet they seemed to float around aimlessly, like idle characters in a video game.

It didn’t help that the trainee floor felt like a game too: a game of interpreting awkwardly-placed signs and room numbers that more often than not took you to all the wrong places. The fated storage closet was just one of them, hidden behind a mirrored door you thought would lead to an empty practice room. 

“What the hell?”

Upon entering, you were met with lopsided IKEA shelves filled to their maximum capacities with cleaning supplies and cardboard boxes. It was a back room not meant to be associated with the company’s poppy, pretty exterior: drab but organic, clearly deviating from the standard blue-pink candy colour scheme. Amidst the mess sat a boy around your age, pale faced, black haired, wearing round glasses. He was perched atop an old washing machine, his focus glued insistently to a mobile game, until you unceremoniously barged in. Then he looked up like a deer caught in headlights, instinctively shoving the phone into the front pocket of his hoodie. 

“Hi.”

You stared at him, confused. “Sorry, uh… this isn’t practice room B, is it?”

“This is practice room D,” he said. 

You stared at him. He stared back—completely deadpan for several seconds before breaking into a toothy smile. “I’m just messing with you. B’s around the corner, on your right.”

“Thanks.”

“New here?”

Like you already had several times that day, you nodded. But unlike previous occurrences, he didn’t welcome you halfheartedly and then float away—or rightfully kick you out of his hiding spot. Instead, he noted your attire and demeanour, both of which lacked the usual jitters and nervousness of a new recruit. “But not new to the scene, are we?”

“No, not really,” you said. 

“How long?” It was a touchy question amongst trainees, strangers especially. Yet from him, it hardly seemed invasive, only curious. 

“Two years now.” 

Intrigued, he hopped down from the washing machine. Even back then, he hovered a few inches above you, just a little lanky, still in the process of growing into himself. “Me too. Debut is a scam.”

“A scam you and I keep falling for,” you reminded him with a chuckle. 

To your relief, he cracked another smile. “You’re so right,” he laughed, sticking his hand out to shake. “Kim Doyoung. Welcome to Vitamin.” 

You would soon learn that Doyoung took everything with good humour. And from that alone, you knew you would become good friends. 

You saw each other quite frequently after that. For the sake of their finances, the companies had lumped all their trainees together regardless of gender and experience. You tripped over yourselves in cramped dance studios and listened to strained voices together in vocal rooms. On weekends, you slept for eighteen hours at a time and debated dropping out to pursue proper higher education, only answering calls from your fellow trainees if it involved free food. And on Monday mornings, you got right back to work.

It was less busy in the wintertime, thankfully. When the foreign trainees were granted long breaks to see their families and the high schoolers took time off to study for their finals, you and Doyoung had to keep each other company. Little got done those days, as you opted to play variations of “Fuck Marry Kill” or “Never Have I Ever” over soju from a plastic soda bottle.

“Johnny, Yuta and Airi,” Doyoung prompted with a snicker and took a lazy swig, as if it were anything but an easy decision. 

“Oh, c’mon,” you retorted, stealing the bottle back from him. “Kill John, obviously.”

“Good choice.”

“I’d pay money to marry Airi. And then fuck Yuta.”

“Way to immediately ruin your marriage.”

It was pure reflex to hit him hard on the head, with the closest thing you could find. “Not in that order, smartass!” 

Unfazed, Doyoung only glared at you. “Just for that attitude, we’re skipping your turn.”

“What type of fucking rules— Wait—”

“Airi, the nail tech who ruined your set last month, and…” He trailed off playfully, purposely making you wait in irritation—but your impatience quickly turned into shock. “Me.”

You damn well choked on your own spit.

You’d never seen Doyoung that way, much less had any time to entertain those kinds of thoughts. Maybe some quiet recognition and acknowledgement when you first met him, which was about a year ago now: just a respectful and very private nod to how well he would do as a celebrity. He was polite when he talked, pretty when he sang, confident when he danced… but were you appreciating those qualities because you needed them yourself? Or did they really make you see him in a different light?

“I’m still marrying Airi,” you started defensively. “Killing the nail tech. She literally scammed me. And did you see that neon pink she used? Absolutely foul.” 

Doyoung raised a brow. “And…?”

“If you ask me nicely, you might just get what you want.”

Silence. You stared at each other for a long moment, but ultimately both decided you’d had enough fun. 

“Meh, I wouldn’t fuck you.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

It had always been easy to be so brutally honest with each other. 

The incident went completely forgotten until a year later—one evening when you found yourselves in a tight circle with the other trainees, drinking beer and spinning Doyoung’s empty soju/soda bottle for shits and giggles. It was cliche, certainly. But you were all missing out on drunken college parties in the real world, and this was as good as entertainment would get. 

The bottle spun and spun, making rounds but always narrowly avoiding you, picking and choosing duos to go into the notorious storage closet for the allotted seven minutes. Within half an hour, Yuta and Airi had come back disheveled, while Ten had returned with pink marks on his neck—the latter of which lost you five thousand won to Doyoung in a stupid bet. Not all pairings were so frivolous, however, with Johnny and Mark deciding to awkwardly play tic tac toe seven times on the same crumpled napkin. 

By your impeccable luck and the good graces of the saints, the last spin of the bottle matched you with Doyoung.

“He’s probably just gonna fall asleep,” you grunted, then dragged him out of the room. 

“You know, all of these losers have been faking it,” Doyoung said once you’d shut the door and set a timer on your phone. He sent you a knowing look. “I mean, if you’re hung up over Airi and Yuta, they probably just jogged on the spot for seven minutes. They respect each other way too much.” 

“In that case, give me my money back,” you said, already making a grab for the five thousand won.

“What?” His hand immediately flew up to guard the pocket of his track pants, where he was keeping your money. “Oh no, Ten’s was probably real. You think he just punched himself in the throat for seven minutes while Kun watched?”

“Damn, okay, I didn’t know I was friends with fucking Sherlock Holmes himself.” 

Doyoung cackled, slapping your shoulder hard enough to send you into the wall. “C’mon, they’ve liked each other—well, pretended to hate each other—for years now.”

Then for whatever reason, your last game of ‘Fuck Marry Kill’ suddenly crossed your mind. 

“Should we do them all one better?” 

He was skeptical, but perhaps more so by the logistics than the notion of actually doing it. He checked the timer. “How, by actually making out? We’ve got, like, five minutes.”

“That seems like a good amount of time.”

He paused and looked down at the timer again. You were left anticipating his reply for just a few seconds, but there was little anxiety attached to it. 

“Fuck it, why not.”

He set your phone down on the nearest shelf, turned you around to face him, and suddenly his lips were on yours. 

That was the very first time you flinched away. It wasn’t bad, or even that weird considering your being friends, but there was a sudden confidence behind it that made you realize two things. One: there were multiple sides to this guy, as there were with all people, and one you had never taken seriously. Two: the side of him you were missing was his attractiveness. 

You parted from him to catch your breath, completely caught off guard by the way he’d tucked a finger under your chin and lifted your head up to meet him halfway (where the hell did he learn that from, K-dramas?). His hands quickly found your shoulders instead, comforting despite the way his eyes widened and he rushed to apologize. “Too much?”

“No, I just—” You laughed. “Surprised, that’s all.”

He caught onto your train of thought quickly enough, and when you didn’t protest, gently crowded you against the wall. “Didn’t think I’d have some experience after twenty years of life? I’m not a stick in the mud.”

“Straight A’s in high school, perfect attendance, vice president of the student council, after school volunteering, part-time tutoring—”

“A surprising number of girls were into that,” Doyoung retorted, then grinned proudly. “Boys too.”

“Ugh, so you peaked in high school, we get it,” you grumbled. 

“Ugh, so you’re jealous, we get it.” 

“Shut up.”

“Got it.” 

With that said, he pressed his lips back to yours and snaked an arm around your waist—with a surprising amount of care given the spontaneity of this entire ploy in the first place. Not one to be outdone, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer. It didn’t take long for him to grab both your wrists after that, pinning them above you and fully caging you in. It was undoubtedly rushed and messy as you raced against time, the alcohol from earlier obviously playing some part too. 

When the timer went off, Doyoung gently pushed off from the wall and reached for your phone. But his gaze never left yours—his eyes staying insistently dark and full of mischief even as he silenced the offensive ringtone. But eventually, he broke into laughter, at which point you realized he was messing with you again. 

“That was fun,” he chirped as he fixed his hair in the reflection of a broken TV. Then jokingly, “I’d give it a 4 out of 5.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks Doyoung, your review helps small businesses like ours improve and get those five stars. Would you do it again?”

He swung around to look at you, surprised. 

“Maybe.”

Funnily enough, “maybe” became something entirely different, as you began sneaking off with each other at every possible moment. Rarely to do something as scandalous as making out in a storage closet (although sometimes), but spending more time together nonetheless. You often forwent sleep entirely and wasted away the early hours with him, eating at random diners and burger joints, or watching the stars from an empty parking lot. 

It became apparent pretty quickly: you’d been a little too studious in high school, and still tightly-wound two years after graduation. But now at twenty years of age, you felt some strange urge to develop a rebellious streak. Doyoung was no different despite always denying it, frequently taking his brother’s car out for joy rides and continuing to sneak alcohol into the practice rooms. Admittedly, he sometimes fell back into the old habitual role of goody-two-shoes, entertaining what-if scenarios and cover stories for use if the two of you ever got caught.

But you weren’t doing anything illegal, much less even wrong. Plenty of trainees spent their evenings doing much more questionable things. And no one at the company had formally banned you from dating as predebut, wannabe stars, although it was obviously frowned upon. And most importantly, neither you nor Doyoung had said anything about dating. 

Surely it had crossed both your minds. On occasion, once he’d kissed you breathless and stared you down with some unfathomable emotion, you had to resist the urge to blurt out, “What are we, exactly?” It wasn’t just the present state of your relationship that mattered. It was all else that might follow.

If it was all for shits and giggles now, would it develop? With debut being the obvious goal after four years of gruelling work, what would you do if you both reached the goal and something had developed by then? Break up? Stay together secretly despite the obvious backlash that would ensue if people found out? After every sleepless night, every car ride, every midnight dinner, you caught yourself thinking about it.

Eight months later, things took an abrupt turn. 

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

The bathroom door slammed shut behind you as you stormed into the common area of your dorm—now empty, with Mina out shopping and the two younger trainees you lived with having gone home for the weekend. Something about their absence and the lack of activity sharpened the rest of your senses, perpetuating the sharp sound of static that filled your phone call. The place had felt incredibly deserted for weeks, growing gloomier and quieter with every departure of an ex-trainee.

The company was down in numbers again.

“They can’t just—” you let out a muffled noise of frustration, putting Doyoung on speaker so you could continue stomping around. “I mean, why?!”

“Yuta leaving was the last straw,” Doyoung replied, just as agitated by the news. His voice cut in and out of white noise. “If he hadn’t, they could make do with debuting us as a trio and delaying you and the girls by a year or two. Or if Airi and Jiwoo were still here, the other way around—”

“But why are they in such a rush?” you spat. “What’s five years without putting out a new group? Bankruptcy?”

Doyoung didn’t respond. But you could tell it was because he was preoccupied. The sounds of city traffic and wind were prevalent on his end, as he presumably made haste toward some place. Suddenly, it went silent. A door swung open, then clanged shut. “C’mon,” he said breathlessly. “I’m downstairs.” 

You grabbed only your phone and keys before stumbling out to find him. Not knowing how he’d arrived so quickly, you could only be grateful that you weren’t all alone. 

Upon seeing him, you practically launched yourself from the stairs and crashed into his arms. The anger and frustration hit all at once, as you buried your head into his chest—burning hot and relentless against all reason, far too overwhelming as it pushed down on you. Then came embarrassment and overwhelming discomfort for even feeling angry in the first place. Was it selfish to be this angry? Was it selfish to feel so much hatred? 

They’d served you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity on a silver platter, yet you could only think of yourself. You could only blurt out one scathing hot truth that would have sent your younger trainee self into hysterics:

“I don’t want this.”

Doyoung was calm as ever, but you could hear the strain in his voice. “I know.”

“I— It’s stupid! No one asked for this. I didn’t sacrifice four years of my life to put up with this!”

There was no reply this time. Not for a long time. When you finally resurfaced from the warm fleece of his scarf for air, he was wiping the tears from your cheeks. A physical outburst from the overload of conflicting emotions, one you had hardly noticed. 

At the core of the situation was just that: conflict. You were torn between relief and apprehension, joy and anger, so incredibly relieved that your efforts hadn’t gone to waste, but so disgusted by the company’s blatant reach for attention. So eager to take the offer, but terrified that it would prove to be the wrong decision. 

You, Doyoung, Mina and Johnny. It was a lineup unlike anything anyone had seen in years, unconventional in the Korean pop scene for obvious reasons. All you had to do was sign the documents. Then debut was all yours—likely alongside criticism and skepticism from everyone watching. 

“I know I’m being ungrateful,” you said, barely louder than a whisper. “But I didn’t sign up to deal with ridicule and rumours the moment we’re announced. Why do we have to deal with that bullshit when the consequences are their fault?” 

When it came to consolation, people failed to acknowledge the necessity of a listening ear over advice. And in that moment, you were grateful that Doyoung listened. No unsolicited comments pointing out your tendency to blow things out of proportion, no attempt to calm you with reason. It was in Doyoung’s nature to analyze, to stay logical, to stay grounded in reality at every sharp turn of the road. But he did nothing of the sort, knowing it wasn’t in yours. There was only a warm embrace to cling onto—then a simple reassurance that would’ve broken you, had it not come from someone who really meant it. 

“We’ll be okay.”

He let you settle back against him. For several minutes after that, you rocked back and forth in his arms, thinking to yourself, Will we though? It had finally dawned on you, what awaited you in the coming days, months, years, even. 

“What about us?” What… are we?”

He mustered a wry grimace at the question, slowly pulling apart to hold you at arm’s length. The weariness of his expression didn’t look right on the face of a 22-year-old. You wondered if you looked the same: tired and worn out years before the average person begins to wear. “Regardless of what we are now, regardless of what we become if we sign contracts, we were friends first. Right?”

You nodded, but suddenly found it difficult to look him in the eye. 

“And at the end of the day—of any day, good or bad—we’ll always be friends, yeah?”

You’d seen him at his ugliest, and he’d seen you at yours: from his episodes of black-out drunkenness, to the insults you used to hurl at your parents over the phone. You’d fought on occasion too, exchanging backhanded comments and getting into full-blown arguments before reconciling later. There was nothing to hide from each other, and no one you trusted more with your secrets. No one knew both you and the industry you worked in quite like him. It went both ways. 

So you nodded again. 

He gave you a wry smile. “Then let’s be friends while we deal with all the other shit. If we want to be something else some other time, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” There was a long, nervous breath, as his hands found yours to steady himself. “Is that okay with you?”

Insinuating that you could be something else in the future. Insinuating that his mind had wandered in the same direction as yours, at some point in time. 

“Okay,” you murmured softly, resting your head against his shoulder. “That’s okay.”

As friends, you found momentarily solace in each other, while the wind howled outside. 

“The way I see it? The company doesn’t give two flying fucks.” 

Johnny’s voice rang out across the room, ever loud and thunderous like the titan himself—despite a mouthful of McDonald’s fries and ice cream. A chorus of hushed and panicked voices followed immediately.

“Seo, you better shut your fucking mouth.” 

“Ew, John you got spit on me!”

“Dispatch would have a field day with this one.”

“Can’t take this man anywhere, I swear,” Doyoung rolled his eyes, leaning over to snatch a chicken nugget from your tray. Just as quickly, you wrestled it out of his hand and shoved it into your mouth, your idol etiquette class be damned. 

“Can’t take you anywhere either,” you scoffed, then pointed at Johnny with greased-up fingers. “As much as you need to learn how to shut the hell up when we’re in public, continue.”

He gave an indifferent shrug and kept shoveling vanilla soft serve into his mouth. Away from formal settings and the prying eyes of company seniors who expected utmost discipline, Johnny Seo was nothing short of an American frat boy pulled straight from a cliche American movie: most commonly seen in joggers and leisure wear, stumbling lazily over his words, eyes constantly half-closed like he was stoned out of his mind. 

“I said, the company wouldn’t give two flying fucks if we, hypothetically, dated each other. Well, ideally they don’t want us to at all, but if it’s gonna be a dating scandal, best keep it between two people from the same agency,” he said, admittedly quieter now, but with a definitive thud of his empty sundae cup against the table as if to make a groundbreaking point.

“Yes, love, we’ve established that already, we can all read and already noticed that dating rules weren’t outlined in the contract,” Mina sighed from next to him, deadpan and feigning boredom. “Got anything more interesting to share?”

“Well obviously, I wasn’t finished talking,” Johnny huffed, but quickly continued when everyone jeered in annoyance. “Just think about the publicity. Fans love couples that make music together, they eat that shit up. So let’s say someone starts dating. Good for the company. Say nothing happens at all, for the entire length of our contracts. Also good for the company.”

“What if they break up?” Doyoung asked, skeptical. “Still good for the company?”

“Yes, because they’d say it was an amicable breakup in favour of both parties’ careers, get free publicity, get praised for being professional, and life goes on,” Johnny snorted. “We’re dealing with execs who will try to make money off anything you throw at them. They’re all capitalist pigs.”

Mina rolled her eyes. “You’re literally American.”

Johnny glared. “You have tea and crumpets for breakfast.”

“What if the couple’s gay?” you broke in before the two could start another squabble over their nationalities and British colonialism. If you were exploring hypotheticals, why not explore them all? 

“I’m not gay,” Johnny said immediately.

“I never said you were,” you snapped. “I said what if.”

“Then they’ll never disclose it, the public is left to speculate, and fans make one hell of a tag on AO3. At the end of the day, nothing particularly bad for the company.”

Doyoung frowned, confused. “What’s aye-oh-three?” 

“John reads gay fanfiction.” 

“I don’t!” 

Then the table descended into another war, and in the midst of the chaos, Doyoung ate your remaining chicken nuggets. 

Still just a group of nameless, faceless kids at the corner McDonald’s, the four of you let your profanities and threats flow free. You all knew: things would change drastically in the coming weeks, and you wanted to hold onto this for just a little longer. Regardless of pending fame, regardless of possible successes or failures, it wouldn’t be every day that you ate fast food and caused mayhem in public this spontaneously. Nor insulted Johnny this freely, nor copied Mina’s British vulgarities in a near-insulting accent, nor curled up over Doyoung’s shoulders when you inevitably got tired. 

How ironic it was, bringing yet another youthful, chipper idol group into the industry, when you’d sacrificed all your teenage years for this moment. While Doyoung carried you across the parking lot on his back, you thought back to when you’d put your pen to the paper and signed neatly in the little box they’d provided. It was hard to believe that it had happened only a few hours ago. Even your exit from the restaurant, barely five minutes ago, felt so far away. You were incredibly wired, overwhelmed, always overthinking.

You trekked back to the dorm by bus, Doyoung having relinquished access to his brother’s car, and your new manager not yet responsible for your every move and location, much less driving you places. You’d met him earlier in the day—a handsome, charismatic, 30-something-year-old who could easily debut himself if not for his age—hardly spoke, and quickly exchanged goodbyes. You could only hope that he would turn out about as easy-going as he looked. 

It was past midnight when you arrived home: a modest building not too far from the company building, two small units split between the boys and girls. Soon after, Mina went out to the convenience store for ice cream, while Johnny went up to the roof to puff on his vape. You found yourself sprawled out on Doyoung’s bed, watching him browse internet deals on Coupang. It didn’t take long for you to make it to his side and slouch against him with your arms around his neck. It took only minutes for him to put his laptop aside and hold you properly. Barely a few moments for him to throw caution to the wind and kiss you. 

Something about it felt more like a parting gesture than anything else. Like a silent and mutual agreement that this—whatever this was—would have to stop soon. Like you both acknowledged the lack of clear definition for your relationship, and that it was okay. Some part of you was envisioning everything that could go wrong from here. The other part of you fully trusted his judgement, and your own. 

“Won’t be able to do this once Kibum moves in tomorrow,” he gave a breathless laugh several minutes later. But he sobered quickly enough, brushing aside a stray strand of your hair and whispering, “Probably shouldn’t, anyways.”

“Probably won’t have time,” you joked lightly. “Only four hours of free time a day? I’d rather be sleeping in those four hours, not sucking your face, thanks.”

“Not sure how we’ll survive that.”

“What, not sucking face?”

He looked at you, clearly unimpressed. “No, only getting four hours of sleep every night.” 

“Maybe even less than four.”

“Double stuff me in the ass.”

“Christ, Doyoung.” 

Ever true to himself, he hurried to undo his vulgarities. He smoothed your hair down again, laughing quietly and murmuring in your ear, “Joking. I think we’ll be okay.” 

Then he closed the distance between your lips one last time, gently taking your face in his hands to give you a proper goodbye.

We’ll be okay.

Those words carried more weight than he even knew, following you long after you parted. It was there when you finally retired to bed, still echoing when the lights went out—lulling you to sleep where you would have been tossing and turning in any other circumstance. 

We’ll be okay. 

IMG_4749.MOV from Mina’s iPhone

“Observe: Kim Doyoung reading his first fanfiction on AO3. It’s, um. A Harry Potter x Draco Malfoy ABO male pregnancy mafia kidnapping AU that ____ found—”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“Read it out loud!”

“What the fuck am I reading?! ‘His fifteen-inch-long co—‘ JOHN YOUNGHO SEO, YOU DERANGED SON OF A BITCH!! IS THIS WHAT YOU READ IN YOUR FREE TIME—”

“We’re so getting fired if this video gets out.”

“Oh, definitely.”

Some more tomfoolery for this fic here! (I said this was 10% crack this is what I meant)

[trivialbob]

Yesterday I had a great time in Wisconsin.

Early in the morning I cooked a traditional eggs and sausage breakfast. When I finished eating I walked around the campground, talking to people. I crossed paths with a lot of nice people this weekend. During my walk a group of campers were cooking eggs and bacon outside. Despite having just eaten a similar big breakfast the smell made me feel hungry again.

Eventually I drove to town to re-fill the propane tank. When I buy propane at home I pay a cashier first then show an attendant my receipt before he fills the tank. At the place in Wisconsin the owner (I think he was) came outside. I asked if I should pay before he filled or while he filled the tank.

"You can pay now if you want. Or you can talk with me while I fill the tank," he replied.

Being who I am, asked all sorts of questions about his experiences filling propane tanks while he filled mine. He seemed to genuinely appreciate my interest. There were no horror stories. He explained how he inspects the tank's date of manufacture and makes sure it's safe to re-fill. Back home I've never noticed the attendant pay much attention to the tank, nor is he into small talk either.

After that I went down the road to the place our friends own for a bloody Mary and a small pizza. I like the garnish in a separate glass and the chaser. I looked over several side-by-sides in the parking lot, including one flying two large American flags (the pictures at the top).

After lunch I returned to the campground -- and took a two hour nap. Why not. It felt like vacation. When I got up I met more people at the campground. It's been only two weekends but I'm very happy Sheila chose this place for a year.

Then I went on a bicycle ride. Because I was on some 45-55 MPH roads I wore a hi-viz jacket and had all my blinky lights going.

Almost everyone who drove towards me waived. Drivers who passed me gave wide berth. Two farmers on tractors subtly waved and nodded their heads my way. That made me smile. Approaching an Amish buggy, I figured the woman and boy in it might not appreciate my bright, flashy garb and blinking lights. But they smiled brightly and waved. That really made me grin.

In the evening I went to a different small town, the one I had been to the previous night. I was keen on having a beer at the bar that shares my first name.

First picture below is a sign on the way into town that I found amusing. Second picture is inside Mr. Bob's bar.

I should have taken a selfie, to show EXACTLY how many customers were in there at 6 PM. Later someone told me Mr. Bob's doesn't get busy until late at night. The bartender was a decent woman, but I felt she looked at me like "Why the heck are you here so early? Now I have to stop what I'm doing to serve you." It's not like I woke up the owner to serve me beer at 7 AM. I should have asked why they don't simply unlock the doors at 10 PM.

Since there was no one to chat with at Mr. Bob's I went around the corner to a taproom I had on my list of places to try. I was not disappointed.

There are 20 beers on tap. Not one of them has Light in the name. I chose a flight of four.

Next summer, sometime when Sheila drives, I plan to order the Dirty Knapp. It's served in that large, Swiss-cheese-looking circle below. For $48 you get a four-ounce beer from each of the 20 taps. That's five pints. I'm not a college student any more, but I think I can pull it off if I skip lunch and dinner :)

At the bar I sat with two other guys my age and a younger woman. The bartender was funny. The five of us laughed pretty hard while telling stories.

Because I had to drive back in the dark, along deer-infested county roads, I didn't drink any more beer after that flight. I was having so much fun talking to the others I didn't want to leave. So I tried some non-alcoholic drinks. I've seen hop water before, just never tried it. I liked it. It reminded me of some odd flavor of La Croix. I also had a non-alcoholic IPA. It tasted like real beer without making me buzzed.

To complete my night, some neighbors invited me to join them and their friends around a camp fire. More laughter and stories.

Fun times. I'm looking forward to going back a few more times before we have to winterize the trailer.

[internetgiraffekid1673]

YOU GUYS! Storytime, RIGHT NOW!

Okay, SO! My asshole brother Sandwhich God is also super talented and kind of cool and does black smithing and some wood carving. He has a little homemade forge on our back porch, and he's made a lot of very cool stuff.

Now. Because it is winter, it gets dark early while he's still outside working. We have a back porch light, but the placement and the brightness of the bulb make it so it shines directly into the neighbors back windows. They politely asked if we could do something about that, so my dad and my brother politely made some adjustments to fix it. Everything went great, problem solved.

Well. Our neighbors are very nice and attempted to give us a thank you gift over it yesterday. What was this gift you might ask? A bottle of liquor. I wasn't there, so I don't know what type, but according to Sandwhich God, it was something nice.

Why is this significant? We're a family of mormons. We don't drink alcohol. So, Sandwhich God politely thanked them for the gift and told them "we don't drink alcohol here." But that's not the funny part.

The funny part is their response to this information. They said: "You don't? But we hear you crushing cans out here all the time!"

. . .They're correct. We do crush cans all the time. All of it is soda-water. Like, Bubbly and La Croix and Waterloo. That stuff. My mom and my brother both drink it religiously, since they don't like the taste of water.

This was just so funny to me because never in a million years had I considered that someone would think we're a family of drinkers. Like, from the outside perspective it makes perfect sense. We're all adults, and I'm the only one underage (not that they know anyone's exact age). When there are 5 of us, it makes reasonable sense that we could go through that much beer. And if you're a normal non-religious American who drinks alcohol, why on Earth would you think those cans we crush all the time is soda-water? That stuff is nasty! Who drinks that?

But if you know any of us even a little bit, you could VERY easily tell that we don't drink. It's just an idea that is so divorced from reality and anything that I would have come up with from my unique perspective that it's funny.

My dad now wants to get them wine and bread as a christmas or thanksgiving gift.

Anyway, remember to take joy in the little unique quirks of every person's experience and marvel at what rich inner lives every person you meet is living.

[askjingrandet]

Jin's Wisdom: Alcohol

Hey there everyone! For my first bit of wisdom the topic we'll be covering is alcohol. It's something I know I fair bit about and it's not a heavy subject so thought it would be great as a starter so let's get into it.

You don't have to pay a lot for alcohol to be good. Try a few different types to see you may find a surprising new favorite.

Always cook or bake with an alcohol that you like, I know Yves will agree with me on this one! The alcohol gets burned off when cooking/baking but the taste remains. If you use an alcohol you don't like the food isn't going to hide it and you'll have just wasted a bunch of ingredients, time and money.

When pairing alcohol and sweets generally speaking you want the alcohol to balance with the sweets, in wines case you want it to be sweeter than the treat. If you're drinking beer, spirits or a fuller bodied wine they go best with things like dark chocolate and caramel. Lighter bodied wines go good with milk or white chocolate and sour gummies. Really chocolate almost universally matches any alcohol, at least in mine and my admins opinion.

If we're talking proteins well red wine and beer go great with beef but so does whiskey. If your eating chicken other than white wines or Riesling you can go with pale ales or surprisingly enough Gin. Fish gets a bit more complicated, in general white wine is better than red because of the tannins. If you're having something like crab or lobster rum complements those bold flavors great. Vodka has no flavor so it won't compete with the subtleties of grilled fish. Gin goes great with smokes fish, it's floral notes pair really well with the char and earthiness. Then whiskey is for things like a good salmon or trout, brings some depth to them.

Alcohol tastes better when you enjoy it with friends, or a beautiful woman.

Drink slower, it'll help you recognize when you're having too much.

Alcohol won't solve our problems no matter how much we wish it would. It can cause some though so....

Always make sure to keep yourself hydrated when drinking it's really important and helps with hangovers.

Never drink, especially the hard stuff, on an empty stomach.

Don't mix drinking with riding a horse, driving a carriage or with taking medicines an apothecary gives you. All of those things can be super dangerous for not just you but others.

Don't get into drinking contests, especially with Luke or Silvio. I mean have you seen those two drink?

My last bit of wisdom, stop picking on people who don't drink or try to force them to drink or even worse try to sneak alcohol into their non alcoholic drinks. It's not cool, they hate it and it can even be dangerous depending on why they aren't drinking. And no, you're not entitled to an explanation of why just take their No and move on from it.

I hope you all enjoyed my first tidbits of wisdom.

Admin here: PSA time, if you or anyone you know has a problem with alcohol and needs support look for your local Al Anon program or check online for other resources in your area.

[jiskblr]

A Non-Locavore's Guide to Proper Apple Cider

Apple cider is a bizarre thing, in that it is only legal to buy it from the people who grew the apples and pressed them themselves.

You may say "Jisk, I see apple cider in the supermarket right here!", and I am here to tell you that the supermarket is full of profane lies.

I am not talking about hard cider (alcoholic), which does not taste like apples and thus is sorta lies, but a perfectly respectable beverage for those who like their alcohol beer-like but non-beer, which I do not. And that's all I'm going to say about hard cider.

No, I'm talking about this.

This substance is made by the archdevil Geryon, lord of deceits and heresies, in his orchard of snakes and lies, in order to convince people that apple cider is just pretentious apple juice.

And it works, because supermarket apple cider is just pretentious apple juice. It is cider that has taken behind the woodshed and shot, and its corpse carried around in the style of Weekend At Bernie's, paraded as the real thing. It is not the real thing.

This is the real thing:

This is Smit Farms cider, made from apples grown in Smit Farms orchards and pressed in mechanical presses owned by Smit Farms, hosted on the premises owned by Smit Farms and probably on the orchard grounds itself, then bottled by Smit Farms, also on the premises of Smit Farms. This cider is then sold either at their shop next to the Smit Farms orchard (fairly inaccessible) or at a Smit Farms booth in a range of farmstands within driving distance (in this case, mostly or totally in California), one of which is where I buy it. This is the good stuff.

The fact that it is from Smit Farms specifically is irrelevant, but other than replacing the name 'Smit Farms' with something else like 'Derby Orchards' or 'Oxford University Gardens', the good stuff all fits that precise description. To do otherwise is illegal. (At least in the US of A. It seems to be rare in other countries too, and I don't know for sure.)

The core problem is pasteurization. Pasteurization turns cider into apple juice. If you're careful about it and do the lowest temperature allowed for a brief burst of heat (flash pasteurization), you'll keep the ghost of the flavor of proper cider. But only a ghost of it.

And you are legally required to pasteurize cider before sale, unless you are a farm doing farm things to your farm products on your farm premises, which gets you an exemption from a great many United States laws, this being one of them. And so, if you wish to drink good cider, you must be a locavore for the day you do the shopping.

And it's so fucking worth it. I promise you. You know how they say that compared to real beer, Budweiser is 'fucking close to water'? Apple juice is the Bud Lite of cider. Real cider has the same relationship to it that Guinness has to Bud. Everyone should try it.

Now, I will admit it has drawbacks.

The first one is that it's usually unfiltered, and filtering it does actually make it worse. So you need to shake the bottle around a bit before pouring. It's much less intrusive than citrus pulp, though.

The second is that if you leave it in the fridge for a month it will have gone very slightly alcoholic. (I don't know what ABV.) This does have a solution - cider freezes well. Leave it in the freezer for a year if need be, then melt it over a day on the counter and stick it back in the fridge.

QUESTIONS YOU MAY HAVE FOR THE CIDER SNOB

"Jisk, how can I tell if the cider is the good stuff?"

Unfortunately, you will usually have to ask, and the answer will often be 'it isn't' even if you're at an orchard. Check if the label says 'pasteurized' in any form - if so it is the knockoff type. If you don't see that, the question you want to ask is "Do you press and bottle it yourself?"; if the answer is yes, they will almost certainly know, and only if the answer is yes is it the good stuff. You can also ask "Is it pasteurized?", and this may appear on the label, but there are weaselly ways to say it's not when it is and well-intentioned people can be honestly wrong about this being good enough.

"Should I get the good stuff for cooking with?"

It is almost certainly not worth it. You'll mostly denature it in cooking and that will remove most of the flavor benefits. For this I would go with supermarket cider or somewhat boiled-down boring apple juice. Some recipes may benefit but that's beyond my cooking skill to predict.

"Should I get the good stuff for mulling?"

Personally I cannot tell the difference once it is mulled. If the effort and money to get the good stuff are cheap for you, go ahead, it's probably slightly better, but it will not be a groundshaking improvement. Same goes for anything you're spicing heavily even without heat.

"Okay, I see where you're going, here. Is it a waste to heat up the good stuff?"

Absolutely not. Go for it! A simple mug of cider, heated up in the microwave, is a wonderful thing in a way apple juice is not.

"How about cocktails?"

I have limited experience here but I think it is usually a noticeable, significant improvement, but not always. My family favors the Suicider, which has some nutmeg, a large spike of dark rum, and the heart of a bad pun. On the other hand, something like a mule where you are mixing several strong flavors may overwhelm the difference. Use your best judgment, and if you do a taste test please tag me or send me an ask, because I'm curious.

"Why is the good stuff so rare, if it's so much better?"

The process is time-consuming and effortful, it's either hard to scale on an orchard's budget or hard to scale without incurring the wrath of the regulators, and the margins aren't great. I pay $20 for a gallon and a half and I'd probably pay twice that, but I am a snob; most people aren't and wouldn't.

In my hometown, there were six pick-your-own apple orchards, all of which sold cider in their attached store. Of these, only one, the aforementioned Derby Farms, sold the good stuff - this was a local secret, not available to the tourists who came out from Boston. The others had mechanical presses available, but pressing cider is slow, exhausting work and the margins aren't great, so they paid someone else to press it and bottle it, which meant that the pasteurization requirement came in. Even Derby's has ceased to make the good stuff, as they are getting old and didn't have the manpower in the proper season anymore. This is a tragedy but kind of inevitable.

"Why are you writing this?"

Because I think a lot of people would be snobs if they experienced the difference, and the only way to fix aforesaid tragedy is to make the margins better by increasing demand.

[transmalewife]

since i've seen several posts with witty comebacks mocking people about this, no, actually, you do not have to drink water specifically. in fact, drinking nothing but water (esp. filtered water) can be dangerous in high temperatures, since it doesn't have the electrolytes you need to live and that you'll be sweating out.

drinking anything is gonna keep you hydrated and it is way, way better than nothing, which is what people are gonna drink if you tell them that only water counts.

whether you don't like the taste, don't have access to clean water, even if you love drinking water but just can't stomach it without flavor in the amounts needed in this heat (that's me btw). you can and in fact should drink other stuff also

Sports drinks are full of electrolytes, juice has vitamins and calories that you'll need if you lose your apetite because of the heat, coffee is high in potassium and is sometimes reccomended to people with low blood pressure (and heat can apparently lower it further. not a doctor not medical advice. but you know. there are reasons to drink things that aren't water). a slushie's gonna cool you down, beer has magnesium, potassium and sodium (not super high but decent compared to other beverages, and especially compared to water) and non alcoholic beer is my favorite way to stay hydrated in the summer. boiling water to make tea is pretty much necessary if you dont have perfectly clean drinking water, can also add some flavor and prevent your cat from drinking from your glass of water.

Basically, anything other than hard liquor is great and is gonna keep you hydrated and you should drink whatever liquids you can. don't let people make you feel guilty about how you're staying hydrated and alive and remember that pretty much any beverage you can imagine is 90% water with stuff floating in it

[mythica0]

So I was messing around with the Headcanon generator with Fop anw Characters + OC’s and took screenshots of my favorites (either cause they make so much sense, I think are really neat, or are hilarious.) here they are and some thoughts on them below the cut(quotes are the HC’s. Non quotes are relating thoughts) different characters have different amounts of HC’s both because some of them had more that I liked pop up and also I’m obsessed with some more than others lol.

-“If Hazel likes someone, she will give them a pretty rock” considering she is obsessed with rocks, this is just facts. She would also probably yap about the rocks origins and other stuff.

-“Dev is a very good singer” I love this idea. That Dev is great at singing and loves to do so when alone but is super embarrassed about it around other people. (Maybe because his dad told him that it was annoying and to stop. So now he sees it as forbidden) so he absolutely will not preform for an audience.

-“if the source media were a musical, Dev would be the one asking why everyone’s singing” considering the above, I find this amusing. Especially due to my OC fan episode where Emma wishes that life was a musical. I can just see dev all confused like ‘why in the world is everyone singing???’

-“Dev believes in ghosts and insists on trying to summon one at every sleepover.” I thought this one funny cause this literally happened in canon.

-“Winn uses the word ‘like’ as a comma” considering their cool-guy(gender neutral) persona, it makes sense that they would use like a lot.

-“Winn tells dad jokes” Idk why but I like this idea. Winn telling dad jokes and Hazel laughing and Jazz groaning. I just thought it was neat :3

-“Jazz is a great artist” in addition to music I think that Jazz would like to draw as well. Especially abstract art and patterns.

-“Jazz is afraid to close their eyes in the shower” Considering her being a fraidy-cat was a whole plot point, I thought this was amusing.

-“Cosmo tells dad jokes” He’s a father. And A very silly guy. Obviously he tells dad jokes.

-“Wanda has a very low alcohol tolerance.” I think it would be funny if Cosmo and Wanda were at some fairy gathering and Wanda had like 1/4 of a beer and is all drunk and Cosmo has to make sure she’s okay.

-“Peri is the gay cousin” idk if he’s anyone’s cousin cause I never saw the og series but this man is not straight

-“peri was dropped out of a window as a child” again, never saw the og series but I know he was dropped multiple times so this might as well be canon

-“peri is smart but also very stupid” he gets it from his mom <3.

-“Peri can’t sit in a chair properly.” This twink does NOT sit in chairs like a normal person. He be laying across the chair in the wildest way you can think of

-“Peri is a horrible liar” my boy caNOT lie. It is immediately obvious whenever he tries. He gets all nervous and stutters abunch. And won’t make eye contact.

-“Ray has a diary that they write in with glittery gel pen” CANON CAUSE I SAID SO. It’s all good things. She writes about her day and how she or someone else she saw improved the world or someone’s day. She writes Everytime she made someone smile, every kind act she witnessed, every cute animal she fawned over. If you read her diary you’re gonna be flooded with the overwhelming positivity that is her mind.

-“Ray sings in the shower” She loves to sing cause music is a way to spread joy. She would absolutely be singing pop songs and positive vibes songs only. I’m thinking trolls songs and MLP songs about friendship, love and happiness.

-“Ray is not allowed to drink energy drinks.” Do you KNOW how energetic this woman is 24/7? If she had an energy drink she would probably explode. Sometimes she’ll see Yar drinking one and be like ‘hey can I have some,looks like it tastes good!’ And Yar holds it away from her and says ‘absolutely not’

-“Ray always has half a watermelon on them” her favorite fruit is watermelon, and she likes to share! So she just keeps half a watermelon on her at all times.

-“Ray doesn’t know how to say ‘no’” as I’ve said before, MASSIVE people pleaser. She refuses to say no to someone no matter how much work she has to do or how many favors she’s already committed herself to. And the thing is, she is genuinely happy to do it anyway. She isn’t like stressed out and feels like garbage but says yes anyway because she feels bad, she just loves helping people. Both Yar and Cosmo/Wanda have to look after her and make sure she doesn’t take on too much and destroy her body.

-“if Ray was presented with an intergalactic portal, they would enter it without question.” She’s a big fan of adventure and so much of an optimist, that the idea that something might go wrong or that there’s something bad on the other side doesn’t even cross her mind. She just sees something fun to do.

-“Ray is constantly singing for no reason” She likes to sing joyful tunes of what she’s doing. She’s the type to wake up and sing a designated good morning song to the whole neighborhood. She starts her day by opening her window and loudly singing ‘good morning~~’ to everyone around.

-“Ray tells dad jokes” She loves to make people happy and laugh, and loves humour and all things relating to joy, so of course she tells dad jokes at every opportunity. She’s always ecstatic when someone actually laughs at her dumb jokes. (Especially Yar. She secretly finds them hilarious) also, because we’ve already established that Winn and Cosmo also tell dad jokes, the three of them would have friendly dad-joke competitions where they tell eachother their best dad jokes and try to see who has the best one.

-“Ray knocks people over by hugging them” Once again, CANON. Especially when Yar comes to visit. She will absolutely tackle you into a hug anytime you show up. As long as you’re comfortable with touch, that is

-“Yar sleeps in until noon” This gal is SLEEPY. She’s the opposite of Ray, so instead of being full of energy, she lacks it almost entirely.

-“Yar forgets to eat sometimes” as a chronically depressed Anti-fairy, she will often times forgo eating and just rot in bed. If she’s having a bad episode Ray will come and check on her and make sure she eats and drinks enough water.

-“Yar bites their nails” It’s a habit that she has. Especially when she’s nervous or particularly upset.

-“Yar has chronic nightmares” Again, Ray and Yar are opposites. Ray’s head is full of nothing but sunshine and rainbows, even in sleep, whereas Yar’d head is full of sorrow, Trauma and Fear, resulting in nightmares every single night. (And yet she still prefers being asleep over being awake) most of her nightmares are more sad than scary, however.

-“Emma sings in the shower” again, based on me, so obviously she sings in the shower. She listens to a wide variety of music.

-“Emma doesn’t own a single pair of matching socks.” She finds that mismatching is more fun. Also she doesn’t care about fashion or what other people think of her, so she makes it obvious

-“Emma cries while watching Disney movies” Very emotional, this one. Cries at every Disney movie, whether it be sad or happy tears.

-“Emma tells dad jokes” We’ve been over this with the other three. She’s a fan of dad jokes, more specifically puns. Because again- based on me. She doesn’t usually partake in the dad joke battles, purely because she would rather be the judge.

-“Emma is constantly singing for no reason.” Once again, based on me, so there’s that. There’s also the fact that she literally wished for life to be a musical for a day.

-“Emma is a theatre kid” Speaking of which- big fan of musicals! Especially animated ones. She loves to act and is very dramatic. Very much a drama queen.

————————-

And that’s all I got! Hope you enjoyyeeeeeedd

[happyinjection]

♠️♥️High Card Short Story 1 “Mint Soda and Cafe au Lait Float”♦️♣️ (3/3)

Once we are done with work, let’s head out to our favorite pub, “Crazy 8”~

Original: https://twitter.com/highcard_pj/status/1530021332561170432?s=20&t=lLB3b2CH1n76STg9Xa0uNA

Author: https://twitter.com/poipheno

Artist: https://twitter.com/ebimoji3

Crazy 8 was a long-established pub located right next to the Old Maid branch of Pinochle Automobiles. Rumors had it that they had been in business for nearly 30 years.

The dimly lit interior was fully furnished with wood. The counter was gold-plated, reflecting the light. It gave off the atmosphere of an authentic Irish pub. Behind the counter, a neon lamp in the shape of the pub’s name glimmered.

“Yahoo, Master. I’ll have my usual ♪”

Chris rested his elbow on the counter, leaning forward as he called out to the manager of the pub on the opposite side. His name was Douglas.

“It’s you guys again.”

Douglas had a muscular build and cleanly shaved head, as well as an intimidating air about him.

“Even if you said that, Master, I’m sure that you’re happy to see us, your dear regulars, turning up often around here~ By the way, Finn, what are you having?”

“Beer.”

“You’re underage! Order something non-alcoholic!”

“Just kidding. I’ll have my usual soda.”

The bartender didn’t give a reply, but he immediately turned and walked away to start preparing our orders. Chris, who had picked a high stool to sit in, crossed his slender legs as he waited. I sat down next to him.

“Finn, are you hurt anywhere?”

“Oh. My fist hurt a bit from when I packed those punches, but it was no big deal. Shouldn’t I be asking about how you’re doing instead?”

“Not at all ♪ I don’t even need to eat my Fudgees.”

After a moment, two coasters were being slide out onto the counter. And then, a glass filled up to the brim was put on each of them.

“You guys should not come here in the first place if you’re not going to drink alcohol.”

That said, Douglas placed Chris’ favorite drink, the cafe au lait float, in front of the latter, before turning his back on Chris instantly and without courtesy.

“Master, even if you’re spitting such mean words, you’re always giving us freebies. For instance, the float is bigger than usual today. Isn’t it amazing that he never made a big deal out of these kind gestures~”

Chris put his thin lips against the straw and began sipping. “Hn~ you see, it is similar to Vietnamese coffee, in the sense that it has condensed milk poured in. Definitely rich in calories~”

“Ew, it’s like you’re piling something sweet on top of something even sweeter.”

I stuck my tongue out in digust, frowning. As I was about to sip on my own drink, it suddenly came to my attention. In the soda, there were a number of tiny leaves floating around. Furthermore, a slice of lime was stuck at the rim of the glass.

“What is this? Isn’t it different from what I asked for?”

“Mint, huh. Then it must be virgin mojito. This is another special service from the Master, so make sure to drink it gratefully.”

“Vir… what was that? But I, hate veggies. Including greeneries, leaves, and the like.”

“Mint is not a veggie, though.”

“I see. Fine, I’ll try to drink it, why not, I’ll try.”

I put the straw in my mouth while stealing a glance at Master. His back remained turned on us as he was wiping on a glass. It followed that he turned on the TV installed near the ceiling using a remote control.

“Mnn! Who could’ve guessed that this drink tastes absurdly good?! Thanks a bunch, Master!”

With his gaze fixed on the TV, Master resumed wiping on the glass using a towel. Meanwhile, I downed my whole glass of mint soda in one gulp, slurping it noisily up to its final drops.

“Seconds, please!”

“Keep your pace slow.”

“Bossy, ain’t ya? I can drink however much I want.”

“Gah, what an insolent brat. Well, whatever. Speaking of, you did a great job today. Even though you claimed that you were simply doing it as a hobby, I have to admit that you’ve got some skills in boxing.”

“Our opponents were just lacking. I could say the same about you, I mean, you were the one displaying that flashy combination of Muay Thai and god-knows what other martial art techniques.”

“I was somewhat forced to learn them after I joined Pinochle, that’s all there is to it. Afterall, I’d rather not become drenched in sweat.”

“Eh, but you should absolutely teach me sometime.”

“Did I hear that right, are you looking forward to get all sweaty with me?”

“You’re being creepy again.”

“Reporting from Gibbs Street, earlier this afternoon…”

Interrupting our conversation, the voice of a reporter blared out from the TV, dropping the name of a street which sounded familiar. It also seemed to grab Chris’ attention, as he immediately spun on his high stool to get a better view of the TV.

“An incident just occured in which a group of mafia were attacked by unknown assailants. According to the police who arrived at the scene, someone is believed to have intervened in a drug transaction between the mafia. The items were stolen from a museum, with the market price of—”

“…”

“…”

Chris and I stared at each other with wide eyes.

“Um, Chris……. isn’t this a bad sign? But we won’t be showing up on the headlines, will we?”

“High Card” was a secret organization operating under Pincochle Corporation. The true identities of its members must never be revealed to the general public, and anyone who’s not involved in the business was forbidden from knowing the existence of X-playing cards.

Tiredly, Chris laid his wrist across his forehead, sighing.

“Come to think of it, I didn’t expect that gem to possess such a high value.”

“I-I didn’t do anything, I swear! It’s their own fault!”

“Finn, we’re completely innocent. We don’t know anything. We didn’t do anything. Isn’t that so?”

True, true. I rapidly nodded in agreement.

“I will submit my report to jii-san and tell him that we were not involved in anything. And then I’ll call it a day and go home right away. It would take time, but this whole incident would get swept under the carpet, eventually. Uh, and, just for the record, do not ever let Leo catch a wind about this.”

“…Sounds like it’s gonna be a big pain in the ass.”

“I hope that would solve the problem. For now, fingers crossed…”

Chris raised his glass of cafe au lait float. I copied his movement with my own refilled glass of mint soda.

“Good work today…….”

When we clinked our glass together, both of our hands were still shaking so pathetically that a clattering sound could be heard.

♠️♥️♦️♣️

TL notes: I’m in no way a professional translator so if you find any mistakes, please do not hesitate to inform me right away. I love the High Card gang and I found it very unfortunate that while it is meant to be a multimedia project, I can’t seem to find the translated versions of any materials (beside the anime) anywhere (if this is against copyright, I will take it down). Hopefully this small TL would help international viewers gain better understanding of HC universe and characters. The author of these SS himself said that he hoped fans would have their “so that’s what it is!” moments when they watch the anime after reading his short stories. So with that in mind, let’s enjoy High Card together~

[downwiththeficness]

Shadow and Veil-Chapter Twenty Nine

Summary: Eva Moore’s life was a carefully constructed fiction.  Every day, she did exactly what her mother in law, her husband, and his  best friend expected of her. No mistakes. And, that was going pretty  well for Eva right up until a huge complication literally tried to run  her over. Now, she’s faced with trying to keep the pieces of her life  from falling apart while attempting (and failing) to keep her feelings  for her husband’s new business partner at bay.

A/N: This fic is a sister-fic to A Need So Great and A Need Unleashed.  You do not need to have read ANSG or ANU to read this fic, but there  are Easter eggs from those fics in Shadow and Veil for readers with keen  eyes.  This fic is explicit for canon-compliant blood, gore, violence,  and sex. As such, it is intended for an adult audience, only. A/B/O  dynamics come with their own warning. Anyone under the age of 18 should  not interact with this work. I do not consent to reposting this work to  other platforms. Reblog only to Tumblr.  

Word Count: ~4,200

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Masterlist            Read on AO3

The cafe was very crowded. Not a single table was open and all the seats at the bar were taken. Stag Nation wailed over the amplifiers while people danced close together. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol. Above, the air conditioning struggled to keep up with the heat of bodies packed into the room way beyond capacity.

Eva sat between Josh and Alexei in their booth, nursing a glass of sour white wine in sullen silence. Her role tonight was sit there and do nothing, say nothing, be nothing. As far as anyone at the table was concerned, Eva didn’t exist.

Not so long ago, she might have been just fine with that. It served her well to be easily dismissed and forgotten in a crowded room. Eva could do her best thinking when she slipped past the notice of the people around her.

Now...now, she bristled against it.

People were laughing and talking everywhere. Liquor and wine and beer flowed in every glass. No matter where she looked, Eva saw a life she’d barely tasted. A life she would never live if she didn’t get the fuck away from Josh.

The man in question tossed back his drink, “He’s late.”

“He’s always late,” Alexei sneered, “Try to be patient, for once.”

The rift between them hadn’t been mended, leaving Eva sitting in the middle of two best friends who hated each other—which was just perfect. She finished her glass, wincing all the way, and ordered another.

Stag Nation finished their set and Lizzy thanked the crowd for being so nice. She slid off the stage, heading for their booth. As she sauntered closer, Eva wondered how much she knew about what was going on. And, if she did know exactly what was going on, who did she get her information from? Horacio? Or Josh? Both?

She didn’t have a lot of time to ponder the question. Lizzy moved quickly and efficiently through the crowd, sliding into the booth a wide smile.

“Hello!”

Josh, a little less enthusiastically than normal, replied, “Hello, Lizzy. Good to see you.”

With a coy turn of her shoulders, Lizzy said, “Same to you. Hope you’re enjoying the show.”

“The band is in fine form tonight.”

“Aren’t we? Some nights you just fall into the groove, you know?”

Josh hummed, non-committal. Alexei’s attention was on the crowd. Neither of them seemed particularly interested in holding a conversation. The burden, then, fell to Eva.

Feeling awkward, she prompted, “Did you find an apartment?”

Lizzy’s eyes lit up, “Actually, we got a record deal. Can you believe it?”

“That’s wonderful,” Eva replied, knowing that Lizzy was bullshitting her.

Leaning her forearms against the table, the blonde jumped into an explanation that was so smooth and rehearsed that even Eva believed it a little bit, “So, this guy showed up at one of our weeknight gigs. And, the place was dead. Seriously dead. But, we played anyway—its good practice.” She took a breath, “After the show he comes up to us and offers us a contract. We fly out to California next week!”

What a coincidence, Eva thought, with sarcasm, That’s when the warrant will be served.

All the players in a game that had been going on for almost six months were tying up loose ends, including Eva. She glanced around the table—was she the only person who knew all sides of it? Did that make her more prepared or less prepared for the oncoming storm?

Realizing that she hadn’t said anything to Lizzy, she managed, “That’s very exciting. I wish you all the best.”

Lizzy reached over and placed her hand over Eva’s, “Same to you.” Then, to the table, “I have to get back, but it was so good seeing you guys. I’ll send you a copy of our record when we get it pressed.”

Eva smiled, “I’ll look for it in the mail.”

Hands coming up to frame her face, Lizzy preened, “It’ll have this pretty mug on it.”

Sliding out of the booth, Lizzy waved a happy goodbye to them and spun around to disappear into the crowd. Eva watched her go, feeling surprisingly wistful. Even though her entire personality was fake, Lizzy was likable. After all was said and done, Eva thought she might miss her.

A figure moved through the throng of people, parting it wide shoulders and a confident step. Horacio was dressed an uncharacteristically subdued suit (for Diego) that flashed with navy in the lights. His smirk was not at all subdued. Horacio’s mouth curled in an expression of such smug pride that Eva temporarily forgot that she liked the man underneath. Her hands itched atop the table with the urge to reach out and slap him.

She wasn’t the only one.

The scents of the men sitting on either side of her were ripe with anger. Alexei shifted in his seat and she caught the way his hand settled over the cutlery. His eyes were on Horacio and he looked very much like he wanted to kill the man. To her left, Josh inhaled and schooled his features so that he could do what he came here to do.

Instead of sitting in the booth with all of them, Horacio veered off to the side and snapped up a chair that he placed at the far end of the circular table. His posture was loose when he sat down, as if he hadn’t grievously insulted one or both of the men at the table.

He looked good.

His hair was slicked back artfully from his face and he’d shaved. The shadows under his eyes were less distinct and his gaze was clear. Eva inhaled a discreet breath, noting the lack of stress in his scent. Eyes narrow, she realized that he had a plan for how this evening would go.

“Your meeting is in two days. On the phone, of course. My supplier won’t fly to the states.”

Josh nodded, “That’s understandable.”

“Then, I’ve held up my side of the deal,” Horacio asserted, “I expect my money before that phone call.”

Eva sensed Josh’s anger overcome his tight control a fraction of a second before it exploded out of him. The muscles along his arms clenched and his feet pushed down into the floor. His scent swirled wildly with sour fruit and salt.

“I think you’ve been paid well enough!”

Alexei spread his fingers over the knife in front of him, but remained silent. He was, apparently, willing to let his friend vent for the moment.

Horacio’s expression neutralized and he leaned forward, “You agreed to the terms, doctor.”

“The terms were—,”

“Whatever I wanted,” Horacio finished for him. “Whatever. I. Wanted.”

Josh shook his head, “Its one thing to knot the little slut, but you started a bond you son of a bitch.”

Horacio shrugged.

A hand grabbed at the back of her neck and slammed Eva forward. She managed to turn her face to the side in time to avoid breaking her nose against the table, but the blow left her wincing. She sat up and massaged the sting out of her cheekbone.

“Ah, there it is!” Josh crowed.

Eva blinked through her blurred vision to see the facade of Diego slip enough that Horacio showed through. His dark eyes were narrowed blades that cut across his face and the calm had faded from his scent. It left anger in its wake.

“That’s your mistake, Jimenez,” Josh asserted with a pointed finger, “You might have liked her before, but now...Now, you can’t go without her. Believe me, I know. We see it all the time in my line of work.” A pause, then, “You alphas are so confident until you bond and then all you are is an omega’s bitch.”

It certainly didn’t feel like Horacio was her bitch.

He might want to please her. He might do as she asked. But, Eva had no delusions about her influence on him. He would make the decision he thought was best and that would be the end of the story. Full stop.

Horacio tilted his head back so that he looked down his nose at Josh, “Where are you going with this?”

The heavy arm of her husband laid over her shoulders, pulling Eva into his side, “We’re gonna make another deal.”

“Are we?” Horacio asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“Yes,” Josh replied, “we are. Because all I have to do is put a little pressure on this woman,” he dug a thumb into her gland, “and you’ll fold.”

Fuck, it hurt. Eva squirmed in her seat, unable to keep the cry of pain at bay. She reached up and wrapped her fingers around his thumb, pulling it from her skin and holding his hand against her shoulder.

“You’re our errand boy, now,” Josh said, “You bring us product. You coordinate routes across the border. You do as I say, and I make sure Eva is well taken care of.”

Horacio sucked his teeth, “Let’s say I agree. What happens after her heat? After the bond breaks? You have to know this deal is time limited. What leverage will you have then?”

Josh smiled, “Eva hasn’t had a heat in years, Diego. Who knows how long until her next one?”

Even Eva had to admit that Josh had him boxed in. She watched Horacio think about it, watched him calculate in real time.

“I think this is a conversation that we should take to a place with fewer ears,” he said, eventually. “I have a particularly nice bottle of bourbon at my apartment. Let’s have some and discuss our deal.”

Without waiting for a response, Horacio was up and out of his seat. He moved through the crowd and disappeared as quickly as he’d come, leaving the three of them alone to decide if they would follow.

“Its a trap,” Alexei said.

“No,” Josh shot back, “He can’t risk it. Not if we have Eva with us.”

Alexei cut Josh a look, “He could have a whole army in his apartment.”

Josh returned the look, “That’s why you’re coming along. You’ve never lost a fight and you won’t lose one, now.”

“Because I know when something’s a trap!”

“Its fine,” Josh dismissed, “We’ll pay our bill, go up town, renegotiate our terms, and leave him to think about what he’s done.”

“He’s not a child, Josh.”

“No, but he does need to be taught a lesson,” was the counter argument, “And, its time he learned it.”

Eva kept her mouth shut all the way to Horacio’s building, through the lobby, and into the elevator. She remained silent as Josh knocked confidently on the door, as they entered the apartment, as they sat on the couch and accepted drinks.

Then, “I have to use the restroom.”

Horacio pointed to the hall, as if she didn’t know exactly where it was, “That way.”

Eva stood and thanked him with a nod. While she crossed the living room, a phone rang. She heard Horacio excuse himself, felt him follow her down the hall. He passed her on his way to the office, fingers brushing her forearm on the way.

She took her time, not caring what was being discussed in her absence. It didn’t matter and Josh would probably tell her about it, anyways. When she finally opened the door to head back out into the hall, she was pushed back into the bathroom by a firm hand.

“Horacio,” she whispered.

He kissed her briefly, “I need to warn you. I’m about to...up the stakes a bit.”

“What?”

“I need to scare him,” he explained, “Just stay out of the way and everything should be fine.”

Eva’s mouth hung open and she was filled with a feeling of frustration. He was supposed to be on her side and he sounded just like Josh. Stay quiet. Stay out of the way. Don’t cause a scene, Birdie. It was all the same.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she bit out.

Horacio huffed a breath, “I need to focus on this, Eva. I can’t be worried about you while I’m working.”

Brows coming together, Eva glared at him, “Oh, don’t worry, you’re not going to have to worry at all about me.”

She didn’t understand why she was reacting the way she was reacting. All she knew was that she was angry at being pushed aside—told to sit still and shut up—and Eva wasn’t going to have it.

He held up a hand, “I know this has been difficult—,”

“Oh, don’t patronize me, Horacio,” she threw at him.

“I’m not—no, listen—I’m going to have to hurt someone. Bad. I just need you to stay out of the line of fire. Just stand back and let me—.”

Eva snapped, “Stop telling me what to do! You’re not—,”

She cut off a sentence that she knew was going to piss him off. The words were swallowed back, a habit borne out of a lifetime of self-protection.

Immediately, she knew Horacio wasn’t going to let it go, “Finish your thought.”

Eva shook her head.

He stepped into her space and his voice pitched down into the order of an alpha, “Finish it.”

Holding his gaze, Eva said, “You’re not my alpha.”

Of course he was. But, something inside Eva made her want to force him to fight for it. She wanted him to prove that he could be exactly what she needed.

Horacio had her crowded against the wall in a flash of movement, “I’m not?”

Eva didn’t reply, but she also didn’t look away. He would have to rise to her challenge if he wanted her to acknowledge him.

His hands roamed over her body, arranging her as he liked, “If I’m not your alpha, then why do you carry my scent? Hmm?” He tugged up the hem of her dress, “Dime, Amorcita…”

Her breaths quickened with every lingering touch, with every kiss that he denied her. She let him step between her legs, let him guide her thigh up and around his waist. He ground against her, gave her the friction and pressure he knew she liked.

Eva tugged at his suit jacket, wiggling her fingers underneath it so that she could grasp heated skin. She ran the length of her thumb up and behind his ear. It caught on the inflamed gland and the sound he made was almost worth stirring his ire.

Horacio bit down on his lip, letting the flesh slide through his teeth. His hooded eyes focused on Eva’s mouth. She craned her neck to kiss him, disappointed when he pulled away.

“You say I’m not your alpha, but can you feel the way your body responds to me? Do you feel how wet you are, already?”

She could feel it. God, but she could feel it.

He leaned his weight into her, “You can deny it, but I bet I could make you come just like this. Time me, if you want. Won’t take more than two minutes.”

Eva struggled to breathe. Her hips rolled against his, working her arousal higher. Wildly, she thought that he might be right.

“Say it again,” he ordered, “Tell me that I’m not yours and you’re not mine.”

She couldn’t. Eva couldn’t form the words, didn’t want to.

“That’s what I thought.”

He pushed away from her and stormed out into the hall, leaving Eva leaning heavily against the wall.

“Motherfucker,” she sighed.

With shaking hands, Eva smoothed her hair and righted her dress. What the fuck had just happened? She couldn’t go back out to the living room like this, all nerves and need. It would set Josh off more than he already was and she knew it would lead to a fight with Horacio that he wasn’t prepared to take on.

Reaching down, Eva ran her fingers over the gusset of her panties. She could smell the sodden fabric, knew the reaction she would get if she sat next to Josh still wearing it. She had to get rid of them. But, how?

“Motherfucker,” Eva repeated as a plan formed in her mind.

Carefully, she opened the door and peered into the vacant hallway. She stepped out of her heels and scurried in the wrong direction, dipping into Horacio’s room silently. Standing in a place where his scent was so concentrated was difficult, but she forced herself to focus on her task.

Gathering up her skirt, Eva pushed her thumbs beneath the waistband of her underwear and let them fall to the floor. She picked them up and, just for good measure, ran them over her folds to wipe them clean. Then, she shoved them under the pillow she knew he preferred.

As she straightened, a flash of color caught her attention. Eva peered at it, smiling when she recognized the scarf she had been wearing the day they met hanging over the headboard. She reached for it, fingering the edge fondly. It never occurred to her to think about what happened to it after she sprinted away from Horacio. And, it sent an odd jolt to her heart that he wanted to keep it.

Eva brought the scarf to her neck and rubbed it against both glands to refresh her scent. Then, she set it back into place and turned to head back out into the hall.

She returned to the living room just in time to hear Horacio laugh. It wasn’t a nice laugh.  Josh was smiling a not-nice smile. Alexei was frowning. All around, it felt like a really bad situation.

Eva picked up her drink and sat next to her husband. She drank the very, very good bourbon and pretended not to care that the men in the room were talking.

“You know,” Horacio who was now very much Diego said, “I have a surprise for you.”

Josh’s brows lifted, “Oh?”

“Yes. A guest. One moment.”

Eva watched him stride to the TV room and come back with a man duct taped to a wheelchair. She didn’t recognize him, but she did recognize the look in his eyes. It was the same look Dr. Martin had before Alexei went to work on him.

“I’m not usually a vindictive man,” Horacio said as he spun his victim around so that his audience could get a good look at him. “But, I don’t tolerate disloyalty. Especially not in the men I choose to employ.”

Silence hung like a heavy curtain in the room. Eva decided that she would, in fact, follow Horacio’s request. She stood and made her way over to the island where several bottles of liquor had been set out. After pouring a bit more in her glass, she shimmied onto a bar stool and casually crossed her legs. Whatever was going to happen, Eva wasn’t going to participate.

“I want you to know,” Horacio went on, “that I don’t blame you for trying to get inside information out of my people—I’ve done it, myself, many times. But, I do blame Ivan.” He stopped and looked down at the man, “You were going by Xavier while you worked for me. Which name would you prefer?”

The man, visibly shaking, looked up at Horacio with fear in his eyes. Eva tried not to feel bad for him, but couldn’t help the little twinge in her chest.

“No?” Horacio asked, all innocence, “Alright, we’ll call you Ivan. That’s your real name, anyways.”

He drew back and punched Ivan hard in the face. Eva flinched at the sound of his fist meeting Ivan’s cheekbone with such forced that it whipped the other man’s head to the side. Blood poured from a nose that might be broken and Ivan let out a yell of pain.

Horacio looked at Josh, “Since we’re going to be business partners for a while, I’d like to clear the air between us.” He pointed at Ivan, “Is he yours?”

Eva turned her attention to her husband. From her vantage point, he looked relaxed as he sipped his drink. Beside him, Alexei’s frown had turned into a glare.

“I’ll admit that he gave information to me,” Josh replied in an easy tone.

Horacio nodded, “Thank you for your honesty.”

He hit the man again. Twice. Each blow seemed harder than the last. Ivan’s face was already swelling and one of his teeth fell from his mouth. Eva wanted to tell him to stop. Horacio had made his point and Ivan was barely conscious. She drank deeply from her cup to push the words back down into her throat.

“Now,” Horacio sighed, “we should decide what to do with him. As he is your man, I give you the choice.”

Josh leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “I take it you won’t be allowing him out of this apartment alive.”

Horacio grinned.

Nodding, Josh looked at Alexei, “I think you should decide. He’s your cousin, after all.”

Oh, you have to be kidding me, Eva thought.

Alexei was quiet for a long while. His spine was straight and his hands were curled into fists. He stared at Ivan, lips pressed together into a thin line. Eventually, he rose and approached.

“I will do it,” he said.

Horacio’s brows lifted, “He’s yours.”

They moved in tandem. The closer Alexei got to Ivan, the further away Horacio was. Eva could see the flash of a pistol tucked into the waistband of his slacks. It hadn’t been there when he met her in the bathroom—she would have felt it. Which meant that he was prepared to be attacked for beating the shit out of Alexei’s cousin.

Did he want the fight?

It was a bold fucking move to not only kidnap and tie up a family member of a known murderer, but to also force them to decide how they died. Was he hoping to circumvent the warrant by drawing Alexei into a fight?

Eva guessed that it didn’t matter. Alexei wasn’t taking the bait. He knelt in front of Ivan and spoke to him in Russian. The words were soft, reassuring. Ivan looked at Alexei with the eye that wasn’t swollen shut and nodded.

After a beat, Alexei stood and rounded the wheelchair. He got a good grip on Ivan’s head and took a breath. Eva closed her eyes against the sound of Ivan’s neck snapping. It turned her stomach, made the liquor in her belly rise up to burn at the back of her throat.

Hands clapped together in applause. Eva opened her eyes to see Horacio congratulating Alexei, “The infamous Zero finally makes an appearance.”

Alexei glared at Horacio and then at Josh, “I’ll be in the car.”

When he was gone, Josh threw back the last of his bourbon and stood, “I have to ask...when did you figure it out?”

Horacio shrugged, “Not many Americans have Russian gang tattoos.” He walked over to Ivan and pulled up the sleeve of his shirt, “Especially the manacles. There’s only one other person in this city that has spent time in a Russian prison.”

Alexei’s name echoed in the aftermath of Horacio’s explanation. Josh smooth a hand over his hair and nodded. He set his glass down on the coffee table and headed for the door.

Eva debated refusing to leave—mostly because she didn’t want listen to the two of them bicker all the way back to the house. She wasn’t given much of a choice, though. Josh grabbed her arm and jerked her off the bar stool. Eva had just enough time to grab at the nearest bottle and use it to salute Horacio as she stumbled through the door.

When she slumped into the back of the car, she was pleasantly surprised that Alexei didn’t launch into a stinging confrontation. He sat silently in the passenger’s seat while Josh turned out of the neighborhood and merge onto the highway. Eva stared at the back of his icy blond head, occasionally sipping from the bottle.

Josh pulled to a stop in the driveway and cut the engine. He sighed loudly, head turning to look at his friend.

Alexei looked back at him, “He was my favorite cousin.”

“I’m sorry, Alexei,” Josh replied, “He knew the risk when he took the job.”

Eyes narrow, Alexei spit out a question, “Is this why you wouldn’t tell me about your man on the inside?”

A nod, “I knew you would be upset. But, we weren’t getting any information from our usual sources and Jimenez already knew your face. Ivan was the second best option.”

Eva’s eyes flicked back and forth between them. She kept drinking while she listened to conversation, enthralled by the absolute lack of fire within it. Neither of them were yelling, no one was getting punched. They were just...talking.

“This deal with Jimenez is done,” Alexei ordered.

Another nod from Josh, “As soon as I get the info on his supplier, you can torture him to death. I’ll even buy you some new tools. How does that sound?”

Alexei inhaled as he thought about it, “I want a chain saw so that I can cut him in half.”

Josh smiled, “Done.”

Eva swigged more bourbon.

[cooking-with-hailstones]

Fandom as a cocktail bar: a somewhat overwrought metaphor

I've had a realization about being a multi shipper

I treat fandom like a bar, and I personally love trying new drinks.

This metaphor is about to get really extended so bear with me lol.

I usually go for beer - not a cheap mass produced one, I like a craft beer. One that was made with some creativity, with good quality ingredients. I'll take a beer when I go out, or when I'm home and unwinding after a long day. I love sampling beers anytime I go somewhere new. (Read a new fic author)

(In this metaphor zelink is beer. I even make my own beer! And zelink is the only fanfic I've ever seriously written)

I also love gin! Gin (another ship -let's say Revalink, or Sidlink) is delicious and I love drinks with gin. I don't drink it every day or even every week but when I see it on the menu at the bar, I'll definitely order a gin cocktail. Especially if it's a bar (author) I've read before and I like what they do.

Rum (another ship - eg zelgan) maybe isn't my favorite, but there's a few specific cocktails made with rum that I really like. I don't like rum and coke (ship in xyz situation, trope) but I love a mojito (same ship written in a different dynamic - tale of two rulers, you continue to have me in a chokehold)

There's lots of other drinks that I'm curious about but haven't tried very much. Schnapps? Jaeger? Tequila? Absinthe? All very different things I'm curious to try more of. Also if my friend home brews something I'm gonna try it to be supportive and give them feedback.

There's also so many great non alcoholic cocktails that are super creative and tasty. And yanno, sometimes I've got a lot of work to do or I need to focus and I don't wanna drink alcohol (get super sucked into/emotionally wrecked by a story) but I still want something delicious and complex that isn't gonna mess me up, and also that I can serve to kids!

Now me personally, I absolutely LOATHE super salty or savoury drinks. Olive martinis? Bloody Marys? Eugh no thank you. But boy HOWDY some folks LOVE those drinks and yanno what? Even if I think Bloody Mary's are gross as hell I still want the bar to serve a bloody Mary to those who want one. Especially if the bartender loves making them and is really good at them. That's awesome!

Some people are much more picky about their drinks. Some people will not (or cannot, for several valid reasons) drink Jaeger. Or sherry. Some people might HATE anything with gin and think I'm crazy for liking gin so much, but, hey, to each their own. Some people really don't like beer and don't understand why everyone's so obsessed with it and why it's freaking everywhere. 😝

There are lots of delicious and creative drinks to suit everyone's tastes, young and old, sweet tooth and spice fiends alike. Let's indulge a little, shall we?