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hayjeon · 5 years ago

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Practical Tips on getting your fics out there!

I’ve gotten an influx of these types of questions here recently, and the more i thought about what i was gonna add, it became really long :(

disclaimer: a lot of the things i bring up are just from personal experience as a writer on this site, what my followers have told me they appreciate, and what i tend to look for when im looking for fics to read! If you don’t like these tips then pls move on :)

although i’ll mention them, i’m also not going to be focusing on cliche tips like “write for yourself” or “grammar issues” cause those are pretty obvious!

1. accessibility of your blog

when you’re trying to get your name out there, make sure that you’re creating an inviting experience for any potential followers! this includes:

a memorable url! be creative!

have some fun designing your blog’s aesthetic! (i love cute blogs because it reflects a bit of the writer’s personality), and (i prefer blogs with white backgrounds because it’s easier to look through/read, say, in contrast to a pitch black one where the words need to be white!)

put your masterlist link in your bio (even better if you can link most recent fic! found this most helpful when i revisit authors that i like and can easily see if they’ve updated or not)

an organized and easy-to-navigate masterlist (personally, i prefer masterlists organized by band, instead of types of fics ie. i hate when i have to choose between drabbles, oneshots, and series masterlists; i really prefer to see them altogether!) --> see section 3

organized tags (if you’re going to be posting a lot of non-fic-related content like pictures or videos, tag them properly so followers can sort through and find your fics easily!), or (if you’re going to be writing in different mediums like drabbles, or answering asks, make sure to use a unified #mine or #writing or #fics to centralize your content)

2. get your name out there!

write write write! once you have some fics that show your talent, don’t be shy!

join writing groups: when i first started out, I joined a bunch of groups that would reblog my fics in the midst of the content of much bigger writers; these blogs developed a following, and as a result of my content mixing in with bigger blogs’ content, so did my own tumblr! there’s been a stigma recently with these groups, but im sure you can find one thats supportive and not clique-y!

send your fics to rec pages: what’s the harm? the only bad thing that can happen is that they ignore you! who cares! get out there!

if you can do the above, i really encourage you to ask your fave writers for advice/to read your fic: again, the worst that can happen is that they say no or don’t respond or don’t have enough time, but it’ll be a good opportunity to get some feedback! i for one read (or try to read) every single rec that falls into my inbox. if i like it, i’ll #rec it, and if i don’t, unless the writer asks me for feedback, i move on!!

utilize your tags!!: i’m not entirely sure if this is still the same or not, but from my memory, it’s the first 3-5 tags that matter the most? so utilize them well; push back the tags that aren’t really relevant (ie. #writing, #fics) and push more the main subject line of what you wrote (ie. jungkook fluff, bts smut, namjoon angst). these will populate your fics into the tags better!

headers!: when i’m scrolling through an infinite page of fics, the headers catch my eye the most; try being creative! you can find a lot of info out there on how to make ur headers super aesthetic, but i can share my tips too! --> see section 3

3. your masterlist

here are some practical tips!

organize by band, not type of fic/member/centralize your masterlist: i went onto a blog recently and clicked their bio mlist link to find a page full of 20~ish “JUNGKOOK MASTERLIST”/ “JAEHYUN MASTERLIST” and when i clicked on each one, they only had like 2 or 3 fics per member. i think it would’ve been better if she’d centralized all her fics! that keeps whoever is looking interested and more likely to click on another fic while browsing

add info about the fics!: when scrolling through a masterlist, it’s easy to get lost; try to add some snippets of info (ie. a short sentence you liked from the fic, a quick summary, a description of the au/scenario, or even a header!) this all gives some info about the fics you have tagged!

headers: this isn’t a requirement, but i personally love a good header on fics i read and i love making them myself as i finish up a fic and get ready to upload it; here are free sources: unsplash for HQ stock pics, crop/edit/filter in VSCO, and then add aesthetic script with fontcandy)

try to fill it up!: after i visit a blog after reading one good fic, i usually browse through their mlist to see if there are any more that i’d be interested in. if there’s a lot to look forward to, i’ll almost always follow; try to write as much as you can in the first few months to try and fill up your mlist and give blog viewers a reason to visit your blog again, follow, or even reblog your content!)

4. try not to reproduce cliche fics:

honestly tumblr’s writing community (and armys) has grown insanely these past few years and, unfortunately, even from my perspective, in the past 3-4 years, all the writers have sort of become blended together in my brain. but, i can say that the ones who consistently stand out are the ones who produce consistent content and think outside of the box!

i tend to gravitate towards fics that have really interesting plotlines (ex. btssavedmylifeblr’s VOID is always a surprise to read because it’s sO unique! i usually don’t read ot7 fics but this one is legit my fave)

I know it’s tempting to try and just write typical smut fics to try and gain some traction, but tumblr is already too overloaded by that kind of content; try to write something that’s special and unique! this will set u apart from the thousands of other writers here --> see next section

5. create unique fics:

this is also personal to my writing style, but i get so bored writing just casual fics about the members, and it affects the fics i choose to read too; i prefer unique fics which you can achieve through:

circumstance/au: create a fun au!; don’t just create an arranged marriage, create an arranged marriage in joseon dynasty, or between a werewolf and a hunter! (shameless self plug); don’t just give me friends to lovers, but give me spiderman!jungkook friends to lovers! (ie. cupofteaguk’s exchanges)

jobs: give them out-of-the-ordinary jobs; don’t just give me enemies to lovers, but give me rival!anchors who end up loving eachother! (ie. jimlingss The Newscasters)

fun dialogue: create good back-and-forth, (something i’m still working on!)! this will help your characters develop personality, and that way, readers will start to develop that themselves as well (ie. dad!yoongi from insemination wars by prolixitae is such a specific character that i love so much!, or obiwrites’ garden characters were so memorable!)

create memorable personalities: don’t give me a flat character, try to develop 4d personalities in all of your characters! (im still working on this too!) this way you can really make an impression on your followers! a great way to practice/recognize this is: “Ask my Character.” Can your followers ask a specific character a specific question, and would you be able to deliver an answer that is very specific to that character’s tone/voice/personality? If yes, then ur doing well! If not, try to think of ways that you can make tht specific character from a specific story, really unique and separate from your other characters.

6. some practical writing tips

be yourself, write for your own pleasure, blah blah blah; yeah you know already haha but here are a few more practical tips!

grammar check: if you can, try and hone your grammar! makes for an easier read

write like you: i personally LOVE this by obiwrites, but even the way she writes exudes her personality and is so specific; try not to be caught up in adding hundreds of synonyms and exquisite language; in fact, simpling it down and being more concise and honest with your writing is better than a superfluous sentence; this will also give ur characters so much more dimension and funk

use those commas/sentence variation: try to use more commas; this will feel like you’re the narrator to your own story; it also makes it more fluid to read in my opinion, over those short. clipped. sentences. (ie. “he came over, sitting down on the corner of your bed with an expression you’d never seen before” over “he walked over. he sat down, looking sad.”)

half-half dialogue/narration: a fic with too much dialogue can get confusing, and a fic with too much narration can get dry; try to balance them out, and weave in and out of each!

quality over quantity: don’t feel burdened to write a 30k word fic. in fact, i think some of the shorter fics (ie. any of versigny’s stuff) made a bigger impression on me over the longer fics because they were short, left me wanting more, and were just so high-quality in such small quantities. try out your hand at drabbles and one-shots, and don’t feel too burdened to try and develop a series right off the bat!

abandon pigeon-holes: i’m guilty of this; i start series and then end up with no vision for the stories and they end up giving me writers block. its okay. just stop or discontinue them or leave them on a hiatus; it’s okay. your priority is yourself, and if abandoning certain works are part of that, then go ahead. it’ll help you progress more.

and finally.......

i’ll add more as they come up! but if you liked this, then pls lmk! i’d love to give more tips and tricks; i think i started this blog 3-4 years ago when there weren’t as many writers here, but im glad you’re thinking of starting out/wanting to grow more! don’t feel intimidated! it’s not all about the notes/followers but creating a blog you’re proud of.

so write what you’re proud of, or interested in, and keep going. i truly thoroughly had so much fun writing this post. if there are any writers who read through this and have some more advice, pls msg me!

all the best to you!

#writing tips #story talk #if ur a writer pls lmk if theres anything u wanna add #if ur a reader then pls lmk any questions or comments!

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outroshooky · 5 years ago

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whatever in heaven | knj

⇢ genre: series; part three (mafia!au) (angst, fluff, smut)

⇢ pairing: kim namjoon x reader

⇢ word count: 5.8k

⇢ warnings: smut (soft d/s dynamics. grinding, oral [m receiving], brief use of the word daddy, marking, gentler dirty talk [praise]) angst (implied usage and mention of knives, nightmare), some fluff. this fic is a bit of a mind-fuck; there are darker themes here, so please read with caution.

⇢ a/n: i’m so excited for you guys to read the next installment of verses & vibes! a huge, huge thank you to my beta readers @sunkoos (go check out nas’s work!) and @hobiswitch; an even bigger thank you to @guksheart for not only beta reading this fic but posting this for me because of laptop difficulties!

...which leads me into, unfortunately, some bad news. my laptop crashed permanently over the weekend and i may have lost all of my files. i’m working to get them back, but this also means i have to buy a new laptop. thus, verses and vibes (and my writing in general) may go on hiatus until i can figure out a way to keep writing and posting new content. more updates forthcoming— for now, enjoy whatever in heaven!

“i know not if i could have borne

to see thy beauties fade;

the night that follow’d such a morn

had worn a deeper shade:

thy day without a cloud hath pass’d,

and thou wert lovely to the last,

extinguish’d, not decay’d;

as stars that shoot along the sky

shine brightest as they fall from high.”

⤷ and thou art dead, as young and fair; lord byron (george gordon)

It is always the same in the beginning.

He is kneeling on a concrete floor that goes on as far as he can see, cold and callous against the skin that peeks from the stringy rips in his pajama pants. A single light flickers above his head, murky cream, faded with age. His arms are bound behind his back with braided rope, biting vengeance into his tender wrists. His exhalations wisp pale smoke, rushing from his lips to touch the folded legs of a woman sitting just out of the ring of wired lamplight.

The supports of the chair are metal; he momentarily ponders how her skin isn’t dotted with gooseflesh through the thin fabric of her dress, but her cherry-red heels catch the light in a way that has his breath hitching. Something in him presses to reach out to her but he can’t, straining against his bonds like a feral cat caged. He snarls, a gritting sound in the silence of the warehouse, and she hums something seductive in return.

It is a dark heat that kindles in the pit of Namjoon’s stomach when he realizes he is staring at temptation herself, clothed in cherry pumps and scarlet lipstick. She is the antithesis of everything he should have and yet, yet—

He craves her more and more with every second that goes past. He doesn’t need to see her face to know that she is hauntingly beautiful, a devil crafted from memory, sent from hell to tempt him in all the ways she knew how. The blooming lust in his veins climbs with viney fingers straight to his brain, his head spinning, flying high; he barely knows what to believe. Somehow, she’s pulling on the strings of his thoughts, a marionette and his master dancing on the brink. One wrong string and the puppet collapses in a heap of cloth and kindling.

He groans, the sound of frustration and need echoing on and on in the dim room. She laughs velvet rich, sickeningly sweet. He wishes he could rend the binds from his arms, crawl to her, worship her the way she deserves; he shuffles forward an inch, two—

A plain black combat knife skitters to a stop in front of him, twirling once before coming to rest, just grazing his left kneecap. Resting potential against the crook of his leg, and he sucks in a breath when he feels the chilled edge level against the puckered scar on his knee.

She doesn’t speak, but Namjoon knows exactly what she means to say.

Thoughts clamor at the base of his skull, hissing seduction like a writhing mass of coiled snakes snapping for attention. They strike at one another, seeking dominion, and he’s nearly consumed by the din. A choice, cut out for him by the hands of fate, burned in the ashes of every decision he’s ever made. It boils down to this, to him and her and everything in between.

At one pellucid flicker of insanity, his hands are freed.

The ropes fall frayed to the floor and he straightens, rubbing at the burn in his forearms, rolling his neck to loosen the strain. His eyes flicker to her mass in the darkness, the shape of her just touched by the faintest tendrils of light. She is just out of reach, but so close, so far when her head tilts, a hint of fascination. He is mortal, she is eternal— a man reduced at the end of the day, stripped of money and power and the demons that lick at his heels. Greed is his master, but she is his, coveted in the secrecy of this cushioned nightmare.

He knows though, in the deepest reaches of his twisted soul, that only one of them will leave the warehouse alive.

In this horrible, shattered husk of reality, only one of them is destined to live.

And somehow, the choice has fallen to him.

Pick up the knife. Pick it up, feel it in your hands, smooth and weighted, perfectly balanced. Everything you’ve ever wanted is in the palm of your hands. Make the right choice. Do it for me, baby. For me.

Namjoon is pitted against his own self-preservation, warped desires clamoring for attention, needy yet sick. Needy, he is so fucking needy, but for what? Anticipation itches the back of his neck; he can barely think when the handle melds into the curve of his palm with such a sinful fit. The metal glints promise of things yet to come, but when he tilts the blade towards himself, he sees only the industrial struts that crosshatch the ceiling, the dust that hovers thick in the clogged, choking air. Emptiness and fulfillment, hand in hand, only a breath away.

You know what the answer is, Kim Namjoon. Do it. Do it for me.

Does he know? He must know, deep in the recesses of his bones. Deep inside the fucked-up mind of his, playing tricks on him; a trickster, what trickster? The last of his sanity is threatening to drip, melting like liquid wax onto the cool, callous cement. It’s bubbling in his hands, pouring through the gaps between his fingers, but when he shakes his head, a mad dog, it solidifies molten silver, black titanium.

Do it for me.

Do it for her.

He must.

Namjoon’s eyes flicker to her calf, following the silk of her skin to the hem of her saccharine dress; it flutters scarlet just out of reach. He’s on his knees now; there’s something pulling at him, some indeterminable force dragging him through the floor. The blade slips; the knife twists in his hands as he falls forward, and—

The air rushes out of Namjoon’s lungs as he writhes himself awake, mouth agape in an silent scream. He’s wheezing with the first rush of oxygen into his lungs, his lips swollen with gnashing of teeth as he twists away from the warmth settled next to him in the sea of rippling sheets, curling in on himself.

“Namjoon, are you alright?”

The broken man lifts his head, taking in the naked form upright in bed beside him, hair awry, concern bleeding every word.

It’s you.

He’s safe.

Indeed, Namjoon has had many dreams, but none quite like this one.

It is as if the very breath was sucked from Namjoon’s lungs when he first wrested himself awake in a cold sweat. Control is something he craves, something he owns save the late night hours when it is ripped from his hands by the sick desires of his own brain, playing tricks on him. He exercises his grip on every minutiae of his life, but when his eyes flutter shut and his conscience takes hold, it wraps a silken tie around his thoughts and begs him to pay attention.

You’re calling his name in a voice burdened by drowsiness. He knows you were awoken because of him but he can’t seem to think, to do anything else but sit here in this bed, in these rippling creamy sheets, and feel his lungs fill, empty. Fill, empty.

“Namjoon, love, breathe with me, okay?”

Breathing. Breathing is all he has been reduced to, a creature of the night with oxygen in his lungs and demons in his head.

You take his hand in your own, feels the slim digits trembling against your skin. You rub gentle circles into his knuckles and it somehow grounds him in the midst of the chaos, the overwhelming flood conjured from his worst nightmares. He watches as you carefully trace every crooked angle of his fingers with your own.

It is this simple motion that produces new thoughts, a mental clamor not of his own demise but for his own safety, the protection that he seeks. You are so much more than the sum of your parts: you are safety in the midst of a den of ruby-eyed cobras simply begging for a chance to strike. He’s never thought of anybody the way he thinks of you; there is no one else who comes close to you, and that’s saying a lot when it comes to his line of work.

“Namjoon, you’re safe, okay? You’re safe with me. We’re in our bedroom. You’re still the head of the most feared crime ring in the country. Nothing has changed. Yoongi is just outside the door; I’m right here. Nothing has changed, baby. You’re safe.”

Your words are warm against his skin, dotted with the press of lips to his temple, his cheek. You’re burning up against him, sweat beading at the roots of his hair, the silver strands falling low into his eyes. Somehow, the heat only serves to make him cooler, and he’s nestling into your arms before his mind catches up to his body. He’s safe. Somehow, in the roaring din of his mind, he is safe. His demons won’t follow him here, locked outside the door, palms scrabbling at the windows. The windows. Namjoon’s eyes flick to the glass and find the shades drawn, blocking out the ambient light that hovers thick on the other side. Bulletproof, he insisted, and for good reason. But Yoongi would have called if there was a problem, and he’s got Seokjin at the front gate, and it begins to seep in, sweet relief, that he truly is safe.

He is cradled to you like a child, a position compromising for a man of his stature, but he knows you won’t judge. Your hand trails from his thigh to his hip, his ribs to his shoulders, and your fingers nest in his hair, gently scratching his scalp. Lord knows he won’t be able to close his eyes until daylight breaks over the dark oak floor of your shared bedroom, but he hums and noses at your neck. You smell like sage and lavender with a touch of his own cologne, a memory of last night, and he inhales deeply, tries to savor the muskiness.

“You’re okay baby, I promise.” A kiss to his temple, another grounding touch. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you; you’re safe right here with me. Just let me love you, okay baby?”

Love. Love, a concept Namjoon knew better by verbal parry than by any real, tangible memory. It was wielded by a father he barely knew, an absent mother who preferred the company of socialites to the company of her own son. It was really a wonder he found it in him to love at all, really; he’d assumed he’d leave such an emotion to those who built a life out of a 9-5 day and mediocre sex. He’d been proven wrong, however, when you came along— you, once a high-profile escort in the dirty underworld he’d built for himself, proved yourself a worthy companion when you stayed beyond his guttural moans and dirty secrets. It was in fact, a moment like this when he realized he quite enjoyed your company, and there was something more to it than just a good fuck, an easy pussy.

You were the closest thing to real love he’d ever experienced, a home to come back to that wasn’t a prowling security team and a clean gun barrel. He’d exposed the grittiest parts of himself to you, the most private secrets and still you came back for more. You were just as fucked up as he was, really, and that was his favorite thing about you. You’d killed for him and he knew you’d kill again, and that was, very plainly, the matter of things.

Plus, that mouth made him see the stars more times than he’d willingly brag about at the poker table.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, exposed through the lip of your shirt (his shirt, actually). It’s a careful kiss, chaste for him. Your fingers rub comfort into the base of his skull and he swears he could purr, an alley cat sleek and pleasured.

“You doing okay, Joonie?” Your eyes tell him everything he needs to know and he nods, unsure if he trusts himself to speak. Fear still gnaws at his bones, muted terror of a red-heeled succubus and a silver blade that gleams in the lamplight. Somehow though, you know, scraping the blunt of your fingernails against his roots. “You don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want to. I’m here regardless of that, you know me.”

Namjoon noses the column of your neck in reply, folding his sizeable frame until it molds against yours. Some things he’d never let the boys know about, but some things, he thinks, they knew about already. He is hard and cold and calculated yet soft and warm and comforting, a living contradiction unto himself; you’d never believe it if you hadn’t seen it yourself. A complexity of men who prefers to live by the simplest of rules, but you’d learned long ago not to try to understand something that was fucked-up from the start. Some things in this world were just fucked up, and that was the way they were meant to be.

Neither of you know how long you sit there, adrift in messy sheets, dry eyes gritty with the lateness of the hour. Your hand weaves through Namjoon’s hair as the vines around his heart flex, their thorny stems unraveling. He stopped shaking minutes before, but if you know anything about him, the internal tremors never cease, not outside of the safety of this bedroom, impossible with the life he lives.

He stirs a little, murmurs your name against your neck, his lips brushing bare skin and the small freckle that dots just above your collarbone. There’s something so intimate, so human about it, screaming vulnerability that hangs open and aching in the silence. His hands slide smooth across the breadth of your back, your waist, palms settling atop your thighs as he draws back slowly, slowly.

There’s a question in his eyes, one you meet with your own.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He hesitates.

“Namjoon…”

He swallows, tilts his head, steals a kiss. “I’m sorry.” Then another.

With the third you’re pulling away, chest steady, finger to his lips. “Namjoon, you’re not thinking clearly. We can’t do this right now—”

“Says who?” He is breathless with the thought. “I wanna make you feel good, baby. You deserve that.”

The sweetest words wrap themselves around the breadth of your bones, melting between the gaps. He’s always been so good with his tongue.

“Namjoon, I wanna make you feel good too, but not when you’re like this.” You shake your head. “Not when you’re waking up screaming about death and knives and all sorts of horrible things.”

His hands brush your curves. “If this bed is an ocean, I wanna drown in you.”

“Joonie…”

It’s so easy to work at you, the sharper edges that he can dissect piece by piece. He knows exactly how far to push, what little to say to reel you in hook, line, and sinker. “Just go with it baby, alright? Just trust me.”

It’s easy to fall into Namjoon, collapsing every time as he folds around you. His head tilts to the side as he leans in, his nose brushing your own. He tastes like mint toothpaste and something uniquely him, an element you can never place but when he’s exposing the most vulnerable parts of himself to you like this. His mouth moves easy against yours, just tender lips, warm kisses. His hand smoothes up your spine to cradle your neck, thumb brushing at the nape, the soft hairs that tickle the back of his hand. “Just relax baby, relax.”

Once more. “Joonie, are you sure you’re okay with this?”

He nods. “I want this.”

He’s never been one for kissing but tonight he craves it, the simplicity of two mouths and hands that fit themselves perfectly against the curves and the edges. Musk curls under your nose as your eyelids flutter shut, dusting the apples of your cheeks a pinkish hue. Your hands meet his chest, burning with heat through the oversized Grateful Dead shirt he wears to bed with you, and they slide to his shoulders when he slips an arm underneath you to tug you closer.

You settle atop the apexes of his thighs, legs folding around him as he gazes up at you. The utmost adoration he has for you, written in the stars and in two hearts that beat as one, rattling against their cages with a need for closer, closer, closer. Fear melts underneath practiced fingertips and patience; he’ll be damned if he doesn’t return the favor. His eyes, usually tawny and mellow, burn blacker than charcoal but sweeter than syrup, running with emotion. It’s evident in every brush of his hands against your bare skin when his fingertips edge under the hem of your shorts, the gleam in his eye that warns of everything that is about to come. One hand supports your back as the other squeezes your thigh, and you can’t help but smirk down at him with the easy smile that tugs at his own kiss-bitten lips.

You aren’t smirking, however, when he leans in and nips a bite at your neck, teasing with his teeth, making you whimper and whine atop him. His tongue pokes between his lips, assuaging the pain, and your own mouth falls open as your fingers clench at his shoulders, nails sliding a lazy path along his spine. He licks once at the bite, then once more until he’s satisfied with the petaled violet that blossoms across the breadth of your throat. He nibbles a matching purple rose on the other side; you can feel the smile on his lips when your mouth shamelessly tips open and you stutter out his name.

“Hm, what is it?” When he draws back, you moan a singular complaint. “What do you want, love? I’ll give you anything you want.”

“W-Wanna make you feel good,” you pant, eyes fluttering. “Wanna make you feel so good.”

“I wanna make you feel good too, baby. Let’s just focus on the now, yeah?” Namjoon’s hand squeezes your thigh but you’re already pressing your body flush to his, kneeling over him. You cup his face and he strokes your wrist lightly, the most tentative of touches, thanking god that somehow, in the midst of the lion’s den, you’d found him. He had you and he knew he could trust you, trust the smell of your shampoo and the heat of your skin. “Focus on me.”

You lean down to kiss him, brushing his cheekbones, tangling your hands in his hair, but apparently, Namjoon had other plans. His lips graze your own, trailing the edge of your jaw to pepper the lightest kisses at your ear and move lower, lower. When his mouth lavishes the column of your neck with the utmost pleasure, you can’t help but feel your core ache, the purest whines permeating the thick air as you beg. He’s definitely hard now, weight against the inside of your thigh, and the temptation— no, the need to grind down on him sparked the fuzziest pleasures in your mind, the most sinful ideas.

“Please Joonie, please feels so good, please, w-wanna—”

When Namjoon mouths wet at the shell of your ear you writhe, losing control with each second that slips between your fingers like sand. His lips burn fire against your already heated skin, sizzling and crackling like a live wire under his touch. You hiss and he growls deep in the back of his throat, continues his ministrations.

“I forgot how much you liked that,” he breathes shakily.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you gasp, releasing your iron grasp on his roots. Luckily he’s unfazed; damn lucky you to be with someone who actually enjoyed their fair share of kinkiness. “So fucking hot and you’re so thick, I can feel it—”

When you grind down on him, pressing yourself onto the growing bulge in his slacks and swiveling your hips with practiced ease, he groans feverishly. With every brush of the head of his cock, he’s harder than before, memory weighty in the palm of his hand. He chokes on the breath in his lungs, his nails blunt on your back, and he moans once in content. Feels so fucking good.

“God, baby, you’re gonna ruin me like this,” Namjoon chuckles.

“Maybe that’s the intention,” you trill.

“Fuck.” The word lies heavy in the air, heavy on his bated breath.

You smirk, sinful seduction in his ear. “And what if I did this?”

As his eyebrows furrow, you ease yourself onto his thighs, so strong and sinewy. Your fingertips slip down his shoulders, trace every muscle that strains under his loose sleep shirt. Beneath the fabric is the coiled power of a lethal creature, a tiger poised to devour his prey. And he is utterly wrapped around your finger, letting his head tip back against the headboard with a sigh. He’s lost in your touches, an angel fallen from heaven, no idea which way is up or down.

You rub circles into his hip bones; he twists under you. Practically begging with his gasps, knowing what awaits him. Your fingers toy with the hem of his boxers and he’s hissing between his teeth. “Baby…”

You hum a response, press a kiss to the shell of his ear.

“Please…”

“Oh Namjoon,” you coo. “You’re a mess, baby.”

He is. Hair sticking to his forehead, sweat gleaming at his temple; he’s a model for destruction, the dirtiest of kinds. Hips arching underneath you, and there’s a wet spot that stains the fabric. He smiles somehow, teeth flashing in the low light. “All for you.”

You withdraw, spit into your palm. “Then you get all of me.”

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, finds his cock, thick and hard. At the first stroke, lazy and full, he can’t stop the raspy grunt that leaves his throat. “Shit, baby. Feels so good.” When you lower your head to mouth at him over his sweats he practically writhes, begging, needy. So unlike him, but a welcome change to see him falling apart, falling apart over you. The fabric is soaked with saliva and dotted with a pearl of cum, a carnal work of art.

You rub slowly down his length, thumbing the swollen head leaking his seed. It’s messy and wet and he’s moaning and it’s all worth it, worth it to see him wrecked like this. His balls are heavy in your palm; when your eyes flutter up to meet his, wide and expectant, Namjoon hisses. That sound enough jolts burning heat between your thighs, twisting devilishly in your stomach. “B-Babygirl?”

There’s question in the word, question that makes you pause. You moan against his clothed cock; he chokes on his words.

“Can I make you feel good too?”

A sloppy kiss pressed to his member. “Later, okay? I wanna focus on you right now, Joonie.”

His hand strokes through your hair, flyaway, disheveled. “You’re so good to me. So fucking good—” He chokes on the downstroke, fingers tightening out of reflex. “Want you so bad.”

You press. “How bad? Bad enough to want my mouth?”

“Shit, your mouth,” he whines. “Want your mouth, want you—”

“Joonie,” you murmur.

His heartbeat resounds like gunfire in the ringing silence.

“Lift.”

He lifts his hips as you tug, pulling his sweats down to his thighs, the fabric ridged underneath your perch. His cock falls free, standing slightly crooked against his still-clothed abdomen, rippling with tension. It twitches under the heat of your gaze, steadily seeping liquid bliss, and your mouth waters at the thought. It’s been so long since you took him like this; when it’ll happen again, who’s to say.

You pepper kisses along his thighs just to hear him whimper, feel the predator writhe in his own constraints. His hands burn their own trails along the curves of your body, spreading heat in their wake as you cave to your own desire, slipping a hand between your thighs when you take him in your mouth with practiced ease. He’s firm under your fingertips, lithe and sleek and powerful in all the right ways, but he falls apart when it comes to you, crumbles like rock under the breath of the tidal wave. He grunts sin from between gritted teeth but whines complaint when you pull back to tease, to draw things out. He’s gentle in his touches but firm in his demands, even through the cottony billows of his neediness.

“I-I’m close,” Namjoon stutters, skin crimson from lavished attention. There’s saliva smeared down your chin and tears twinkle liquid starlight on your lashes, but you’ve never felt more electrified, burning up at the seams for him. From the heated confines of your throat you withdraw his cock with a firm touch at the base, his fingers running through your mussed locks.

“Where do you want to cum, baby?”

He squirms. “Fuck. Wherever you’ll take m-me—” He shudders, ribs heaving. Your fallen angel, shattering under your touch. “Oh shit, I’m gonna cum for you, babygirl.”

“Cum for me, angel. Cum for me...” you murmur, gaze level with his own as you wrap your lips around his member.

“Gonna cum for you, fuck—”

“Daddy.”

The cavernous heat of your mouth is a slick warmth, so wet and warm and utterly divine. He loses himself in it, lets himself go, pushing towards that edge of no return, riding the crest of the wave as it rolls faster, harder, heavier. “‘M gonna fucking cum. Oh god, fuck, shit, babygirl, I’m cumming, I’m—”

A drawn out groan fills the air, raspy and thick and throaty as he thrusts into your mouth once, twice, spills over. He’s bitter on your tongue, acrid but you take it, swallow it all. It’s worth it to see the pleasure overtake him, to see him let go of every capacity and capability to fall drowning, dizzy. Whatever in heaven, above or below, he’s tumbling headlong into it, collapsing into himself like a burning star falling from the cosmos.

He’s the first to break the silence that falls, withdrawing himself and tucking his softening cock back in his sweats with a remarkable amount of composition for a man who’d just seen the very sparks of the universe behind closed eyelids. He chuckles breathless, bated. “Fucking hell, angel.”

You try to speak but merely croak at first, throat grating dry. He hushes you soothingly, easing you back on the pillows now soaked with sweat. “Let me get you some water, yeah? Just stay here for now.”

You whine a complaint— shouldn’t you be taking care of him?— but he’s insistent and already on his feet, legs shaky as he heads towards the bathroom. There’s a pang in your chest watching him go, the reality of the situation settling in, and vulnerability flowers in your heart.

The tap squeaks; the faucet runs. Room temperature water, not too hot but not too cold to soothe the burn in your esophagus. He knows you better than anyone, knows how to take care of you when you fail to take care of yourself, life spent always on the run. You’re the one holding him when his nightmares consume him, the steel that he draws from his belt to wield before him, the ultimate weapon. Yin and yang, black and white, blooming nebula and neutron star. The water turns off, a grating complaint.

It’s been too long; you’ve delayed too much. Play to his fantasy; he has no idea what’s coming.

“If the water’s not enough, I can send Yoongi for some tea— oh.”

Oh.

You are no longer prostrate, the limp rag doll exhausted from her play. No, you are stretched out on the bed, ass up on your hands and knees, silver glinting between your teeth as a pair of handcuffs dangles in the air. You are looking at him with fire smouldering deep in your eyes, blazing a burning glare straight through him.

The predator has become the prey.

“Daddy,” you purr, right on cue. “Come here.”

It’s automatic, the way Namjoon moves towards you, glass forgotten on the nearby dresser. He’s completely transfixed, fascinated by the possibilities, and when he reaches the end of the bed, you stop him with one outstretched foot, bare with the lateness of the hour. “Turn around.”

He’s so submissive, so compliant simply by the force of his own surprise. It’s hard to keep going, hard to push through the adrenaline thrumming through your blood, the underlying current that threatens to sweep you away, too. But you mustn’t listen, mustn’t feel.

“Hands behind your back, Joonie, baby.”

He’s perfect, perfectly whole in the way he follows each command that falls from your lips like silk spun thread. He surrenders himself so willingly to you, it stings raw.

You rise to your feet, level with the back of him. Your fingers make quick work of the cuffs and with a firm click, the deed is done.

With a tender motion that surprises even you considering the brevity of the situation, you wrap your arms around your torso, bury your face in his skin, inhale his scent. Amber and citrus. Musk and spice. Whole contradictions that somehow manage to summarize him perfectly. You whisper against his spine like it’s a secret. “I’m so sorry.”

“What, baby?”

You can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, thudding rapid with excitement, wonder at what lies ahead of him. Guilt roars its ugly head and you beat it back with double the force.

You stiffen, step away from him. Four years you’d waited to formulate these words, to hear them drop from your lips, plummeting on high. Four years and now the moment is here, and you swallow past the lump in your sore throat.

“Kim Namjoon, you are under arrest for charges of extortion, murder, murder-for-hire, drug possession, and arms trafficking. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…”

“...Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

You’re sitting in the open door of a police cruiser, more specifically a SWAT cruiser, an aluminum blanket wrapped around your bare shoulders. The air is warm, but you can’t stop shivering.

Seokjin paces fifteen feet away from you, ever more handsome in his suit and tie. Hoseok is finishing his interview of the conclusion, anticlimactic for the better. Yoongi’s legs dangle from the open doors of one of the ambulances called when your colleagues expected the worst. Thankfully, no casualties had occurred but a sprained ankle, a fight between one of your fellow law enforcement officers and that guy that manned the back gate. Everyone can go home, rest easy.

After Seokjin’s interview is yours, and you realize by the time Hoseok is asking the last question that you don’t remember a single word of what you’ve said. Elite agents taking down the biggest crime boss in the country are not supposed to feel so empathetic, so broken. Guilty. Regretful.

Four years, the longest and most dramatic chase of your career. Justice fell, a swift hammer; you’d saved the day once again, added another face to the chalkboard in your sterile office a thousand miles away. You’d won. Hadn’t you?

There’s a faraway look in your eyes that Hoseok somehow understands, a glimmer of something more than success. He straddles the age gap between the members of the team, incorporating Jeongguk’s youthfulness with his elders’ experience, the glue of it all handed the most important task. He calls your name. “You’ve been out of it the entire time I’ve been interviewing you. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.”

But there’s no bite to the words, no whet of passion. They fall flat below the crackle of radios, the mist that reflects red and blue through the evergreen trees scraping the stars winking high above.

Hoseok puts his pen and clipboard aside. “Hey,” he says. The kindness in his tone pierces daggers through your heart. You somehow would’ve been more comfortable if he had yelled at you. “You did the right thing. He hurt a lot of people. Killed many more, and did so without remorse.”

That’s what you think, you want to scream. Because to you, he is some foreign criminal, far removed from any last dregs of humanity. He is a monster and a crook and a fiend, twisted into something unrecognizable, but you didn’t see what I saw. Did you see the warmth in his eyes when he rolled over and buried himself in my arms all those mornings in bed? Did you see the way he saved those dogs about to be euthanized in a shelter, because those pups reminded him of how he used to feel, staring death in the eyes every day? Did you see the way he loved me?

Hoseok pats your shoulder. “I’ll put in a month and a half of vacation time for you when we get home. Lord knows you’ve earned it. And we can rest tonight, rest for the first time in a while. We’ve got a nice hotel an hour away from here, top floor. We’re not done flushing out the rest of his boys, but that can wait for now. We can handle that on our own; they’re scattered all over the continent anyways. It’ll take time.” He picks up his supplies, turns to move on to Yoongi. The look in the elder man’s eyes, the special ops agent thinks, is exactly the same as your own. What had you two seen in that hellhole?

You tuck the blanket tighter around yourself and nod once. It’s the most you can do.

Hoseok smiles, but it’s not quite the beaming, sunshine-filled glow he usually carries about himself. “You did good work and I’m proud of you. Get some sleep, agent.”

Sleep does not come for a long, long time.

When it does, it eats away behind your eyelids, filling your mind with visions of a man adrift in an ocean of bedsheets, rocking on the waves of an endless concrete floor that goes for miles and miles, whispering promises of things to come that never would be.

Kim Namjoon is sentenced to life in prison for six counts of murder, fifteen counts of extortion, three counts of murder-for-hire, six counts of drug trafficking, three counts of arms trafficking, and two counts of drug possession.

He never makes it to see his twenty-sixth birthday.

#bts #bts smut #bts fluff #kpop fluff #namjoon smut #namjoon angst #kpop fanfiction #bts au #verses and vibes #outroshooky

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creamypudding · 5 years ago

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The endless chain of writers-block and its effects on productivity

Heyo!

I just thought I'd give an update as to what's happening in regards to writing projects, for anyone wanting to know.

I have a lot of things going on and not enough attention span to stick to any one particular thing. My To-Do list is 18 projects strong and in the last three months I've worked on 4 things (technically 5 if you wanna include Barbershop Duet which I had only minor tweaks needed in order for me to consider it complete enough to post), trying to complete one, getting stuck or bored or uncertain and then sought refuge in another story, only to get stuck, bored, or uncertain in that one and moving on to the next one, etc.

It's been a bit of a hard slog, TBH.

But just to list the four ongoing projects, because I want to get them done in the next 12 months -

The project which took up a lot of my time has been The Anomaly: part 2, which is my Axel is a demon AU. The first part you can currently read on AO3. I've had a very solid plan for that since I first published it a year ago. I wanted to have the story finished for Halloween this year, but the project grew too big. Part 2 is done (but not uploaded), and I have a part 3 and 4 to write now. I got hopelessly stuck on part 3 and moved on to another story, which I'll talk about below. But going back to The Anomaly for a moment - I'm very excited about this story. It's the biggest project I've got going because it has a lot of off-shoot projects attached to it, which I look forward to delving into once I'm done with the main story. And the main story is a beast. I've re-written large parts of part 1 to make it cohesive with the subsequent parts. I added an extra 5000 words to it, bringing the word count up to 40k. I haven't updated the story yet and won't do so until I'm ready to post parts 2, 3 and 4, and I'm not sure when that might be. Part 2 is over 30k, and while I'm not sure about the length of part 3 (esp since I'm so horribly uninspired and stuck on it) but it might be long once I get back into it. I think part 4 will also be quite long as well, as that is the part I’m really looking forward to writing. So you see, it is definitely a project I'm really enjoying... when I'm not stuck on it, and I’m stuck on it because of a POV change. God damn. So I dropped The Anomaly and moved on to this 'short' AkuRoku smut drabble I have to write for a friend, which should be the easiest because it was just supposed to be smut but I got bogged down in backstory and motivations and character drives like I usually do. I got up to a certain point and gave up on it. It feels like I've been working on it for ages but only have like 3000 words of writing to show for it. Also, an added fun bonus (not) of difficulty was a very unexpected crisis I had in regards to writing tense. I had started writing this story in past tense, but then going back to it after spending so much time living and breathing The Anomaly (like I was crazy prolific, writing about 50k in the span of maybe 3 weeks) I couldn't write past tense anymore. I basically rewrote what I had for this AkuRoku story in present tense and continued going with it, until I hit a brick wall and moved on from it.

The project I went on to work on is something I've had sitting on the ‘to be completed’ pile since October 2017. I'm very close to finishing it. Possibly two more chapters, but I am terribly uninspired about writing it too because it's hard. It's a Clack and AkuRoku story, where Cloud and Roxas as brothers (I love that familial relationship). It's also written in past tense, so of course I had a really hard time switching gears from the present tense high I was on from the previous two projects to the past tense this story needed. I thought about re-writing this Combo story but... I had already written too much to warrant the effort of rewriting the whole thing. So I had to stick to past tense and that was insanely hard. It had me in tears. It had me pulling at my hair and doubting that I would ever be able to write anything cohesive and meaningful ever again. Everything I had written felt like crap because I now feel like past tense is too passive. I really enjoy the impact of present tense. So everything I read and wrote felt like swill.

In the midst of my crisis, I’ve now decided to exclusively write in present tense once I finish the past tense stories. It's also why I haven't gone back to The Anomaly and the AkuRoku story, because I'm scared of getting stuck in present tense mode again. It was really fucking hard to break out of that mindset to write past tense again, so I don't want to relive that experience.

Anyway, predictably, I got stuck on the above project and moved on to the current project which I'm writing. It's pure Clack. I started writing it in September 2017. Back in 2017 I got stuck on this Clack story, moved on to writing the Combo story above, and got stuck on that and started writing what became the behemoth that is The Two Penguins, which consumed two years of my life. But this Clack story is my true passion project. It's the thing I love and cherish the most. It's the thing I've been longing to get back into writing the most. Clack is my OTP, above AkuRoku. It's the pair I fear writing because I feel I can't do it justice; writing Cloud is hard. AkuRoku is my comfort ship. My easy ship. The ship that's as easy to do as breathing. Clack is breathing while climbing Everest, but I love it, and I am determined to finish it (until I get stuck on it and feel tempted to move on to something else 😅). I am three chapters away from finishing this Clack story. I'm having serious concerns about getting stuck after I finish chapter 7 because I think chapter 8 is a POV shift, which (as you may recall was also the thing that made me give up on The Anomaly) is always challenging for me. But God damn, I love Clack. I love this story and I want to finish telling it and exploring really heavy issues around recovery from severe physical and mental trauma (’cause that’s the way I roll).

Anyway... these are the four projects I've got going at the moment and hope to finish in the next 12 months.

Clack Clack/AkuRoku AkuRoku The Anomaly (I don’t have any solid titles for any of the above stories, bar this one, as I did publish the first part of it, so ship names to identify the stories will have to do)

I want to finish the stories In that order. I'm least excited about the two middle projects, So I figure if I stick The Anomaly at the end it will motivate me to finish the other AkuRoku fic.

If any of you would like to be pre-readers for any of these stories do hit me up. I might need you. When I have people I can talk to and brainstorm with about my current projects, it helps me feel motivated to stick it out and get it done.

Send me asks, chat with me on Twitter or discord. You can find all my handle ID's on my AO3 profile page.

Anyway, I initially came here because I wanted to procrastinate and rave about my Clack project, but I might leave the raving to another day. I've procrastinated enough.

#writing progress #procrastination #writing project

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onewhoturns · 5 years ago

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fictober.23.: the first appointment

#Fictober19 Prompt: 23. You can’t give more than yourself. Fandom: Oxenfree Characters: Jonas, Duke (OC) Rating: T (no warnings apply) Tags: Angst-ish, emo Jonas, mental health & therapy Word Count: 2802

So... I'm posting this in order to maintain Fictober, but in all honesty this is actually a side scene/side story to a previously mentioned project that is still in the works and has yet to be posted. There may be some spoilers for the beginning of that fic. This is more an exploration of who this AU's version of Jonas is, how he's been affected by the things in his life- I'm calling it 'emo Jonas' but it may not be the type of emo you're expecting, I don't know.

If you want to read it when it comes up in the fic, it's looking like that would be anywhere from chapter 6 to chapter 9 (we're still in the midst of writing at the moment), and I'll update the summary and add it in as a related work when that becomes applicable.

For now, if you still want to read now (and it's cool if you don't), enjoy Jonas's first meeting with Duke, with no context to the rest of the story.

An appointment. ‘Like a doctor’s visit.’ Yeah. Well, maybe.

“Hey. You want to come on in?”

Jonas holds his breath for a second, standing from the waiting room to follow the man inside. The guy is in his early 30s, brown hair with a bit of gray starting in, just barely this side of messy, with glasses that look like he should be drinking craft brews at some gastropub in Portland. Duke. That’s a name, alright.

“Nice to finally meet in person.”

Jonas just nods. He’s not great at speaking to new people. Took him a couple weeks to start talking in intake. But he has kinda met Duke before. A pretty long phone interview, not to mention emails. They wanted to find a good therapist, and Camena had options. He’d settled on Duke.

“It’s nice to have all the paperwork out of the way already. Kind of a waste of session time, really.”

Jonas’s brows raise as he tips his head in acknowledgment and agreement.

Duke has a leg crossed over the other, and Jonas realizes, in retrospect, that the guy is actually his height. Maybe an inch shorter, but pretty damn close.

“How tall are you?” They’re the first words out of Jonas’s mouth, but they do their part.

“Six three. On a good day, anyway.”

“Nice.”

“Shoe size?”

“13.”

Duke winces audibly. “Damn, you beat me. 12 and a half.”

Jonas smirks a bit. And the ice is broken.

“You came from school?”

Jonas’s eyes wander to the side table between his chair and the unoccupied couch. He reaches for some kind of adjustable wire toy, turning it inside out and flipping it into different shapes. “Yup.”

“What’s your electives?” It’s a better question than ‘how was your day,’ at least. Duke’s foot is bouncing idly, as well.

“Gym and weight training; shop.”

“At CHS, right? Wilkinson still teaching wood shop?”

Wilkinson? “Yeah, I think that’s his name. Old guy, wears a lanyard with a whistle on it even though I don’t think he does any sports stuff?”

“Yep. He’s not too bad. Get him talking about baseball, that’s a thing. Does he still have that slugger in the workshop?”

“I… don’t know?”

“He’s got two, actually, I think. Louisville Slugger wooden bats, one official and one he made. If he still has it. I heard one year some kids stole it for a prank.”

“Kinda a dick move, the guy’s gotta be at least 70.”

“Yeah. Kids can be idiots. Present company excluded, of course.”

“Technically an adult, and I’d agree regardless.”

“When we talked before, you sounded kinda meh on the Individual Studies thing. How’s that looking?”

“It’s…” Jonas pulls a face. “Still meh on it. Some of the other kids are… ehh. Remind me of guys from North Valley, thinking they’re the shit. And the teachers - or whatever they’re called, aides? They’re a mixed bag. This one girl - woman, I guess - she seems pretty cool. Darcy. Good attitude, even if she seemed kinda fake at first.”

“I’m not sure I totally get what the course is, to be honest.”

“I mean, I’ve got three periods of it, it gets old fast. Though— I mean I guess they’re not all the same. First period for me seems more like�� learning skills?” Jonas winces. “I dunno, it’s kinda cringey sometimes. And then third is gonna be assessment stuff— kinda miserable, just packets of standardized test questions and shit like that. Last period is chill though. Basically like a study hall for me, working on the stuff from the tests. And I’ve been getting out a little early, so I can-” He stops.

Duke waits a second for him to continue, and when he doesn’t, he lifts his chin from looking at the pad of paper in his lap (where Jonas can see little geometrical doodles as well as his illegible scrawl of whatever he’s noting). “A reminder; mandatory reporting doesn’t include stuff like truancy, just plans to harm yourself or others. And I consider ‘plans’ to actually mean plans.”

“So… there’s this girl, right?”

“A friend?”

Jonas hesitates. “Yyeahhh…”

“Or… sounds like maybe not just a friend?”

He shakes his head, “No, definitely just a friend, just… kinda insane.”

“Fun fact; ‘insane’ is really a legal term.”

Jonas rolls his eyes. “Kinda wild, then. Her and this other guy, too. They kinda like… adopted me?”

“Is that a positive or a negative?”

“I think it’s a positive? But— right, my point was, it gives me time to dip out the back and then meet them in the other parking lot.”

“Why the other parking lot?”

Jonas shoots Duke a flatly skeptical look. “Well they’re not gonna come meet me over in the ‘special’ wing.”

Duke huffs out a short laugh. “Wow, okay, strong feelings about IS are still there I see.” Even as Jonas is rolling his eyes again, he goes on. “So the wild duo. What kind of wild? You think they’ll get in the way of treatment?”

That makes him think for a second. “Um… no? I dunno. The guy is kinda stupid rich and somehow has a line to a shit ton of weed, apparently. Which could be a problem.”

Duke’s brows have risen high. “Could be, yeah. Does your JPPO do random testing? Think being around them could mess with your results?”

Jonas shakes his head. “Nah, they’re scheduled. Every other two weeks. And that should be done by the end of June, and the testing might be ditched entirely when we go down to only meeting once a month. Plus apparently he’s more of an edibles guy, so I’m not super worried about anything accidental. I can always just keep away for a few days before testing, shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Even though you’ve been adopted?”

He snorts a bit at that. “Guess I can’t know for sure. Not too worried, though.”

“That’s good. How exactly did you manage to get adopted?”

“The girl was my tour guide first day. I guess she thought I was cool, ‘cause she introduced me to her friend and… I dunno. We exchanged numbers and stuff. Texted. They’re kinda high energy for me, but also-” Jonas hesitates, rolling his eyes before continuing. “It’s weird, ‘cause Alex is kinda… popular? She’s a total dork, constantly jokes about being a witch, but it feels like everyone knows her? And likes her? It’s weird.”

“Huh. Are you saying you think they shouldn’t?”

“I’m saying…” Jonas shrugs. “Eh. She’s nice enough, I get that. But like… I feel like at North Valley she would’ve been… I mean, not disliked. Considered annoying, maybe, in large doses. Not exactly a class clown, but that same idea. More of a subject of entertainment than friendship.”

“That’s an interesting way of seeing things.”

“What do you mean?”

“Analytical.”

Jonas considers that for a second. “…Maybe? It’s just kinda how the world is, I’m not complaining about it or anything.”

“Are you unhappy about it?”

He shrugs. “No? Like I said; it’s just how it is. People offer certain benefits, right? Sometimes that’s, like… like someone who always knows the homework. If we’re thinking concretely here. And then there’s the one who always has a pencil you can borrow. —It’s like a study group sorta analogy. There’s someone who’s able to get everyone together at once, and someone who can talk to the teacher and argue on your behalf, but who you might not want to spend time with outside of class ‘cause they argue with everyone. And there’s a class clown type, who’s really entertaining but can sorta get in the way if you’re trying to be serious.” Jonas pauses again. “I mean, there’s a lot. But everyone kinda has their strengths and weaknesses, right? It’s like a teamwork thing.”

“So where do you fit in this?”

He thinks for a moment, still playing with the wire cage. “I dunno. I have a car.” That’s part of it at least, even if other things come to mind as well.

“You think that’s what people see you for? Your car?”

Jonas’s lips pull. “I’m not saying that’s my only redeeming quality, I know I’m not just some dude with a car. That’s just, like, the prime benefit.”

“What else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your other ‘redeeming qualities.’”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m— I know I have them, okay? I’m- I have skills. But they aren’t- y’know, like, my function in a social group.”

“What if you didn’t have your car? You can’t give more than yourself— what qualities do you think you’re bringing.”

“…Alex seems to think my height is a benefit.”

“She obviously has not been 6’3 and attempted to sit in a compact sedan.”

Jonas cracks a smile. “Yeah it’s cute, she’s not tiny but both her and Ren are like… she said it before, I don’t remember what it was 5’5 or 6 or something. Joked about needing me to retrieve pickle jars or whatever.”

“So you’re the guy with the car and the pickle-getter.”

“Sure.”

“That all?”

“Well- I mean, the tall thing is also like—” he waves a hand, “-y’know, the other tall stuff.”

“Can’t say I know what you mean, apart from reaching things and being asked about the weather.”

“You know.” Jonas fidgets slightly. Duke has to know that part of things. “The kinda… intimidation thing.”

“How do you mean?”

Jonas’s lips pull again in that vague passing annoyance. “You know. Being tall and looking— not scary exactly, but like… imposing, I guess. Basically looking like someone you don’t want to mess with.”

“And that’s what you think you bring to a friendship?”

“Yeah. Like… like a bodyguard or something.”

“You think your friends are in danger you have to protect them from?”

“No- well.” He lets out a short sigh, a rueful smirk hooking his lips. “Not yet, anyway. And once they are, I’m betting they’ll have put themselves into it.”

“What does the whole ‘bodyguard’ thing mean, then?”

“Um.” A few images pass through Jonas’s mind, and he hesitates, face impassive for a second before he shrugs again. “Trying to keep her from getting hurt. I guess.”

“…That doesn’t really sound like something based solely on height.”

His fingers twitch, and Jonas’s ears feel warm. “Look, I spent a year in juvie for physical assault. It might not just be the height.”

“You think she wants you to fight for her? Is this like… an American Gladiators kinda thing, or…?”

The laugh is just a huff of breath, but the corners of Jonas’s mouth are lifting. “I don’t think she wants me to fight. I’m just— And I don’t want to fight!” he assures Duke. “But like… there’s probably some element of ‘this guy makes a good meat shield’ or whatever.”

“You ever think they might just… like you? Like just, as you?”

He snorts. “I— I’m not saying they don’t! I mean, at the very least they tolerate me, and I assume they must like me, otherwise we wouldn’t text all the time. It’s really easy to ignore someone’s texts and make excuses.” Jonas isn’t even mad about the question, it’s so far removed from how he feels. “I’m just saying that there’s this fringe benefit for them.”

“And is that how you see them, as well?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Honestly, they’re my allies right now. Not in a bad way - I like them, they’re fun - but at the moment their function in my social circle is connecting me to my new community, right? They’re transitional aids, like a kinda PREP thing. Or IS. I mean, she was a tour guide.”

“Sounds kinda dehumanizing.”

“It’s not meant to be. I’m— Look, we talked all the time about support systems and community engagement, and buying in, right? So, I’m building a support system of peers.”

Duke cocks his head, looking mildly bemused.

“What?”

“It sounds like you know the words pretty well.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t talk much. Mostly listened.”

“Is that really how you think about the people around you? As… I don’t know, bricks in your support structure?”

“I mean, it’s not the only thing I’m thinking. I like the company, I like the distraction, they’re fun. But…” Another one-shouldered shrug. “I dunno, man, call it a justification if you want.”

“What do you mean?”

Jonas sighs. “Gives me a reason to keep trying.” Again, it’s not said in anger, or even in sadness. Just a straightforward factual statement.

“What would you do if you didn’t think of things that way?”

“Can’t know for sure, obviously. But— I dunno. Call it distress tolerance. Giving them a function gives me a reason to tough it out. Like—” He pauses. “…Yeah, no, I can’t figure out an analogy for the brick thing. Sticking with people instead of being— transient.”

“Transient.”

“Kinda drifting around. Moving through things.”

“You think you’re transient?”

“I think I’d survive without friends. Until shit started to go wrong, I guess.”

Duke is quiet, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to parse the statement, considering. “…I’m not sure I get it.”

“I like people, but all the— politics, I guess. It stresses me out. I’d rather just… not. At least, in group things. School, juvie— the social dynamic is this constant thing where you’re maintaining. Don’t shit where you eat and all that. Don’t fuck it up, you’re stuck there. All this work to not make things worse for yourself. Honestly, I’d rather just see people when I see them. All day every day is… a lot.”

“…Can I ask you a question?” He’s leaning forward, and his tone is a different kind of curious than he has been.

“I mean… that’s literally all you’ve been doing.”

“Your residential center, your stepdown stuff— they had GED programs. Why come back to high school?”

Jonas is spinning the little wire toy around one finger steadily, keeping an eye on it to avoid having it fly off, even as he picks up speed. “Dad wanted me to.” His stomach dips, and his voice is a little quieter. “Mom would, too.” He’s silent for a second, still spinning. “And it’s supposed to be good for me. Community engagement, support structures, all that.”

“Why do you think they wanted you to do school?”

“I mean, my mom was a teacher. My dad… just wants me to be well-adjusted. I think he wants me to feel normal again.”

“What do you think?”

Jonas’s gut has been steadily, gradually, slowly but surely filling with lead. He breathes evenly. Too evenly. Actively making the attempt. When he speaks, it’s a low mutter. “Not sure that’s possible, if we’re being honest.”

“Why not?”

He shakes his head. “I dunno. Things just— changed. Can’t really undo that.”

“…I mean, I agree that you can’t live in the past. Things happened, you can’t undo them, but you also can’t spend every minute thinking about them. I know mindfulness tends to get a bad rap ‘cause it’s sort of trendy in the mental health field right now, but there’s definitely a ton of upsides to it.”

“I’m… vaguely familiar.” Jonas’s voice is a bit wry.

“So you know the whole idea of where you’re living. The goal is being present. So not living in the past, or in the future, but in the here and now, without judgment.”

“…Okay…”

Duke is still bouncing his foot a bit. “What do you think? Like— really consider it for a second. What that means.”

“What, living in the present?” Duke shrugs in a casual kind of confirmation. Jonas sighs, fixes his eyes on the therapist, and tries to do as asked. “…I guess I just feel like that’s asking for trouble.”

“How so?”

“I mean… thinking about the future is kinda important. Otherwise you fuck things up and can’t undo them.”

“Who says you can’t?”

Jonas snorts. “You? Like… a minute ago?”

“I guess— maybe it’s just the use of ‘undo.’ You can’t rewind and make something not have happened, but you can control how you handle the consequences, how you potentially repair the situation, your reactions to things, all of that. But if you’re constantly fearing every possible outcome of anything you do… you do nothing.”

“So you’re saying not to think of consequences. You want me to just go party and violate parole and not care what might happen?”

“Well, no.” Duke actually rolls his eyes. “Hell— it’s a delicate balance, right? But some part of that has to be just allowing yourself to exist without judgment.”

“O…kay?”

“Or analysis.”

“…Ah.”

“I mean, it’s not like I’m advocating underage drinking or drugs or truancy or anything, but… You’re out, y’know? You’re in this do-or-die headspace, but your situation has changed dramatically. Now’s your chance to go back to being a kid. Live a little.”

[source for AO3]

#fictober19 #oxenfree #jonas oxenfree #oxenfree fic #my writing #mach3 #cjgj #prompt fill #kinda

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joanofsnarrrk · 6 years ago

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Fic: as iron sharpens iron (Burn Notice) - 4K words & counting

SUMMARY: Somewhere along the way, at one point or another, Madeline tells them, “The three of you need to stick together.”

And that, more or less, is what they do.

So I know Burn Notice Week isn’t for a few weeks, but my work schedule is insane, and while I had a rare day off and moment to post, I seized it. More chapters will follow (one for each season) eventually. But for now, please enjoy the first part of as iron sharpens iron.

Can also be found on AO3.

————————————

Though one may be overpowered, Two can easily defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

—Ecclesiastes 4:12, NIV

—————————————

Somewhere along the way, at one point or another, Madeline tells them, "The three of you need to stick together."

And that, more or less, is what they do.

—

Even before he opens his eyes, Michael just...knows he's in Miami. Besides the humidity (he can feel the sweat pooling at his lower back) and the brilliant sunlight pouring through...wherever it's pouring in from (caves set high in the mountains of Afghanistan don't usually get a lot of natural light), he can hear the faint trace of calypso music coming in from outside.

So he doesn't actually need Fi to kick him with what feels like an especially sharp boot, but she takes it upon herself to do so anyway. Not that he knows it's her immediately. No, that little realization doesn't occur until after he momentarily blacks out from the pain (she was always a great markswoman, so it only makes sense that her foot connects directly to every single one of his cracked ribs) and before his head promptly begins pounding.

When he does finally see her (and hear her—he'd recognize that Irish brogue anywhere), it's...a lot. Especially since he halfway thought he would never see her again. Besides cosmetics (her hair's lighter, no bangs—she's tanner, too), she looks the same as she did the last time they were...together. And now she's here, in the flesh, complaining that he still has her listed as his emergency contact (he knew there was something else he needed to submit to H.R. when he last updated his W-4). It's equal parts comforting and completely unnerving.

There are countless questions running through his mind as he struggles to sit upright (who burned him, how can he contact his handler, is Fi still mad that he left, etc.?), but at least one of them is answered when Fi cheerfully admits that she contacted his mother.

Welcome to Miami.

—

Soon after, she ditches the accent. Buys a whole new wardrobe.

From a tactical standpoint, it makes sense—using camouflage to blend into your surroundings makes you a harder target to spot.

From a personal standpoint, it's still—well, she's—the whole thing is...it's a lot.

—

Sam Axe is what would happen if Magnum, P.I. ever did a reunion special where Magnum—a few decades older and well into retirement—started mooching off every widow and bored housewife in Oahu. And yet, unlike Magnum, with Sam it's a whole lot less grating and more...well, endearing.

With the exception of Fi (though even that might be stretching it at this point), he no longer has a secure network of people he trusts. Most of them, he assumes, went up in smoke alongside his job and identity the moment his burn notice was issued. That said, it's nice to see the familiar face of an old friend in the midst of it all.

Even if that friend sticks him with the bar tab when all he ordered was water.

—

It's practically an ambush, all things considered.

When Sam mentions his money laundering contact, Barry, and follows it up with, "We have to bring you up to speed, brother," Michael assumes he means an in-person introduction.

And it is, for all intents and purposes, an in-person introduction when Michael meets up with the two at Carlito's the next day...

But mostly, it's an ambush.

"So you're tellin' me Mike was absent for the whole dot-com boom?" Barry asks, as if Michael isn't sitting right there next to him. He's staring at Michael like he's the most fascinating installation at the Peréz Art Museum.

Sam, on the other hand, keeps looking at him with an almost insulting amount of pity. "'fraid so," he admits miserably, draining the last of his mojito. "Although he wasn't really absent, per se, just swamped with the whole covert black ops—"

"Sam," Michael cuts in, smile strained. "How about we avoid divulging classified intel to the stranger with the movie villain goatee I just met?" He looks Barry over once and holds up his hands placatingly. "No—well, some offense."

Barry frowns. "Some taken."

"Listen, Mikey, Barry's practically family," Sam says as he signals for the waitress to bring him a refill.

"Well," Barry clarifies, "estranged at best."

"Sure, fine." Sam redirects his attention back to Michael. "The point is: now that you're back in Miami, you have to be able to talk about non-job related topics. And that's pretty tough when you're not up to date on the last decade of popular culture."

Michael shifts uncomfortably. "I'm cultured," he insists, looking between both Sam and Barry. "For instance, the 2000 election? Here in Florida, there were hanging chads and—" Off their pained expressions, he switches tactics, having to dig deeper. "What about...?" He brightens. "J-Lo! She's still considered popular, right?"

Sam chuckles. "Not for the same reason you're thinking, Mike."

The waitress comes by with their drinks. Sam thanks her—his concluding wink almost subtle—but Barry looks like he might be sick.

"So, like...no American Idol?" he wants to know, his tone taking on an edge of urgency. "No Brangelina?" Michael shakes his head, wondering idly if Barry has started speaking Spanish somehow. "What about the Hilton twins? Or, even, Tom Cruise?"

"Wait, yes! He's the, uh, Top Gun guy."

"He was the Top Gun guy," Sam corrects. "Now he's just crazy."

Barry scrubs a hand over his face before downing his cocktail in one go. "I don't know, Sam. This is a much bigger job than you let on. I mean, I'm gonna have to clear my appointments for the day," he points out wearily, "and then I'm gonna have to deal with pissed off clients—wealthy and powerful pissed off clients."

Sam brushes him off. "Barry, this is for a worthy cause." He gestures over to Michael. "I mean, look at him!"

"I'm sitting right here," Michael reminds them through gritted teeth.

Ignoring him, Barry sighs and pulls his Blackberry out. Within seconds, he's shot out a half dozen texts containing haphazard apologies for the cancellations. "Fine," he relents. "Let's start with the basics."

"And make sure we touch on the 'Phins," Sam insists. "The last player Mike could name was Marino, and he hasn't been with the team since he retired in '99. It's embarrassing."

Michael emits a strangled sound of protest before he lets his head drop to the table with a soft, defeated thud.

—

No one is more surprised than Fi when Madeline, of all people, calls to invite her to play poker with her and some of the ladies from the neighborhood only a few short weeks after she makes the move to Miami permanent. With the exception of her sister, Claire, Fi has never really had many female friends. Not for lack of interest or trying, certainly, but the job does tend to have a frustratingly imbalanced male-to-female ratio.

So, obviously, she says yes. After all, it's not as though she could possibly decline. Not when Madeline had ended their phone call with an incredibly touching: "Fiona, honey, you're welcome over any time." And especially not when she can provide such crucial insight into Michael's early years.

In preparation, she finds the least threatening sundress she owns (A-line skirt, a floral pattern of goldenrods and peonies), and brings along a variety of snacks (surely these types of get-togethers operate like more civilized, less mind-numbingly boring stakeouts?).

When she arrives, Madeline greets her warmly with a hug (a bit of a surprise considering they've only ever spoken on the phone and haven't actually met in person before), places her snacks on the counter, and introduces her to the rest of the group. It's...nice. They're a friendly bunch: adorable retirees with a penchant for gossip and neighborhood intel that would put any spy to shame. A couple hours later, though, when she's down by nearly two hundred dollars, she has the sneaking suspicion it all may be a ruse designed to lull her into a false sense of security.

Oh, they are very good.

"So, Fiona," Evelyn asks her. She raises and throws a couple chips onto the growing pile at the center of the table. "How do you know Madeline's son?"

Fi takes in Evelyn's shockingly bright orange dye job as she thinks about how best to answer that question. Ex-girlfriend? Colleagues? Both invite their own share of difficult and obtrusive questions. She could go with "wife" (Michael would positively burst, she's sure of it), but Madeline would see right through that.

"He's my boyfriend." It's not...not true.

"How wonderful!" Madeline's other friend, Phyllis, exclaims. She has been knocking back Corona Extras like she hasn't had a spot to drink in months. "How long have the two of you been together?"

In addition to Madeline's affinity for nicotine, Evelyn seems to share her love of taking all of Fi's money. Fi folds and tosses her cards on the table.

"Oh!" she says suddenly playing at bashful and giggling. "It's—well, it's still kind of new—" Again, not...not true. "—but it feels like we've known each other forever."

She almost feels guilty at the way Madeline's face lights up, how her smile warms at her little fib. But she barely has time to dwell on it before the front door opens. When she turns around, she's met with the sight of Michael—in tan chinos and a light blue oxford—slack-jawed and cradling a casserole dish. She playfully waggles her fingers at him.

"Ma," he says carefully, only glancing at her briefly, his smile too forced to be genuine. "I thought you, me, and Fi were having dinner tonight. You said seven, right?"

Madeline brightens as she directs him and the casserole to the kitchen. "We are. Me and the girls are just finishing up." To the rest of the group, she says, "Ladies, this is my son, Michael!"

"Hey...Hi." He waves at them all awkwardly before taking the empty seat across from Fi, next to Evelyn. She shouldn't laugh, truly, but his discomfort in the face of the group's sudden enthusiasm over his distinctly male presence is palpable. She tries to hide her amusement by draining the contents of her beer bottle, but judging by the way Michael's brow darkens and his mouth practically thins into nonexistence, she is nowhere near successful.

Madeline is the last one to fold before Evelyn takes the pot. As she rakes in her winnings, Phyllis leans over toward Fi and makes it a point to say not at all quietly, "He's very handsome."

This time when she looks at Michael, unable to hide her amused grin, he smiles at Phyllis appreciatively before fixing Fi with a look of quiet desperation.

"Oh, he is!" She sighs dreamily and winks at him, relishing his discomfort only a little. He frowns back. "I'm the luckiest girl in all Miami."

—

It starts out innocently enough. Fi merely offers Sam a simple suggestion for how to properly apologize to Veronica—that unfortunate woman—yet somehow that evolves into him wanting to talk about all his "lady problems" with her.

(Seriously, that poor woman! She must be positively unwell. Perhaps she's deaf or blind? Best case scenario: she's deaf and blind, and this relationship is simply court-ordered community service outreach to the elderly.)

At first, Fi relished the thought that he picked her over Michael (who has all the emotional sensitivity of an unstable IED) to confide his most vulnerable secrets to, but it soon becomes too much. Phone calls, text messages, then phone calls and text messages. Eventually, she has to draw a line, demonstrate at least a little pride.

Plus, she's still pissed about the whole "him-costing-her-a-lot-of-money-because-he-interfered-with-her-legitimate-business-deal-with-the-Libyan-arms-dealer" thing, y'know? No one has ever accused her of letting go of a grudge too soon.

"I don't know what to tell you, Sam." She sighs dramatically as if talking to him is positively exhausting (which, it is) before she slams the trunk of her car closed, yoga mat in hand.

He blocks her path forward before she even has a chance to turn around. "Fi, you don't understand," he says desperately, and a small (fine, large) part of her finds a simple delight in his suffering. "This could be it for Veronica and me. She still hasn't forgiven me for the last job we pulled, and I—"

"Sam." Even saying his name is taking a lot of self-control at the moment. She manages to slip past him and dart across the street. To his credit, he keeps up and corners her in front of the studio. "I'm just too busy right now, and I'm going to be late." She holds up her mat pointedly and pushes past him to the front door. "So unless you want to join my Bikram yoga class, I—"

"Fine."

The little bell at the top of the door rings a second time as he follows her inside. As he not-at-all-subtly rakes his gaze over a couple of women in yoga pants on their way out, she gapes at him.

"What?" He shrugs when he catches her staring. "I told you: this is serious."

So that's how she finds herself some fifteen minutes later watching Sam—drenched through his linen slacks and hideous Hawaiian print shirt—struggling with downward facing dog on the mat right next to hers.

"Geez, Fi," he huffs, his gold chain now dangling over his chin, "you do this for fun?"

She watches as beads of sweat roll down his bright red face in rapid succession. It takes everything in her to keep a straight face.

"Why do you even pay for this?" he continues as if interrupting her meditation isn't enough. "If I wanted to exert myself in this much humidity, I'd ask my old CO to ship me back out to Kuwait, or hell, I could just as easily go outside.

It takes an immense amount of concentration for her to regain her balance (physically and spiritually) and counteract the irritation she's feeling, but she finally asks, short of snapping, "Wasn't there some...Veronica issue you wanted to discuss?"

"Fi," he says, breath haggard, "she's pissed about the car again."

She blinks as a bead of sweat hits her eye. "Well, of course she's pissed about the car." A little quieter, she hisses, "You practically blew it up!"

"I—" The instructor tells the class to transition to triangle pose just as the ventilation system switches back on, pumping more hot air into the confined space. Sam has to account for the increased sound, and the fact that her back is now to him when he clarifies, "That was for the job, and you know it, sister! It was either that, or a Czech assassin would have made mincemeat outta you, me, and Mikey."

She twists, fingers stretched out toward the ceiling. "Well, it's not about any of that for Veronica, Sam. It's...it's more like if you can't cherish her car, how could you possibly cherish her?" she explains as if it's the most obvious thing in the world (which, it is).

Sam's quiet for a moment—the instructor has them shift into chair pose—before he glances over at her. He swipes his soaked through hair out of his face. "Cherish, huh?"

She turns to him and nods, somewhat impressed that he has both made it this far in life being dense and that he hasn't passed out quite yet.

—

"So, neither of you will help me with this?"

Sam and Fi exchange a lazy glance before looking back at Michael from behind their respective sunglasses. Fi sighs dramatically. "It's not that we won't help, Michael. It's more like we..." She looks over at Sam for back up. "I want to say...can't?"

Sam laces his fingers behind his head and shrugs. "Sure, 'can't' works."

Michael throws both of them an unimpressed (and admittedly, envious) look from over his shoulder as he pauses his work on the Charger's carburetor. They're both set up in slightly rusted out poolside chairs with their feet soaking in a plastic kiddie pool that doesn't look a day younger than the early '70s. Probably some artifact from when he and Nate were younger.

He sets his 3/8" combo wrench on top of the engine. "Right, and you both can't," he probes, now leaning against the Charger, facing his two friends, as he gestures for them to continue, "because...?"

"What do you want from us, Michael?" Fi demands listlessly. He watches as she slides her bikini strap (she and Sam are both wearing bathing suits) off her right shoulder, so she can evenly apply more sunscreen. He swallows, possibly lingering longer than necessary (she's...well, it's...still a lot) before redirecting his attention anywhere else.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, snagging the tube of sunscreen out of Fi's hands, despite her protests. "You're the one that called for a debrief on the hottest day of the whole damn calendar year."

Michael pointedly ignores the rivulets of sweat soaking into his beater and, worse, the waistband of his jeans. "It's not the hottest—"

Sam cuts him off. "Historically high temperatures, Mike. I overheard your mom talking about it."

"Overheard me talking about what?"

Michael looks up, while Sam and Fi turn—almost in unison—as Madeline exits through the back door, a tray of iced tea in her hands. When neither Sam nor Fi rushes to help her (at least they're consistent, Michael thinks to himself bitterly), he walks over and helps her place the glasses on the small fold out table set up between the other two.

"Thanks, Maddie." Sam noticeably has no issue exerting himself to pick up his drink. Before he can take a single sip, however, Madeline snatches it out of his hands and replaces it with a beer. It may just be the widest Michael has ever seen Sam smile. "We were just saying how insanely hot it is today—"

"—and how only a certified sociopath would expect his dearest and most loyal friends to perform manual labor in this kind of weather," Fi finishes for him. She flashes a seemingly innocent smile at Michael from over the rim of her own glass. He responds in kind with something between a frown and a grimace.

Meanwhile, Madeline takes in his disheveled appearance. "And what happened to you?" she demands, handing him the iced tea that had previously been Sam's. He takes it, grateful. "You're soaked!"

"Yeah, I know, Ma," he says calmly, trying to restrain himself. "I've been out here fixing the Charger, but it would go a lot faster if I had some help..."

She follows his accusatory gaze back to Sam and Fiona and gasps. "Well, don't look at them, Michael!" she blanches as if he were asking them to help him bury a body, which...would not be an unreasonable scenario in his line of work. "It's hot outside!"

Michael stares up at the sky as if willing God to grant him the patience he is so quickly losing.

—

Virgil and...his mom.

—

Virgil and...his mother.

—

His own mom and...Virgil.

—

He's gonna kill him.

—

...Right after he drains a quart of bleach.

—

"He's here."

Maricruz doesn't bother looking up from her register. Their manager gave them a strict deadline for completing their cash counts today. "Who's here?

"The guy I was telling you about, the one who's in here all the time?"

Suddenly, Maricruz remembers. "Oh, yeah! The dude with all the yogurt, right?"

Her co-worker, Olivia, nods, cracking her gum in the process. "He only ever buys weird stuff, like screws and duct tape, never food—well, except for the yogurt. And, occasionally, beer." She pauses, then: "I think he might be a serial killer."

Maricruz finally looks up and watches as the man examines a box of 45-watt lightbulbs. She frowns, then turns to Olivia. "This guy?" she wants to know. "The one who dresses like some rich kid's hot, investment banker dad, who sometimes attends a lot of backyard barbecues?”

"Yes."

They pause in their conversation as Olivia rings up an elderly woman purchasing a bag of spinach and last week's People magazine. She waves goodbye to her and then once she leaves through the store's front doors, she zeroes in on her friend. "Hold up—are you saying hot people can't be serial killers?"

Maricruz rolls her eyes. "No. Duh, of course not. We both watched the same Ted Bundy documentary.

"True. Wait...are we saying Ted Bundy was hot?"

"I am not having this conversation with you."

Maricruz rings up her own customer (single mom with two toddlers, tons of sugary cereals) before looking back at Olivia. "There's no way this guy's a killer. Didn't you say he sometimes shows up with his supermodel wife?"

"Well, yeah," Olivia admits, "but, hello, ever heard of Scott and Laci Peterson?" She blows a bubble with her gum than pops it with an audible crack. "Also, for the record, I've never actually seen hot-might-be-a-serial-killer dude with a ring, so I think the supermodel's just his girlfriend.

Maricruz watches him grab a different pack of lightbulbs off the top shelf for an elderly woman behind him and sighs wistfully. "It totally figures he has a girlfriend." She stares a little longer. "I mean, serial killer or not, look at his arms."

Suddenly, Olivia clears her throat super loudly, snapping her out of her reverie. "Oh, my God, Maricruz, shutupshutup. He's coming to my lane!"

She looks over, and sure enough, the guy walks over to Olivia's lane and empties the contents of his basket onto the belt: a pack of lightbulbs, zip ties, rope, and two packs of blueberry yogurt. Olivia shoots Maricruz a look over his shoulder that seems to say, See? I told you so!

"Hi," he says with a bright, exaggerated smile, oblivious to their non-verbal conversation. It takes a moment for Olivia to recover while he digs in his pocket for his wallet and to respond back like a normal, human person.

"Welcome to Milam's Market," she says, totally using her Customer Service Voice as she rings up his items. "Did you find everything you need today?"

"Hmm?" He looks up from his phone, and the frown he was momentarily wearing transforms easily back to the smile from earlier. He snaps the phone shut and looks back up at her, somewhat sheepish. "Oh, uh, yeah. Even got a great deal on yogurt, so..."

Olivia gives him his total, and before he grabs his bags, he thanks both of them and tells them to have a great day.

As they watch him leave, Maricruz turns to Olivia. "Are we sure the supermodel is his girlfriend and not just his, like, insanely hot sister?" she asks desperately as she cranes her head to follow his exit beyond the store's double sliding doors.

Olivia nods sadly. "Yeah."

—

She tells him it's not good enough, but he doesn't know what else to say. He's never been good at this. He even has the scars from Dublin and Germany to prove it.

He feels slightly self-conscious, standing there shirtless, reminding her that they were profoundly unhappy together, nearly a decade ago. Ten years is a long time, and he's not exactly getting any younger—neither is his physique, frankly. He hasn't let himself go, by any means, but there's definitely a softness to his lower stomach that wasn't there the last time they were, uh...they last time they were...together. Fi doesn't mention it, or even really seem to mind much, however, when her foot connects with it just a few moments later.

He knows he's in trouble when his first punch accidentally lands, and she looks up at him afterward with that familiar fire in her eyes, the one that's equal parts terrifying and enticing.

He knows he's a goner when that same peculiar mix sends a jolt way down past his (grudgingly soft) gut while she deftly traces her lips along the lines of his palm.

And he definitely knows he's in way over his head when she lets him pin her to the mattress—when their eyes lock, and he anchors her face in his hand, while her hips cant slightly to meet his own. Admittedly, his self-control grounds to dust long before then, but it's only when his lips capture hers that he finally does the one thing he has wanted to do since the CIA dumped him in that trashy hotel with her all those months ago—

He finally gives in.

#burnnoticeedit #burn notice week #my writing #my fic #burn notice fic #michael westen #fiona glenanne #sam axe #madeline westen #fiona x michael

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