#it all sets the tone very nicely . i like this series

[red-moon-at-night]

An Analysis of Haruka’s MVs: Distance and Disability

Hello! I’ve recently fallen down the rabbit hole that is Milgram and I have been itching to make some completely normal and sane analysis posts. My silly alternate title for this was gonna be “Things About Haruka’s MVs That Just Make Sense: A Hyperfixation-fuelled Analysis”, because honestly my autistic brain has been having a field day over here.

I am in awe with just about every single music video in this project; the animation is incredible and each one packs so much carefully laid out information. But I have been rotating Haruka’s in my head constantly since I first watched them, and I have a lot of Thoughts. Not about whether he’s guilty or innocent/forgiven or unforgiven. Not about whether or not I can justify his murders. Just some straight up imagery and symbolism analysis, through the lens of disability.

Haruka’s disability has not been specified, but I am confident we can at least say he is neurodivergent. I feel like the cultural differences in names for several things e.g. ‘learning disability’ vs ‘learning difficulty’ will just invite unnecessary drama, and is a little pedantic. What does matter here is that Haruka's experience as a disabled person is heavily intertwined within his story and his motives. 

So, without further ado... let’s get into this!

Trigger warnings/TW: I will be discussing ableism, eugenics and harm towards disabled people. Everything else will be related to the music videos ‘Weakness’ and ‘All Knowing and All Agony’, so any triggering content within them may also be mentioned. Read at your own discretion and stay safe!

Disability: some brief (important) historical context

It is only within the last few decades that those who are disabled have been ‘seen’ for the first time. A modern society is (ideally) expected to be built to include and accommodate for disability, and to acknowledge disabled people’s existence. But for many countries (even the ones making steps outlined above) this is still not the case. For a very, very long time, globally, that has not been the case.

For most disabled people, society makes it very clear that they are a burden to it and are better off not existing. 

I’m going to make this section as succinct as possible because...it’s heavy stuff. But it’s important, and I want you all to get the gist of what I’m saying. The weight of it.

Let’s highlight a piece of history regarding IQ and eugenics, surrounding the publication and subsequent worldwide reception of ‘The Kallikak Family: A Study in the Heredity of Feeble-mindedness’ by Henry Herbert Goddard in 1913:

“In 1927, it was used as evidence in the case of Buck v. Bell, which culminated in a Supreme Court ruling that the involuntary sterilization of ‘mentally defective’ persons was not unconstitutional in the United States. By 1938, thirty-three US states had passed laws allowing for the forced sterilization of women with learning disabilities and twenty-nine had made sterilization  compulsory for people who were thought to have genetic conditions. Many European countries followed suit: Denmark in 1929, then Norway in 1934, and after that Sweden, Finland, Estonia, Iceland, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Latvia, Hungary and Turkey.”

— Limburg, J. (2021) Letters To My Weird Sisters: On Autism and Feminism, p. 126

This history of a ‘sterilization law’ includes Japan, who between 1948 and 1996 enacted the Eugenics Protection Law which “authorised the sterilization of people with intellectual disabilities, mental illnesses or hereditary disorders.” According to the government, about 25,000 were sterilized.

SO. It’s important to bring this up. To establish how much disabled people are not wanted, just from their governments. Let alone society. To this day, disabled people are hidden away from the public by families that are ashamed of their existence.

Japanese culture values collectivism, and maintaining the harmony of a group...to the extent of excluding those that don’t fit into the mould. That are different.

The question is: where do they go? The ones that are publicly rejected?

Haruka and The Curious Case of Distant Waters

Okay that’s enough of the heavy real-world stuff! Time to delve into some...*checks notes*...heavy fictional stuff. Fun!

Haruka’s MVs prominently display themes of distance and separation through the motif of water, specifically being submerged underwater. 

The name Haruka reinforces this concept as the specific kanji used (遥) translates to ‘distant’, ‘remote’ or ‘far away’. As there are many, many kanji choices for the name (including but not limited to: ocean/sea, eternity/permeance, clear/distinct/obvious, and spring/growth/cherry blossom) it feels like a particularly cruel and intentional choice to go with that one.

Through the exploration of this motif, we can see the extent in which Otherness/the state of being ‘Other’ drives Haruka to great lengths to close the distance and escape it.

What I noticed throughout both MVs (particularly AK&AA but note the beginning scene of Weakness), is that whenever Haruka looks at himself in a reflective surface (e.g. the vanity mirror, the fish tank), water either begins to rise and overwhelms him, or is already there and he appears submerged:

I think this is the “All-Knowing” part of AK&AA. He knows he’s different, and he knows there’s a huge ocean between him and his peers, his family, everyone. A disconnect when trying to listen and understand, but also when trying to be understood by others and listened to himself.

You know when you submerge your head in water, and your hearing gets all muffled and incomprehensible? And have you ever tried speaking underwater? You can’t, because if you open your mouth you’ll drown. It’ll just come out as bubbles rising to the surface.

I also think the bubbles symbolise rising tension, between what he wants and what he currently has. Bubbles are everywhere in these MVs, even in places where they shouldn’t logically be? Such as this scene, following the line “don’t wipe me out, don’t wipe me out”:

Immediately pans up to Haruka gasping for breath, droplets of water rising from...somewhere. For about a split second, and they’re gone. 

This boy is really going through it. I’m getting an ‘emerging from the ocean before I drown’ vibe from this one folks. When the line that follows this scene is “I can’t stop, I can’t stop”, what I’m REALLY hearing is “I can’t stop (killing) or I’ll drown”. This is his lifeboat, pulling him out from the depths of being neglected and hidden away, into the spotlight.

Some interesting images from Weakness in relation to that (of spotlights):

Anyways, onto the next point:

Blue to Orange: Water to...Nectar?

So, the orange liquid. It’s clearly representing blood, but I don’t think this is just a “danganronpa pink blood” situation of censoring/getting this video onto youtube without restrictions.

I think it’s most likely honey, specifically nectar.

The etymology of the word nectar shows its compounds translate to “death” and “overcoming”. Nectar is also called the drink of the gods, so it would make sense for it to be a ‘death-defeating’, immortalizing liquid.

For Haruka’s victims to contain nectar is very interesting. It reinforces that necessity to kill, to take the life of another, to sustain himself. To overcome the ‘living death’ he is experiencing by being hidden away from society. 

This is his means of escape from drowning.

However, as we all know, things don’t turn out great for him. By the end of AK&AA Haruka is rejected once again by his mother, after which the door is shut (the light with it is gone too) and we’re met with this imagery:

The nectar floods the room, engulfing him much like the water from earlier. 

There are many things we could take from this. One being that the nectar-gathering/killing-spree has clouded his vision; it’s so sweet, so sickly sweet and he’s addicted to the taste of attention, even if it’s very bad attention. 

Who else has honey imagery in their MV again?

Oh, right. 

Anyway, the nectar/honey situation could also be representing submerging into an even further level of distance. All that murder is gonna push people away, despite his motive being to close the gap between him and normal people. The 'ocean’ has lost clarity and become a maddening, delusional substance. After all, there is a type of honey literally called ‘mad honey’ known for its medicinal and hallucinogenic properties.

That’s enough about honey, though. Let’s move onto less unfortunate... oh, sorry, what was that? *checks notes*...Ah, yes. I meant to say, let’s move onto even more unfortunate symbolism:

The Necklace

So, this necklace. Haruka steals it from his mother’s belongings, and is his only material, physical connection to her. It is taken on the declaration of “making (her) love me again” and getting her attention once more, now he is no longer a child but a teenager closer to adulthood (at least, that’s what I consider the ‘shirt with a vest sweater and tie’ to represent. child him = the blue polo, teenager him = this one, adult him = an amalgamation of his teenager clothes).

I wasn’t sure if this was an opal or pearl/mother of pearl, but I’m leaning towards opal from the other depiction of it in Weakness:

Opals are fun because they can symbolise both good luck and bad luck, usually to do with whether it’s your birthstone. There’s something to be said of Haruka’s belief in his ‘misfortune’ and the superstition surrounding these gemstones.

But they are even more interesting for the powers they supposedly have; in medieval times the opal was considered the ‘patron of thieves’ for their ability to grant the wearer invisibility.

There is a deliciously sad irony to Haruka’s theft with that titbit of information.

Now, if this isn’t an opal, and it’s a pearl/mother of pearl there’s still some fun interpretation to be had! A little less sad, even. Pearls invoke strong imagery of the sea, of purity, and of a connection to the maternal. If this is the last thing he has relating to his mother, I can see this necklace representing a lifeline when he’s deep in the ocean. A reminder of why he’s doing all of this killing, and who it’s for.

His mother’s attention (or the idea of having a mother at all, any mother) is his driving force in life.

Speaking of that...

So We Really Need To Talk About That Fish Tank: AKA, Why Haruka’s Mom Wins ‘The Worst Parent of The Year’ Award

This fucking fish tank.

Okay, I’m gonna start by saying: I don’t think this is reading too far into things. When it takes an animation team months, sometimes years to create a 3-5 minute music video, and one as detailed as this...you don’t just wing it. There are storyboards, there are key frames and there are choices made down to the smallest of details.

From the sheer volume of animal/insect/fish décor that resides in the Sakurai household, you bet I’m gonna pay attention to what type of fish are in that fish tank.

For one thing, they live in saltwater. This is a marine tank, aka the harder choice of aquarium to have. I mean, way, WAY harder. For the experienced only.

These fish right here? One is a clownfish, and the other is a yellow boxfish.

Boxfish are a nightmare to keep alive. This article goes into more detail than I will, but all you need to know is: if there was ever a fish out of all the fish you could possibly want in your tank, this is the one to avoid like the plague.

They release deadly toxins when stressed, as a survival instinct. Boom. All your fish are dead. They need to eat a shit ton of food, but are notoriously clumsy swimmers and slow eaters. Boom. Starving, stressed out boxfish. Boxfish either dies from starvation or dies from stress and toxins.

For Haruka’s mom to have not just one of these fuckers, but a tank consisting ONLY OF MULTIPLE BOXFISH AND CLOWNFISH...

This is a high-maintenance tank. And it shows how much time and effort, how much care she puts into the things she loves.

How neglectful she is as a parent of a disabled child in contrast.

There’s something about the last scene between Haruka and his mother that reinforces this for me:

Haruka’s relationship with animals and himself: AKA, “why don’t I just become the damn fish tank?”

Let me backpedal a little bit. This subheading will make sense in a minute.

So, like I said earlier we have a lot of décor in this house relating to insects and fish. We also have a lot of pets. Both living and dead, taxidermized creatures in one household, proudly on display.

I think this may have created some confusion for Haruka regarding the value of animals being alive or dead, as in his perspective his mother values both equally. The fish in a tank may be full of alive creatures, but they’re still on display as if it’s artwork. Isn’t breaking the glass of a framed picture of a fish equal to breaking the glass of a tank with a ‘picture of living fish’?

(This isn’t to say Haruka is clueless to the impact of his actions, nor to justify any harm to animals. I just find the train of thought to be intriguing.)

So when considering these ‘objects’ are proud trophies of his work:

This is a carefully arranged display, which by the way, doesn’t contain a single fish. In fact the only piece of that moment visible here is the...large piece of driftwood? Okay. Keep that in mind.

We proceed into Haruka’s mother opening the door and seeing her son, for the first time in any of the MVs. Note the way they composed this shot:

I’m obsessed with this scene. The blue eye framing Haruka, with a literal fishbowl effect on him...

He is the goddamn fish in the aquarium now. His mother’s full attention is on him and him alone, with only the dead animals, the books, the lamp and the driftwood as window dressing to this wonderful display.

Doesn’t it just scream “Look at me! Look at what I did, mom!” to you?

That blue spotlight is on him once more. He is not just drifting deeper into an endless ocean, but contained in a vessel to be stared at.

One Last Observation

I didn’t know where to fit this in but I think the end feels appropriate.

His clothing here:

Is a frankenstein-esque mash up of clothes from his younger years. He wears this throughout AK&AA, and as I mentioned before it signifies him as an adult. However, I should clarify what I mean here as Haruka says “he thinks he’s 17″ and “doesn’t care about his age”. So... not an adult, but on the cusp of adulthood.

But I think he actually does care about his age, and quite a lot too.

This outfit feels symbolic of refusing to let go of the past, and of himself as a child. He’s literally grown out of his clothing, but he still clings onto it. He’s attached to the past because it not only contains his happiest moments, but the change from being loved to becoming neglected.

As a disabled person, you’re often treated with a lot more forgiveness when you’re younger. That is to say, some people don’t realise that children with disabilities grow up into adults with disabilities. There is a point where even support from medical and social services drops off like a cliff edge once you turn 18.

The ill-fitting clothing in this context becomes more than a reflection on Haruka’s feelings, and extends to reflecting society’s feelings on disabled adults ‘refusing to grow up’.

I don’t blame Haruka for holding onto his childhood like this. He’ll be even less publicly visible and seen once he is no longer a pitiful child, but a ‘weird’ adult in ill-fitting, children’s clothes.

[fujouppy]

watched whitepine 1. i think i want to gather all my thoughts on part 1 before moving on to the next installments but oh wow im excited to see where this story goes

[sp0o0kylights]

Steve Harrington was wearing a Hellfire t-shirt.

It was far too tight on him, the name of the club stretched wide over his chest. The sleeves dug into his biceps, making them pop even more than they usually did, and that was before he crossed his arms. 

Worse?

It was short.

Which meant the damn shirt was constantly riding up to give everyone a nice show of the smattering of hair that trailed down past the band of Harrington's jeans. 

The same hair that Eddie was determinedly not looking at. 

“Henderson, a moment?” He crooked a finger, a smile on his face that was more feral than welcoming. 

Rather than cower or even acknowledge that Eddie was two seconds away from murder, Dustin just gave him a gummy grin, all too pleased with himself and his scheme. 

“Sure Eddie. Steve, don't just stand there, go help set the booth up!” Dustin gestured to Hellfire’s sad little table, crammed all the way in the back of the gym. 

Jeff and Gareth both reacted to the suggestion like a rabid squirrel had been set upon them, nervously inching towards the other side of the booth as Harrington sighed and--shockingly--did as he was told.

‘What,’ Eddie thought angrily, ‘in the everloving fuck.’

“Do you guys mind if I set this down on the table?” Eddie heard Harrington ask as he stormed away, Dustin on his heel. 

They wandered just around the corner, out of sight and hopefully, out of the fallen king’s hearing range.

Eddie wasn't sure if Harrington would try and white knight the very much deserved dressing down he was about to give. 

Didn’t want to chance it, considering the downright weird relationship he had with Hellfire's freshmen.

(While he’d heard many a tale at his table regarding King Steve since the newest recruits had joined Hellfire, most of them dissolved into arguments without ever really going anywhere.

 Best anyone could figure out was that Dustin and Lucas had a bad case of hero worship, while Mike owned a begrudging amount of respect that hailed from a series of misadventures. 

The very same misadventures that, despite all protests to the contrary, was clearly some sort of babysitting gig for Harrington.) 

Either way, plenty of the King’s court would have loved to take this opportunity to fuck with Hellfire.

Given that Henderson was absolutely too old to require a babysitter at fourteen, Eddie would bet his lunch money that was what Steve was here to do.

Something the club couldn’t afford since they were forever and always two seconds away from being stripped of club status and banned from school grounds. 

“I would love to know what went through that all A’s brain of yours when I said,” Eddie whirled on Dustin when they were firmly in the clear, voice low and furious.  “no Henderson, do not invite King Steve to help, he is an invading force and would ruin our peaceful kingdom!?”

He clasped his hands behind his back before leaning into Dustin’s face. “Because clearly whatever you heard wasn’t that.” 

To Eddie’s continued frustration and confusion, Dustin did not treat this like the threat it was. 

None of the freshmen had ever truly treated Eddie like a threat--had somehow skipped that part of the usual onboarding ritual entirely.

Eddie, town freak and drug dealer, who had cultivated his looks and craziness to such a degree that most everyone steered clear, wasn’t used to it. 

Everyone had been afraid of him at some point in this shitty school. Jeff, Gareth, hell even half the staff--and that the dorky trio of fourteen year old's clearly thought this all was play-acting made his eye twitch.

Even if it was--maybe, sometimes--welcome. 

“I know what you said, but I’m telling you I’m right.” Dustin argued immediately, and oh God, he was using that tone again. 

A hand went up into the space between them and Eddie groaned aloud, knowing what was coming.

“First,” Dustin ticked a finger up, “Hellfire really needs the money. Even thirty dollars would get us new figures, but more than that, if we don’t fundraise, we can’t go to Gen Con!” 

Dustin's eyes bored into Eddie’s, full of fire and conviction

“Yes,” Eddie said through gritted teeth, “but--”

“Second!” Dustin cut him off, and God the little shit even threw him a look while he did it, like Eddie was the one being ridiculous here!

“We had to fight just to get our table! Principal Higgins was in algebra today practically begging the mathletes to show up, but then tried to tell us we couldn't be here? That’s messed up!” 

As if denying them a spot to fundraise was the worst thing that asshole had ever done.

Eddie sighed, breath blasting out of his mouth like a dragon’s. 

“Because people think we’re freaks and satanists, Henderson. You don’t typically invite freaks and satanists to the school’s annual Holiday Bazaar. Especially not when all the local moms are paying to hawk their bullshit crafts and tupperware!” 

It was more than that of course. The Hawkins High Holiday Bazaar was a tradition spanning several years now. Starting in the gym and spilling clear into the parking lot, everyone from local artists to even some local shops came to host a small table for the day, thus growing the event from a small school fundraiser to a Hawkins' “must-do.” 

Half the fucking town was here to sell, and the other half was here to shop, which meant Principle Higgins had wanted Hellfire banned from the fucking premise. 

Eddie had been forced to pull out one of his trump cards he’d been saving--blackmail on Higgins that related to the man’s not--so--legal addiction to Percocet that he relied on Reefer Rick for. 

(And bless Rick, that hadn’t been the only tidbit he’d shared with Eddie about Higgins. That information, however, Eddie needed just so the asshat wouldn’t give him the boot from school entirely.) 

The only reason Eddie had pulled it out to secure their rightful spot, was because of Gen Con. 

It was Hellfire's White Whale, their grand adventure, and this was going to be his year to take his friends on one last epic quest to make memories of a lifetime surrounded by people who understood them.

Come hell or high water, Eddie was going to Gen Con--but being able to fundraise by selling wares and baked goods at the stupid Holiday Bazaar would go a long way to help.

Even if he had to listen to the band repeatedly play ear-bleeding renditions of Christmas songs.

“All the clubs get to have a table, and we’re a club!” Dustin continued, like it was that simple. “But you know, I get it. We look scary.” 

He gestured down to his own Hellfire shirt, before gesturing towards Eddie’s entire outfit.

Like Eddie didn't know what he looked like, let alone that he'd made this outfit specifically to scare people away from him.

(And maybe add some rockstar flair to this dinky little hick town.)

“You know who doesn’t look scary?”

Dustin held out his hands and swiveled his body like he was presenting a prize instead of gesturing in the vague direction of; 

“Steve!”

Eddie’s left eye twitched.

‘You can't kill him, you need his character for the campaign.’ He told himself firmly, even if he envisioned strangling Dustin like a chicken.

Cartoon squawking and all. 

“The King isn’t going to help us fundraise, Dustin.” Eddie said, in an effort to break down why Harrington couldn't be here. “He's just going to cause us problems that we can’t afford to have.” 

So many problems, half of which Eddie couldn't think of because if he did, he'd start spiraling.

“Really? Because as you keep saying, Steve used to be the King. People love him, Eddie! Mom’s love him.”

Eddie had pulled himself back up to his proper height a while ago, and now rocked back on his heels while he ran a hand down his face.

There was no getting through to Henderson when he was like this. 

Not unless Eddie really lost it, and it was practically club lore that he only lost it when someone missed an important game. 

One cannot keep a herd of sheep if their flock is terrified of them, after all. 

(“Perhaps you’re just a giant fucking softie.” Tiff, one of Hellfire’s graduating members, told him once. “Honestly dude, I bet you throw up stuffing.”

“Shut up Tiffany, your choker is on backwards again.” He'd spat back, completely offended and not at all trying to distract from how true that was.) 

“We can’t be satanic if Steve’s the one selling cookies!” Dustin finished doggedly. 

“We’re not even selling cookies--that’s not the point!”” Eddie shook his head, hair flying. He was not going to be sidetracked, he wasn’t!

 “Harrington is going to end up siding with all the moms about how we’re all wasting time with D&D, if he even spends the whole time at the table. Is that what you want?” 

He stuck out a ringed finger, poking at Dustin’s chest.

“Every single person who comes by our table has to be convinced D&D is a writing and math based game. Good for the mind and souls of growing, impressionable children. A game that got a bad rep because of  a few silly images.” 

A pitch he and Tiff had come up with during the third or fourth time they had to convince an adult that no, just because their shirts had a dragon on it, didn’t mean they were summoning demons in the drama room. 

“Harrington can’t do that because Harrington doesn’t even know how to play!” 

This Eddie punctuated by throwing his hands in the air. 

Given the startled look of the mother-daughter duo passing him by, clearly was louder than he’d intended--but screw it!

He was right!

Hellfire was in a precarious position to both fundraise and do a little damage control among the slightly smarter members of this shithole small town, and Harrington rolling his eyes and gossiping about how stupid it was would hinder that.

“Okay, first of all, Steve’s played D&D with me and he didn’t even kill his character.” Dustin said it like he was unveiling a smoking gun and not lying through his ass--which Eddie would absolutely be calling him on the second he was done talking. 

Because King Steve? Play D&D?

'Ha!'

“And he’s not gonna say shit because we--me, and Lucas and even Mike!--asked him to help, and he helps when its serious. I know you have some weird grudge with him, but I’m telling you Eddie he’s our golden ticket to Gen Con!” 

“You’re killing me. You are standing here, acting as a friend, when you are bringing a-- a dark force into the midst our of mission--” Eddie hissed, because he was losing the fucking fight and he knew it.

Dustin Henderson was not a man easily swayed. 

Had never been, even when the odds were stacked against him (and Grant and Gareth were howling in his ear.) 

The set of his shoulders and the glint of the little shithead’s eye meant Eddie wouldn’t be able to use him to oust Harrington--if he even could get him out without the dick causing a massive scene anyway. 

As always when outgunned, Eddie flipped to dramatics.

“Betrayed! By my own chosen heir no less!” He moaned, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes as Dustin scoffed.

"Don’t be so dramatic! Steve will help, I promise! Just don’t be a dick to him.” 

 Conversation apparently over, Dustin turned around to head back to the table

Snidely, he added over his shoulder: “Plus we’ve all caught on to the heir thing Eddie. You tell everyone that so they do what you want.” 

The dick.

“You’re too fucking smart for your own good. I’m gonna start feeding you paint chips to bring that IQ down.” Eddie muttered angrily as Dustin went back to their little table.

He gave himself a moment to get his shit together and stomp a foot like a child when Dustin was around the corner and thus couldn’t witness it, before following his wayward sheep back.

Could only pray to any deity listening that Henderson’s meddling didn’t blow up in Hellfire’s face.

[kcrossvine-art]

Hi fellow adventurers!! A few weeks ago i caught wind of "Delicious in Dungeon". I'm not really an anime person, but I am a TTRPG, CRPG, and cooking person- . And holy shit. It is so good i  convinced my partner to binge read the whole thing. I'm caught up on dungeon meshi, the anime, and just yesterday i also finished dungeon meshi, the manga.

Its rare to come across a serialized story that is so thematically cohesive and knows its characters so well. All of the bonus content like the artbooks and monster tidbits are just the icing on top.

So, inspired by Ryōko Kui's writing and illustration I'm going to attempt to create a recipe for every single Delicious in Dungeon recipe!-

Today that means Huge Scorpion and Walking Mushroom hotpot is on the menu!

(As always you can find the cooking instructions and full ingredient list under the break-)

MY NAMES CROSS NOW LETS COOK LIKE ANIMALS

SO, “what goes in to a Huge Scorpion and Walking Mushroom hotpot?” YOU MIGHT ASKThis is one of the pricier dishes until we get to the kelpies and dragons of the menu-

Rock lobster tail

Porcini mushrooms

Shiitake mushrooms

Snow fungus

Small potatos

Fensi (glass noodles)

Water

OPTIONAL: your choice of dipping sauces

There was a crossover/promotional event in Shibuya which featured various realworld dishes from the series. They had one for Huge Scorpion and Walking Mushroom, but they used prawns.  while those cook better in a hotpot, they also didn't look enough like the scorpion for me, they also used udon noodles for the slime and a seaweed/kale(?) mixture for the algae. If you're looking for substitutes due to price or availability i would start with those ingredients.

AND, “what does a Huge Scorpion and Walking Mushroom hotpot taste like?” YOU MIGHT ASKI hope Senshi would forgive me for technically cooking the lobster outside the pot, once he tastes it.

Okay im always partial to veggies but wowowowowowowoowowowow the snow fungus and the mushrooms tasted soooooooooooo good in the lobster stock

A nice delicate layering of different flavors

Try to get a bite with the lobster meat and shiitake together, dip in butter then chili- trust me

Its up to you what texture you prefer if you want to put the noodles in at the end or put them in halfway through the meal. Either way dont go for eating those first as theyre very filling

I think this would pair well with a citrus drink, something light and clarifying

This would also pair well with being extremely high and hungry (if you feel safe cooking while inebriated lol) very calorically dense

For the trial run I did one lobster tail in the pot with everything else, and one lobster tail off to the side to be picked apart. The former is more in spirit with a hotpot, but it got rubbery as the meal went on and lost its nice taste. The latter may be a bit more work but all you have to do still is boil it and set it aside. I found it held up much better. It was also easier to get inside the shell.

. If you have hardshell maine lobster available, i think it would be superior to rock lobster (keep in mind crustaceans will get rubbery if cooked too long in the pot) . Green onions and/or lotus root would make excellent additions

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From getting the ingredients out to sitting down and eating, id say it took maybe 30 minutes max? It'd vary on how fast you can prep vegetables and get the various implements heated.

Hotpots are not something i do very often as i'm usually just feeding myself. I think thats why a hotpot makes perfect sense to start the series off. If you want to set the tone of "take care of yourself, eat food with others, and use what you have" (generally speaking) there is nothing more simplistic, flexible, and defeats-the-purpose-if-you-eat-it-alone than a hotpot. Gather around and let your friends bring ingredients to the pot if you want to fill your heart up extra full <3

I'm doing something different here because unlike previous recipes where i used a bunch of different sources and made my own recipe out of hodge-podging it, or just used another persons recipe entirely if they did it really well, i made this more whole-cloth based off of what i had available, what I could discover through research, and my existing knowledge. Instead of the recipe being 50/50 original, this one is more 20/80. So. I'll pass the final verdict off to you guys :D 

What would you rate this recipe out of 10? (with 1 being food that makes one physically sick and 10 being food that gives one a lust for life again.) Did you love it, did you hate it? What're your thoughts on what I could do different, and what would you have done instead?

🐁 ORIGINAL RESIPPY TEXT BELOW 🐁

Ingredients:

2 Rock lobster tails

3 Porcini mushrooms

2 Shiitake mushrooms

Snow fungus (a good handful, should rehydrate in the hotpot)

2 Small waxy potatos

Fensi (glass noodles)

Water/lobster stock

Method:

Lightly rinse all of your vegetables beforehand and let them dry.

Vertically slice the porcini mushrooms. Cut off and dice the stems of the shiitake mushrooms. You can slice the tops if youd like.

Peel and cube the potatoes, roughly an inch each.

For the lobster tails; Boil a pot of salted water. Keep the shell on. Weigh the largest tail and add 1 minute of cooking time for every ounce of weight.

When done, strain the lobster from the water. Pour the water into your hotpot as the base. Serve the lobster on the side so people can pick the meat out to dip into the hotpot.

Bring the hotpot to a simmer. Add the potato cubes, snow fungus, mushrooms, and noodles.

OPTIONAL: this wasnt in the show, but its fun having sauces on the side :) i had oyster sauce, dry seasoned chili dip, melted butter, and soy sauce available

[not-neverland06]

𝙲𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

A/N: my stupid poor-people photo editing app stopped working so now my cropping is all off and I'm sad. My aesthetic 😭

Summary: Something brews between you and Arthur, but as always, the camp comes first. Despite the growing tension, Arthur must leave to rescue one of the gang who'd been separated in Blackwater. Jealously brews as a loud-mouth Irishman returns to camp and sets his sights on you.

Micah’s cough echoes through the camp and you wince at the sound. “He needs to see a doctor before he gets the rest of us sick.”

Arthur shakes his head and sighs, “Caught somethin’ from the Downes fella in town.” He passes you some coffee which you take eagerly. It’s part of a strange morning ritual you’d begun with him a few weeks ago. Just after the hunting trip, you’d taken to having breakfast with him if he happened to be in camp that morning. It’s become your favorite way to start the day.

You smirk slightly and nudge his side. “You’re welcome.”

He laughs and shakes his head at you, “I’m sorry?”

“Well,” you start with a teasing tone. “If I hadn’t needed a gentlemanly escort into town for some shopping, it would have been you calling in on those loans.”

He opens his mouth to argue but it stays hanging as you see the cogs turning in his head. He snaps his jaw shut with a reluctant sigh, “Suppose you’re right.”

“I always am,” you tell him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Arthur just laughs, passing you some bread. You hear a familiar set of footprints pacing outside the tent and roll your eyes, turning towards the entrance. 

Sure enough, Mrs. Grimshaw paces around the perimeter of Arthur’s tent like a cougar. She sniffs when she catches your eye and turns her nose to the air, wholly pretending she hasn’t been stalking you. 

“Shoo!” Arthur shouts, waving her off. 

You let out a bewildered laugh, smacking his arm. “Arthur, stop,” you hiss, but you don’t sound very stern as you giggle at Mrs. Grimshaw’s affronted look. 

“Go on,” he keeps going, pushing her further. “Get,” he snaps like he’s talking to a wild animal. Mrs. Grimshaw says something you can’t quite catch and stomps her foot once before running off. 

You press a hand over your mouth, fingers pinching your lips to try and stop yourself from laughing. Arthur looks at you for approval and you only shake your head. “Come on,” he tries, “she’s been botherin’ us all mornin’. What was I supposed to do?”

“She’s not a dog, Arthur.”

“You sure ‘bout that?” He teases and you swat at his arm again. 

You shake your head, letting out a heavy sigh. “I truly think she hates me,” you whisper, pouring yourself a little more coffee. 

“She don’t hate you,” he reassures. You tilt your head with a deadpan look and he chuckles. “Well, maybe just a little.”

You sigh and shake your head, “Just because I married rich doesn’t mean I had an easy life.”

“I know that,” he objects. 

You look up from your mug and furrow your brows. “Do you? You think I don’t see the way you look at me? You see the same softness they do. I just can’t figure out whether you like it or resent me for it.”

The playfulness of the morning is long gone. You seem to have a knack for ruining the moment. This question, though, has been haunting you for a while. Dutch is passive in his disdain for your upbringing—snide comments here and there but nothing quite so obvious. 

A few of the girls question you about the privileges of being a lady a little too long for comfort. Then, the conversation will end with one of them sniffing and saying, “Must have been a nice life. Too bad you’re stuck with us now.” 

There are always small moments like that to break the ridiculous idea you’ve got in your head, that you belong. No matter how hard you try to tell them, they don’t seem to understand that this freedom is better than anything money could have bought you. Your life hasn't been your own since the moment you were born. Sure, being on the run from the law and fighting for every penny wasn’t fun. But moments like these with Arthur would never happen if you were back at your estate. 

With the others, it’s easy enough to see their resentment. But Arthur’s better at keeping his cards close to his chest. It took a while for you both to settle into something easy like this. Most of the time you don’t spend more than half an hour together a day. You don’t have a good enough read on him to determine whether or not he holds your past against you. 

Sometimes, you think you might see just a hint of bitterness when he catches a glimpse of the smooth skin of your palms. But you never know if that’s real or something your paranoid mind has conjured up. 

Arthur swirls his mug in his hand, a bit of the coffee splashing over the edge as it does. You squirm uncomfortably in your spot beside him. The sun has begun to heat up the canvas tent, but you know that’s not why you’re sweating. 

He gives you a gentle smile that eases some of the dread building up in your chest. “I don’t care either way. And you shouldn't give a damn what the rest of these fools think. It’s what you’ve done with your life, with your money, that matters.”

You chuckle and shake your head, “You mean my father's money, and then my husband’s money. It was never mine. That’s why I care what they think. I’m dealing with their judgments every damn day and they know nothing about the truth of it all. I was a commodity, practically cattle to those men.”

Arthur’s brows furrow in that familiar way they do whenever you talk about the men of your old life. It doesn’t bother you to talk about them because you’re used to it and they’re gone. But you know it makes Arthur angry to think about it. 

You’ve grown comfortable with each other, but it’s still a cold shock when he casually touches you. You glance down, eyes wide, as you see his palm covering your own. You look back up with a soft smile. “You’re smart, Arthur. Smarter than half the people here give you credit for. And far kinder than anyone I’ve ever met. " Your heart kicks up a beat when you see the way he refuses to meet your eye. 

You’ll compliment him a million times a day if only to get him to start believing you. And maybe so you can keep watching that pink flush on his cheeks. 

“That’s enough of that,” his voice is gruff with something you can’t quite name. Having enough sense to know when to stop you hold your hands up in surrender. 

“Only saying the truth,” but you never can seem to stop yourself from pushing just a little bit further. Arthur shoots you a sharp look and you bite your lip to keep from laughing at him. You can see him start to wind up and prepare yourself for the brief scolding you’re about to receive. Once he’s done with that, maybe you’ll do what you’ve wanted for so long and ask him to accompany you to Strawberry. 

You’ve been trying to work up the nerve as your last two outings haven’t gone wonderfully. You’re hoping a redo might help the both of you grow just a little closer. Besides, being away from camp seems to be beneficial to you both. 

Approaching footsteps bring your conversation to an awkward halt. They’re not the heavy foot of Mrs. Grimshaw. This is someone else, someone much more welcome. You turn and smile at Charles as he hovers at the entrance of Arthur’s tent. Arthur scoffs and mutters something under his breath that you don’t quite make out, but it makes Charles grin. 

Charles gives you a brief nod but his intentions are meant for Arthur. “Whaddya want?” Arthur snaps impatiently. 

“Trelawney came back,” Charles answers shortly and your face pinches in confusion. Trelawney? You roll the name around in your mind but you don’t think you’ve ever heard anyone in camp mention him. 

Arthur’s head perks up, the frown on his face softening just ever so slightly, but it's replaced by something more bitter. Curiosity or nosiness, you’re not sure, but rather than give in to the rules of common decency you don’t leave them to finish their conversation alone.  

You try to lean back, pretending you’re not there so they’ll keep talking. “The hell did he want?” Arthur barks, tone still rudely short. You wonder what happened between him and Charles, they seemed to get along well enough a few weeks ago. 

Charles's gaze darts briefly to you but he continues, “He’s got news about Sean. Says he knows where to find him.” Now, that name you know, if only through vague mentions. You know Karen does her damndest to keep a mention of Sean out of everyone’s mouths. And that he made it out of Blackwater alive but got separated from the rest of the gang. Other than that, you don’t know much about him. 

Arthur gets to his feet and Charles backs away a few paces, leaving the two of you relatively alone again. Arthur looks down at you, something like disappointment on his face. “You need to go,” you assume before he can say anything. 

He nods and you give him an expectant smile, “Then you better get moving, cowboy. I’ll be here when you get back.” He lingers for a moment like there’s more he wants to say. But your mornings together have always been short, you can’t imagine why that would have changed today.

He sucks in a sharp breath before nodding and heading towards Charles. You watch him go, your plans for the day being tucked away. You’ll ask him to town another time. As long as it’s anywhere but Valentine. 

A prissy throat clears behind you and your head sinks between your shoulders with a heavy sigh. “Time to get movin’,” Mrs. Grimshaw commands, with far too much glee in her voice. 

You’re sitting on an overturned bucket, running someone’s pants across the washboard. You hate doing this, especially in the brisk of the early morning. Your fingers have already pruned up from the frigid water and you can barely feel them anymore. 

Your gaze drifts to your right, where the heaping pile of laundry lies, and you consider running off with Lady. You know whatever other chores Mrs. Grimshaw would come up with in retaliation would be a million times worse, but it almost seems worth it at this point. 

You dismiss the idea, deciding to honor the unspoken rule of ladies staying in camp, and continue scrubbing. You think this might be Arthur’s blue shirt. You notice a few fraying edges and holes and make a note to fix them up for him once it’s dry. You only hope you don’t stumble across Uncle’s clothes while you’re doing this. That man has got stains in places that make you want to throw them in the fire, rather than wash them. 

“Never gonna get used to a sight like this,” Sadie calls out as she walks up behind you. She kicks a crate over and throws herself down beside you. 

“You will soon enough,” you let out a bitter chuckle and shake your head, “Mrs. Grimshaw’s got some vendetta against me.”

Sadie shrugs and picks at some dirt under her nails. The sun seems to crest just perfectly over her head, almost making her blonde hair glow. She seems to be getting better. She’s put some space between her and the O’Driscolls and has found a place in camp just a little easier than you. 

Still, you know she’s struggling. She wants the freedom that your friendship with Arthur and Charles has granted you. You know she’s feeling cooped up here at camp. You’ll have to invite her for a ride sometime and see if that will help ease some of her anxiety. 

“Nah, it’s not just you. That old hag hates me too. She thinks I’ve got ideas above my station.” You and Sadie turn, glaring at the back of Mrs. Grimshaw who is fussing at Lenny. You shake your head with a huff of laughter and turn back to the laundry in hand. 

“I miss Jake,” Sadie suddenly blurts out. You freeze, hand still partially submerged in water as you debate how to approach this. Sadie’s always preferred the blunt way of going about life. You don’t think she wants simpering sympathy right now. 

“Which parts of him do you miss?” You ask, trying to keep your tone light as you toss the shirt into the basket beside you. 

“The non-controlling parts.” Sadie nudges your side with a laugh, “Relax, I’m not gonna start cryin’ on ya. I just miss runnin’ my own house, not being bossed around by a son of a bitch like that,” she says, motioning vaguely towards Mrs. Grimshaw. 

“She’s not much better than my husband was,” you grouse, trying to drown out the woman’s voice. 

“Ooh,” Sadie groans, tone laced with long-held resentment. “Forgive me for sayin’ it, but he was a real pain in my ass.”

You can’t help the grin that curls at your lips as you straighten up, momentarily abandoning the laundry. “You’re not my employee anymore, Sadie. Say whatever you want.”

“Right,” she shrugs, “He was a real bastard and I hope he became wolf meat.” Your lips pull back into something resembling a smile, but it's not fully there. You imagine the blood of your husband on your hands and it doesn’t fill you with the usually stifling nausea. Instead, it’s like a distant ache. You’re either growing numb to it or finally accepting that you’ve done the world a favor. 

You suck in a deep breath and nod, “I hope the same.” Sadie lingers for a little while longer, not helping with the clothes, but keeping you company. You don’t talk about anything of much substance. Mainly her irritations with everyone in camp and you echoing the sentiment. She doesn’t like Pearson always trying to force her to cook with him and you hate being his taste tester. It doesn’t matter how much seasoning he adds, he doesn’t know how to make even half-decent stew. 

When Sadie eventually leaves to finish her chores and you’re left all alone with your thoughts, you realize just how painfully slow the day passes by. You almost find yourself dragging the laundry out just to provide you some distraction from waiting for Arthur to come back. 

You’ve both been lingering on the edge of something. You need to see if it’s all in your head or if there might actually be hope for the both of you yet. 

You glare down at the basket of laundry at your feet and let out a heavy sigh. You reach for another shirt and begin scrubbing, keeping a careful eye on the camp’s entrance. 

It’s not until the sky is illuminated with glowing swirls of orange and pink that Arthur and the others come riding back into camp. You’d run out of chores a long while ago and had just been restlessly pacing since then. Every time you so much as approached Lady someone would come by and distract you with some meaningless task. 

You’d been sitting in the tent for the past hour, barely reading a book as you pray time moved faster. You stand now, hearing the cheers and whistles of the others. You move around the canvas, smiling when you see Arthur leading the men back into camp. 

There’s a man on the back of Diablo, a loud-mouthed redhead that you’ve never seen before. You can only assume this is the infamous Sean they’d been after. Judging by the look on Arthur’s face, you imagine he’s been running his mouth the entire time since they rescued him. 

He looks about ready to put a bullet in the young man as he drives him into camp. You see the others all taking notice of their return, Dutch being the loudest of them all. “Sean MacGuire!” He approaches Arthur’s horse, giving the boy a hand down and grinning widely. “Welcome back, son!”

His thick Irish accent catches you off guard, “Oh, ‘appy to be back, Dutch! ‘appy to be back,” he responds eagerly, a large smile on his face.  

You hesitate by the fire, waiting for Dutch to finish before you go darting off towards Arthur. “I do think a return like this requires a celebration!” Dutch calls out to the rest of the gang. They whistle and cheer for him, Bill already rushing off to break out the alcohol. The gleefulness of the moment catches up to you, it eases away some of the anxiety balling up in your gut and you find yourself cheering along with the others. 

Dutch keeps Sean tucked under his arm and begins to parade him through camp. You know this is a win for all of them. Even if someone here hadn’t liked Sean, getting one over on some bounty hunters is always a morale booster. Whatever your opinions on Dutch may be, you have to admit that he knows how to lead his people. 

Even if you happen to think manipulate is a better word for what he does. 

You watch Sean interact with everyone in camp, drawn into the boisterous energy he wraps himself in. It’s clear some of them are already beginning to find him a little annoying. But even his smart comments can’t seem to put a damper on the spirits of the night. 

Your mouth ticks up slightly when you see Lenny slug him in the shoulder, yelling at him for letting himself get caught. You divert your attention away from the interaction, looking for Arthur. You feel a little bit of the giddiness give way to disappointment when you realize you’ve lost sight of him. 

He’s no longer by the horses, Diablo having been hitched long enough to already start grazing the grass. You peer around the women’s tent and then take a few steps towards Arthur’s but he’s nowhere to be found. 

Just as soon as you let yourself be disappointed by this, you also chastise yourself for becoming so infatuated. You’ve always had a bad habit of getting in your head and boosting your hopes up over something mundane. You’ve only just begun forming a friendship with the man and already you’re starting to fret over him. You’re not a schoolgirl anymore, you’ll have to grow out of this at some point. 

You rub a tired hand over your face and suck in a deep breath. The aromas of camp rush over you in a wave. You can still smell the remnants of burnt morning coffee amidst the ever-present scent of the campfire and the fragrance of laundry that lingers on your hands. You can no longer tell if the mingling of odors comforts or irritates you. 

You look up to the shining stars above and pray for a semblance of sense. Wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders you resolve to get over this infatuation with Arthur and just enjoy the night. If anything is meant to happen, it will do so naturally. 

Dutch walks towards you as you begin to head towards the domino table. You force yourself to stop when you see the expectant look on his face. Sean trails along behind him now, already seeming to have found his way into some of the liquor. 

 “Mrs. Rowe!” Dutch calls out loudly, you give him a polite smile and he motions towards Sean. “I don’t believe you’ve met my good friend, Sean MacGuire. Mouthiest gunman in the west,” he adds with a smarmy grin.

You shake your head and hold your hand out to the boy. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. And please, no need to be so formal.” You give him your name, and he perks up. Stumbling forward and attempting to shake the drunkenness off, he turns your palm and kisses the back of your hand instead of shaking it. 

You can’t help but laugh a little at his performance. Molly suddenly calls for Dutch across camp and the three of you turn to face her. “Dutch, over here for a moment!” She waves him forward and Dutch lets out a long-suffering sigh with an easy smile. 

“Duty calls, I believe the two of you can entertain each other for a little while.” He turns towards Molly, arms wide as he calls out, “Now, Miss O’Shea, what ever can I do for you?”

Sean quickly snags your attention again and you realize that he’s yet to let go of your hand. “Not a missus, eh?” He asks, his eyebrows waggling with what his drunken mind must think is seductiveness. 

You stifle a giggle and shake your head no. “‘Fraid not. He’s not been gone long, but I’m happier for it.”

“Oh, and so am I, fair lady.” You shake your head with amusement. He’s nearly charming with all of his limitless swagger. “Now, I’ve just been cooped up in a camp with about fifty men with mugs nearly as ugly as these,” he motions towards the gang and you let out another unbidden laugh. “Would you care to dance with me?”

Your brows furrow, a disbelieving smile on your face. Leaning in, as though you’re sharing a secret, you tell him, “There’s no music.”

He pulls a little bit back from you, meeting your eyes as your breaths mingle with proximity. “Are you sure?” He asks, a mischievous look on his face. 

You find yourself frowning in confusion, and then, almost as though they had planned it, Dutch puts a record on. It’s scratchy on his worn player, but the music fills the camp as he leads Molly into a sway. 

Your lips part in astonishment and you forget for a moment just how close the two of you are. If anyone else saw, they’d think you were going to kiss. “How did you know he was going to do that?”

He waves you off and leans back. “Magician can’t reveal and all that,” he dismisses. “Now, a dance?”

You’re charmed by him, as much as you hate to admit it. Perhaps he doesn’t have quite the same effect on you as Arthur. But he’s handsome in his own way. Besides, who are you to deny a magic man a dance?

You let him lead you towards the fire and he draws you close. You’re surprised when his hand stays firmly on your waist and he keeps a nearly respectable distance between you both. You’re still what modern society would call a scandal, but this is nothing for a gang of outlaws. 

“I’m sure I’ve never met you before. Where did they find you?” Sean spins you out and then twirls you back into his arms with a flourish that makes you breathless. You almost ask him where he learned to dance before you remember to answer his question. 

“Up in the mountains. Some O’Driscolls came through, killed my friend’s husband, and kept us in a cellar.” You’re no longer surprised how easy it is for you to admit something like that. You’ve become desensitized to situations like your own the longer you’ve been in camp. 

“O’Driscolls,” Sean’s face twists up with distaste and he shakes his head. “Nasty business.”

You scoff, “You’re telling me.” Sean’s gaze drifts behind you and the little color on his pale skin drains. It makes the freckles speckling his cheeks stand out remarkably. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Cutting in, MacGuire,” a rough voice calls out from behind you. Your feet still from where they’d been following Sean’s lead and you risk a glance over your shoulder. Arthur paints a fearsome portrait against the night sky. Impassioned by the sight of him, with the brim of his hat tipped low and the fire casting shadows across him, you hastily drop Sean’s hands and step back from him.  “I’d go find your lady if I were you,” Arthur instructs Sean.

Confusion swirls through you before you spot a very angry, very drunk Karen walking past. “Rotten Irish bastard,” she mutters under her breath, shooting both you and Sean a nasty look. Sean chases, taking quick steps towards Karen without another word to you. 

“Karen, it meant nothing, sweetheart. I only wanted a dance!” You let out a loud laugh as you watch him scramble after her. 

“He’s a damn fool,” Arthur says through a chuckle, walking closer towards you. You smile, turning around and flicking the brim of his hat up so he doesn’t seem so imposing. 

“You stole my dance partner, Mr. Morgan.” You accuse lightly, pretending to be cross with him. 

He rolls his eyes with an attitude you rarely see from him. “I did you a favor. You don’t want to get involved with Sean.”

“No,” you tell him, “of course I don’t. I was only dancing. Can’t do that anymore now, can I?”

Arthur’s mouth opens and closes before he lets out a huff. “Well, you two seemed awful close. I thought that-” he cuts himself off and you frown. 

You were only teasing him. Had he actually thought you were interested in pursuing Sean? You’d barely known the boy an hour. You pause, taking a step back and really getting a good look at Arthur. His shoulders are tense, though, not as tense as they had been a moment ago. The anger on his face, when he approached, had been real and not just the fire playing tricks. 

The pieces connect one by one and you find yourself astonished. Arthur Morgan had been jealous over you. 

That had to mean something. You couldn’t be reading into something like this. You might be a little desperate, but you weren’t a fool. You feel a flutter in your stomach and swallow down nerves. “Dance with me?” You ask, in a breathy whisper, sounding much more confident than you are. 

His eyes widen and he grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’m no good at stuff like that.”

You bite down your smile and lean forward, taking his hand in your own. They’re rough against the smooth surface of your palms but you relish in the feeling. “Neither am I. It was the one class I never managed to get the hang of in finishing school.”

You coax him forward slowly, drawing him into you and guiding his hand a little lower on your waist than you should. He takes your other hand in his own and leads you into a slow dance. It’s barely anything more than a sway, but you still feel exhilarated. 

Even with the warning, it’s still a little surprising how awful you both are at dancing. “Even if you're stepping on my toes Arthur, I’m still much happier to be dancing with you,” you tell him, sincerity coating your throat like honey. 

He looks away from you and sighs. “Don’t have to say that.”

Your brows furrow and you tilt your head, catching his eye. “Why would I lie?” He doesn’t respond, caught off guard by the question. 

“Well,” he starts slowly, finally facing you again. He laughs a little at himself and shakes his head, “I don’t know why you would.”

“Because I wouldn’t,” you retort. “I don’t want to dance with anyone else, Arthur.” You know that sometimes he doesn’t always catch the hidden meaning, but you’re hoping he understands this time. You don't know if you could be any more brazen than you currently are.

His brows furrow and you can practically see the dots connecting when you begin to hear it. Low grunting noises, something almost like a whimper, slip out of the closed flap of John’s tent. You both pick up on it at the same time, movements slowing until you come to a complete stop. You stand, tucked into Arthur’s chest, and listen to what seems to be two people having a lot of fun. 

“Is that-”

You’re cut off by a very loud, “Sean!” You gasp, hand covering your mouth as your eyes widen. 

“Oh, Karen,” he sounds on the verge of tears and you practically have to bite your tongue to not laugh. You bury your face in Arthur’s chest, feeling it shake as he lets out a loud chuckle. “I’ve missed you so much!” You hear him begin to cry and force yourself to turn away before they hear you both laughing at them. 

“Oh,” Arthur’s face screws up with disgust but he’s still laughing. “That’s just awful. Come on,” he keeps your hand in his, tucking you under his arm as he leads you away from the tent. He snags a bottle of something off a nearby crate as he guides you toward the trees bordering the camp. 

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere we don’t have to listen to that,” he mutters, nodding back toward the sinful tent. You clench your eyes shut, trying not to picture what the two of them are doing. 

You feel your feet sink a little, mud lifting around the edges of your boot. You reach to lift your skirts, out of instinct, before you remember you’ve got your new pants on. It makes you smile a little, living without the weight of your old clothes. 

“Arthur,” you stumble into his back as you trip over a branch and he quickly rights you. “Were you jealous?” You don't give much lead-up, hoping to shock the truth out of him. 

He pauses and turns back to look at you. You smile a little impishly at him and he lets out a long-suffering sigh. “This way, woman,” he grumbles, tugging you towards a thinner patch of trees. You find yourself squeezing his hand absentmindedly, liking the comfort of holding it.

The moon illuminates your path forward and you feel your heart jump up to your throat. He’s led you to a small cliff face, a spot just large enough for the both of you, that feels incredibly intimate. The moon almost creates a halo around the area, lighting it up more than anywhere else in the forest. 

Arthur lets go of you to tug off his coat. He places it on the ground and motions for you to sit. So used to fending for yourself and always being the last priority, something as simple as that has your heart skipping. “You didn’t answer my question,” you tell him as you take a seat. 

He sits beside you, knee brushing against your thigh as he pops open the bottle of whiskey he’d swiped. He twirls it around in his hand for a moment before he places it down beside himself. Your stomach dips when he turns towards you, eyes intensely meeting your eyes. 

You almost want to look away, the blue of them too intense to face. There’s honesty in his gaze and an intention you can’t recognize that forms a lump in your throat. “Yes. I was.”

Your lips twitch and you shake your head, slightly bewildered by how easily he admitted that. “I’m jealous every day I don’t get to call you mine,” he adds.

You used to be someone else’s. First, you were your father’s toy and then your husband's. When they called you theirs it was always with the intention of owning and using you. But it feels different with Arthur. It feels like handing him your bruised heart and knowing he’ll keep it safe. He says those words, and finally, you know that someone other than yourself is looking out for you. 

His hand comes up, gently brushing some hair off your cheek and drifting down to the nape of your neck. You lean forward, following his guidance, as his head dips down. Your lips meet, and the warmth emanating from him makes you realize this is truly happening. 

Cold from the stone below you seeps through his jacket and chills your legs. The feeling only further intensifies the startling realization that this is real. This isn’t one of your silly little fantasies. He’s kissing you and you aren’t doing anything.  

You sit before him, stiff as a stone, not kissing him back or showing him any sign you’re enjoying this. He picks up on that and you can already taste the apology on his lips as he begins to pull back from you. So you dart forward, clumsily pushing your lips up against his before you completely ruin your chance. 

He laughs against your eager lips, but you feel his relief in the way his shoulders slump and he relaxes back into you. One of his hands drifts down towards your waist, tugging you slightly closer, and you could melt into the feeling of him holding you. 

He tightens his hold around you, drawing you back ever so slightly, his forehead resting against yours. “You sure you want to get involved with me? It ain’t gonna be easy.”

Unwilling to part for so long, you close the distance between the both of you and finally, let yourself give in to the sensations of this moment. His palm drifts into your hair and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. 

Perhaps due to his gruff outlaw exterior, you’d had the misguided notion that he wouldn’t be a good kisser. Men like himself seem like the type not to enjoy something as simple as a kiss. They’re used to just getting right to the point. You’re happy to discover just how wrong you were. 

Those romance books Mary-Beth devours always describe something fleeting. There’s always fireworks going off as the two people you’ve been reading about finally kiss. This isn’t like that, there isn’t a spark that reignites a cold heart. You feel safe and comforted, like you’re finally coming home. This feels real, not like some passionate moment shared between two people that will never last.

Arthur pulls back, reluctantly, and you both catch your breath. “We should probably head back soon,” he whispers, eyes trained on your lips.

You nod your head, “Probably.” Neither of you goes to move, instead you tighten your hold on one another, basking in the moment of finally having what you’ve been coveting for so long.

Next Part end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Jamil Viper: A Web, Tangled

Aaand here we go with the Relaxing in Room line of birthday cards :v d ehebkwjw It’s so funny that they chuck pillows to attack??? (By the way, congrats to this Jamil card overloading and crashing the JP server 😂)

For this series of birthday ficlets, I’ll focus on writing each birthday boy preparing to walk to school with the reader (since the duo partner barely appears in the vignettes). Can be read platonically or romantically, whatever you prefer~

Rise and Shine!

You lingered by the doorway, your eyes glued on Jamil.

He was preoccupied with glimpsing himself in a mirror set on a table. Before him were various accessories from a jeweled box. (Judging from the gaudiness of the massive rubies on it, it must have been a gift from Kalim.)

Loose tresses the color of dark chocolate tumbled down his back. When Jamil ran a brush through them, the sun caught and his hair tempered, turning lustrous.

You’d seen him massage his scalp with oil-slicked hands before—and again, he diid it, followed by some sort of a cream. The routine left his head moisturized smelling faintly of jasmine. Jamil never compromised when it came to hair care.

You often had to remind yourself that he was not a princess, entrancing as he was. The sway of his hair, the snap of his steps. Each movement, close to a part in a mysterious dance.

Jamil produced his magical pen. The magestone laid in it was as clear as a cloudless day, and the color of blood that had been left out for a little too long.

Now came the spectacle, the very highlight of your entire morning.

Jamil raised the pen as if he was a conductor waving his baton. A hush fell over an imaginary audience, a collective of breaths held in anticipation. This is it, this is it.

He flicked his wrist, and the magic flowed.

A trail of scarlet light emanated whenever Jamil drew his wand. The accessories laid out on his desk floated up, compelled, in a neat line. A band with a feather dangling from it, narrow golden bangles, flat beads that clinked like coins.

His dark locks lifted, dividing themselves into even sections, then into even smaller ones. They carefully twisted over and under each other, weaving into tight braids. Accessories slid on, effortlessly fitting themselves at his direction.

His intricate hairstyle assembled quickly, as if arranging the pieces of a familiar puzzle.

The red sparkles faded into a fine shimmer and then into nothing at all. As the last traces of magic settled, you bursted into applause.

“Bravo, bravo! Great show as always,” you said appreciatively.

“… That wasn’t a performance,” Jamil corrected as he set his magical pen down.

“It might as well be! It takes some serious skill to pull that off every morning.” You gestured to him. “And so fast!“

“Anyone could accomplish it with enough time and practice.” His words choice was humble, but there was a hint of a smirk in his tone.

A rare moment of triumph for him.

“Not just anyone. I think you’ve got a natural talent for this kind of thing,” you grinned broadly, “like a spider!”

Jamil’s neutral expression splintered, leaving jagged edges exposed. His left eyes twitched, pupils pinpricks.

“Excuse me? In what way do I remind you of a vile bug?”

“Hey, don’t knock spiders! You guys have similar skills. The braids, the webs. You make’m well, all nice and strong. No strands out of place.”

“That doesn’t reassure me,” he groused, a hand on his hip. “I’d prefer if you didn’t compare me to them. It feels wrong.”

Jamil shivered. Not from the cold, but with repulsion.

You gave a laugh—soft against the rising morning sun. “Really? But you’re so alike in other ways too.”

His eyes narrowed into suspicious slivers. Mildly offended, perhaps.

“Elaborate,” he commanded.

“They’re hard working and important but under-appreciated,” you pointed out. “Without spiders, there would actually be a lot more bugs around. We should be more grateful to have spiders’ webs.”

There was a pause, deliberate. Then a gentle prompt.

“… Remind you of anyone?”

Jamil scoffed. It was as loud as a thunderclap in his suddenly cavernous bedroom.

“Maybe.”

Two syllables, clipped. An acknowledgment.

“Jamil-senpai…?”

He hurriedly looked away, staring at the wall for likely longer than what was deemed appropriate. Any more, whether in length or in intensity, and he might have burned a hole in it. His face, hotter than the Scalding Sands.

Your brows shot up. “… Ah. Could it be that you’re feeling embarrassed?”

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous. Something like this couldn’t possibly ruffle me.”

You craned your body, attempting to meet his gaze. But he wrenched away, denying that to you. “Then why aren’t you looking at me when you say that?”

“I need to get ready for class,” he replied dismissively. “So close the door and wait outside while I change out of my pajamas.”

“Now you’re just changing the subject!”

“Well, we’ll both be running late if we continue to dawdle,” Jamil warned—a tactful evasive maneuver.

His hands found their way onto your arms, steering you into the hallway. You turned back, mouth opening to protest, but Jamil had already sealed himself off.

Banging and calling out to him was no good. Kicking resulted in you gripping onto your poor foot and whimpering. You were left in a sorry state, back to the door as you rested on the floor.

On the other side, Jamil was surely having a little laugh. Cheeks still burning from the praise showered upon him, basking in the afterglow of it.

You sighed.

A spider makes its web to deceive flies into getting stuck in it. Jamil-senpai can be just as tricky.

[superprofesh]

The Five Times Colt Seavers Almost Kisses You (and the One Time He Does) — Part 1

Pairing: Colt Seavers x reader

Description: The first time Colt Seavers almost kisses you — on set, with lots of paint involved.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.1k

Tag List: let me know if you want to join! :)​

Author’s Note: This is part 1 of what I hope will be a six-part series, but it can be read as a stand-alone too. I am so obsessed with Colt right now that I can't even see straight, so just take this and do whatever you want with it!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The first time Colt Seavers almost kisses you, you’re not sure it actually happened.

You’ve been on set for about two months now, and your job as set decorator for the biggest action thriller of the decade has ended up being way more challenging than you expected. Every day, it’s a new demand from the director — more realistic graffiti, more subtle light fixtures, more beat-up furniture. It’s going to look amazing, but you’re exhausted just thinking about another day of smearing grime on the set walls by hand.

The one bright spot of every day is Colt Seavers. He’s the best stuntman in Hollywood, so naturally he’s been recruited to perform stunts for almost every scene in the movie. Watching him get thrown against walls, riddled with bullets, and dropped from dizzying heights is heart-pounding for you, but nothing gets your heart pounding as hard as when he leans a little too close to you, so close you can see the dusty brown of his eyelashes against his soot-stained skin.

“Nice sign,” Colt quips, dropping onto the picnic table seat next to you. You’re hand-painting a bright-red Do Not Disturb sign for the next scene, and you barely manage to keep from smearing the paint when you whirl to face him. “Is it for your trailer door?”

You give him a mock glare, laughter slipping through the edges. “Very funny. It just so happens that you’ll be kicking this sign in half in tomorrow’s scene, so show a little respect.”

Colt’s eyes sparkle at your words, all his attention focused on you. He leans forward on one elbow, the other reaching up to ruffle the dust out of his hair. “Wow, a handmade prop just for me to kick in half?” He grins, inclining his head in a mock bow. “I’m honored.”

You can’t hide your return grin, or the blush rising under your skin at his close proximity. Colt always has this effect on you — never pushing the limits to make you uncomfortable, just taking up space with you in a way that steals your breath.

“What’s this?” you ask, using your free hand to tug on the shoulder of his fireproof vest. One side is seriously singed, close enough to his skin to set you to worrying.

Colt shrugs, flashing you a crooked smile that makes his left eye crinkle. “Little pyrotechnics mishap,” he informs you casually, brushing imaginary dust off his arm and onto you. You roll your eyes at him playfully. “Ray got a little overexcited with the stun grenades.”

“What?” You can’t keep the concern from slipping into your voice, even though you try to disguise it behind a joking tone. “You’re working with real stun grenades now?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “It’s only a stunt if it’s real, you know?”

You narrow your eyes, cocking your head to one side. “I think that’s the opposite of how it works, actually.”

Colt just laughs at that, the golden rays of the setting sun turning his tanned skin golden. His smile is warm and directed entirely at you, heating up the blush in your cheeks again. You turn your eyes back to your painting to keep from completely giving yourself away.

These past few months have been both paradise and torture for you. You thought you could hide your crush easily enough — it’s not like you haven’t done that before. But with Colt, it’s different. He sees through your stoic facades and teases out your laughter, searches for ways to make you smile even on your bad days. Whether it’s pulling a goofy face at you from his rig or remembering that you like sour cream in your soup, Colt has found some new way to surprise you every day that you’ve known him.

The thing is, you’re not sure if he’s actually interested in you or just being flirtatious. Misinterpreting the signals would be awkward and painful for you at this point, so you’ve decided that he’s just going to have to make the first move. You’re too old to play middle-school games with him.

Even if he does give you middle-school butterflies all over again.

You don’t realize that you’ve been lost in your thoughts until you notice that Colt has imperceptibly moved closer to your side, peering over your shoulder as you put the finishing touches on the purposely-sloppy sign.

“So I kick the sign in half tomorrow,” he says softly, his husky voice in your ear sending goosebumps over your skin. “What happens if we have to do another take?”

You risk a glance over your shoulder at him, letting a coy smile slip. “Do you really think this is the only one I’ve done?”

Colt just lifts his eyebrows at you and smiles, returning his eyes to the sign in your hands. Colt has a way of burning you up just with his gaze, and you can’t help breathing an inner sigh of relief every time he focuses his attention elsewhere. Concentrating on anything when he’s looking at you is impossible.

“You know, I could definitely give you some pointers on set design sometime,” he mutters, as if he’s genuinely musing on the thought. You know he’s warming up for a joke, so you let him continue, hiding your smile while he watches over your shoulder. “I have tons of experience in your department.”

“Oh, really?” You grab your black paint and begin the focused task of sprinkling the sign with the darker color for a realistic touch. Realism is the key to making memorable set designs, and you’ve mastered the technique.

“Mm-hmm.” You feel the murmur reverberate in his throat when he leans forward, resting his chin on your shoulder while you lightly dab your paintbrush in your paint bottle. Your heart skips at least three beats when you feel his hair tickling the side of your neck, his eyes still locked on the sign as if he’s studying it. Does he really not know what he’s doing to you, or is he doing it on purpose?

You try to keep your hands steady while you feel his chest rise and fall against your shoulder. Struggling to hide the tremor in your voice, you tease, “What could I improve about this piece, then? I can always use an expert opinion.”

He tilts his head to the side, his chin still resting on your shoulder. You can feel the bristly stubble on his cheeks now. It’s an oddly comforting sensation, one that forces every bit of your self-control to the brink in order to keep yourself from moving your face to the side and nuzzling your cheek against his. You feel his face move slightly as his mouth turns up into a smile.

“If you really want some advice…” he begins, lifting one hand up to trace the edge of your sign.

“Careful,” you warn him, “that’s wet paint.”

Colt doesn’t even get close to smudging your paint, but that doesn’t stop you from lifting your free hand to rest on his wrist, holding it in place while you set your paint bottle down. Colt stills at your touch, and your heart accelerates again at the gentle way his fingertips rest on the edge of your sign.

He lets the moment hang in the air between you for a moment, then comments, “I was just going to suggest a nice artist’s signature. See this big gap right here between Not and Disturb? Your name should go there in big red letters.” You’re already swatting his hand away playfully as his serious tone devolves into snickers. “Just like Bob Ross does on TV.”

“You are so ridiculous,” you laugh, glad to feel the tension slipping out of the atmosphere. Colt lifts his chin off your shoulder now, his hair brushing your earlobe as he does.

“No, it would look perfect,” he insists, his eyes sparkling as his smirk widens. “And then I can aim right for your name when I kick it in half tomorrow.”

He laughs out loud when you slam the sign down on the picnic table surface in mock irritation, your grin making your amusement at his joke obvious. The slam sends a few drops of the black paint from your brush flying up, spattering your jawline.

You reach for a dry rag nearby, still grinning as you prepare to respond, but Colt stops you with a hand on your arm. “Allow me,” he says seriously, placing your hand back into your lap and raising his other hand to the side of your face. You freeze in place, unprepared for the wave of emotion that washes over you when Colt touches the side of your jaw softly.

His eyes are still sparkling with humor, and you know he’s about to do something to make you laugh, but you can’t help the feeling that sweeps through your heart when you’re face to face with him, one of his hands holding yours on your lap and the other just beginning to cradle your face. It feels so gentle, so intimate, so right, and your heart aches as you realize that there is no going back from the feelings you’re developing for Colt Seavers.

He hesitates for a split second, his hand hoving on your jaw for practically no time at all, but it feels like a lifetime to you. You watch his dark blue eyes as they dart down to look at your lips, flitting back up just as quickly to latch onto your eyes with a stare that could melt diamonds.

Then the corner of his mouth turns up again into his usual smirk, and he strokes his thumb across your jaw to smear the black paint up the side of your face.

“Now,” he offers, “don’t you think you look more realistic?”

He dissolves into laughter as you reach up and feel the streaks of black now smudged across your face. You immediately reach past him to dip your fingers in your bottle of red paint, giving him a mischievous grin as you slather three fingers’ worth of paint across his nose and cheeks. The combination of his semi-shocked expression and the ridiculousness of his painted face pushes you over the edge into another fit of laughter.

“You’re the one who will be on camera,” you retort, smiling wider than you can remember doing in a long time. “Shouldn’t you be the one who’s realistic?”

“Touché,” he acknowledges playfully, rubbing his face and only succeeded in smearing the red paint further across his face. “Though I doubt Tom Ryder is going to accept any glimpses of my face on camera, so I won’t even have to wash this off.”

You impulsively reach up and drag your fingertip through the splotch of paint on his cheek, resisting the urge to draw a heart and settling on a simple smiley face instead. His own smile resurfaces at that, eyes twinkling as they stay locked on yours.

“If you keep it until tomorrow, you’ll match my sign,” you muse, trying to lighten the atmosphere, which has suddenly grown a bit more intense now that Colt’s gaze is focused on you again.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t play it off, doesn’t do anything that you expect from him. His breathing seems to slow down, while yours feels like it takes off in a flurry of movement. Colt doesn’t make a move to touch you, but you can feel the distance between the two of you closing infinitesimally.

You’ve never noticed the flecks of silver-gray in his eyes, or the almost-invisible smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, or the ragged cut of his hair right beside his ears. Even the brilliant red streak only serves to bring out the golden tones of his skin, the swirls of blonde in his hair. Every detail of his face seems vivid, as if you’re seeing him for the first time.

His eyes seem to drink you in, too, traveling over every inch of your face before stopping on your lips again. This time, though, he doesn’t flick his eyes back up. Words escape you, as do any coherent thoughts. This is it. He’s actually going to kiss me. This is real.

“Seavers, on set, ASAP.”

The squawk of his walkie-talkie shatters the intense moment, and both of you release a breath that felt like it had been held for an hour. Colt swallows, smoothes his hand over his beard, turns to slip the walkie back into his pocket. You turn back to your painted sign quickly, trying to regain some composure.

Uncharacteristically, Colt doesn’t speak as he stands and turns to walk back to the filming set. He does, however, glance back at you the moment you lift your eyes to watch him walk away. Your heart is still hammering, recovering from his closeness to you.

With a wordless smile, he reaches up, swipes a bit of red paint off his face, and presses it onto the tip of your nose in the shape of his fingerprint. Then he walks away.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Part 2

[hwaslayer]

wildfire (cs) | two.

—spotify playlist | series masterlist

—summary: assistant professor in bioengineering, incredibly attractive, lonely and divorced; that’s how most people describe san. but despite the events that have happened in his life, san has a lot going for himself. he’s a successful, sought out professor due to his brilliant contributions to science at just an early age of 32. he worked hard to get where he was now; head deep into his research, his publications, building his lab and creating a name for himself. everything was good and smooth sailing— until it wasn’t. because when he meets you, a bioengineering grad student interested in rotating in his lab, he finds himself ready to risk all the blood, sweat and tears he put in throughout the years just to keep you close— his need for you spiraling out of control like a wildfire.

—pairing: asst. professor!choi san x grad student!f. reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, grad school au | fluff, angst, eventual smut

—word count: 4.3k

—chapter content/warnings: cussing/mature language, very much giving slow burn till chapter 5 (sawwie hehe but san/oc drop more hints in ch 3-4), mingi tryna be matchmaker but san's mind is elseeewhere (which will add a lil more spice to the spice thats already planned lol), flashback scene that involves crying & hints of infidelity

"Wow, there's a lot more people here than I expected." You tippy-toe to look over the crowd, falling in line to get your freebies at the entrance of the winter quarter welcome event.

"Do you know where the boys are at?"

"They said they were coming?" Eunchae says, also looking around and over the crowd. The line inches quickly, bringing you closer to the free university-branded hats and water bottles they were giving out. Today's event was not only to set the tone for the quarter, but to showcase all the student groups, benefits, and wellness programs available for everyone. As soon as you grab your freebies, you, Eunchae and Jurin completely forget about the boys making their way over and start walking around to grab more. You find that one of the student groups is handing out reusable bags, which you gladly take one in order to walk around comfortably. You, Jurin and Eunchae also participate in a few small games and raffles, taking pictures at the photobooths set up. Some university staff snap photos of you three while you wait in line to cash in your free lunch voucher at one of the food trucks. 

Once you've grabbed your food and settled down, the three of you find a good space on the lawn near the stage to slowly indulge in your food and the dessert. Namjoon is getting ready to start his speech for the event, while the other professors set to give a small talk are hovering off to the side engaging in conversation.

"Yo! Is anyone listening?" Professor Kim Namjoon, department chair of bioengineering, taps the mic a few times as he steps on the stage. He slowly paces around with a hand in his pocket, giving off a smile while he waits for everyone near the stage to quiet down and listen to his little speech. "Nice, nice. I'm grabbing attention, I still got it." He chuckles to himself. "Anyway, they had me come up here to kick off the welcome event. There's a good lineup of talks coming up, so please stick around for that. I promise it'll be worthwhile." Namjoon points to San. "Choi San is on the lineup. Kang Yeosang. Just to name a few. I know ya'll wanted to hear that in particular." He jokes. The crowd laughs when he gives everyone a certain look, scanning the crowd to read their expressions. "Alright, so another quarter—" Is how he starts his speech off, giving himself two minutes to give a heartwarming welcome to all the students, faculty and staff. The next session kicks off shortly after, with a few faculty members talking about their early days in their departments and what they're focusing on now. 

After Namjoon wraps it up, he introduces San and kicks it off for him— giving him a big, warm smile as he greets him on the stage and hands him the mic. He's dressed in a thick, black half-zip sweater, black slacks and boots. You briefly glance around the crowd, all eyes glued to Professor Choi; lots of people looking at him in pure admiration just like you and your friends. His talk flows well, and he easily transitions from talking about his early career days to where he is now and what his focus is. He speaks with so much poise and grace, it's obvious he's incredibly passionate about what he does. He has a softness to him, a certain glint in his eyes while he slowly paces the stage and maintains contact with his crowd. 

"He's so fucking dreamy, are you kidding?" Eunchae mumbles. You giggle and gently nudge her before returning your attention to the stage. Your eyes glance over to the side, smiling to yourself as Namjoon plays around with everyone around him. Professor Lee Iseul stands off to the side next to her husband, and they quietly remain to themselves. She watches as San does his talk, arms folded tightly against her chest and she couldn't look any more disinterested. You clearly don't know the full story, and it's definitely none of your business. But, you can't help but be a little curious as to what happened between her and Professor Choi and why she acts the way she does around him.

"Aye." Felix plops down next to you. "Where have you been, loca?" You snort, pushing him and causing him to almost fall to the side. "Ouch. We've been calling and texting!"

"Next time, don't be late." Jiung plops down next to him.

"We were trying to find the free smoothies and acai bowls!"

"Excuse me?" Jurin looks at Jiung. "Why didn't I know about this?!"

"Maybe cause you were too busy drooling over Professor Choi and his friends." Jurin sticks her tongue out at him. "It's over there. We just didn't get to it before coming to the lawn."

"I'm definitely going as soon as these talks are over." 

"I want some, too!" Eunchae adds.

"We can go." You chime in.

"We're gonna lose you guys again!" Felix slightly whines.

"You won't! You can just sit here and save our spot." Eunchae smiles with some sass. "That way, we have our spots and you won't lose us."

"Fine." Felix clicks his teeth before returning his attention to the stage. The rest of the talks also go well— Yeosang taking the stage next after San, with a few other professors. Iseul does a talk, and although San doesn't care much for it, he at least tries his best to show some support in front of the crowd and be the bigger person.

He does it to just keep the peace. Mainly for Namjoon. San knows he did a lot to try and bury all the mess that went down, even got in trouble for trying to do so. Namjoon cares about San and his other friends, he'd do anything to protect them. But yes, there is no denying that it was a shit show. 

Once all the talks have concluded, you, Eunchae and Jurin scurry off to the smoothie and acai booth, taking the boys' orders to kill two birds with one stone. The lawn and surrounding areas are back to being loud and chaotic with everyone trying to go around and finish grabbing freebies and samples, and participate in other games. You and your friends fall in line and wait for about 15 minutes before they've taken your orders, another 10 minutes before they've given you your drinks.

"Oh shit, this is good." Jurin sips on her drink as it sits in the carrier with Felix's and Jiung's. 

"It is. The boys finally have a good eye." You snort.

"Leave them be."

"What! It's true! I didn't think they'd care much for the stuff here at the event, but here they are, putting on their favorite girls to free smoothies." You laugh, sipping on your own matcha smoothie. Once Eunchae has gotten her drink, the three of you start to make your way back towards the boys on the lawn.

"Oop—" You let out a small squeal, damn near coming face to face with Professor's Choi's chest when you turn. He's about to grab his own smoothie from the worker when you quite literally almost run into him trying to keep up with Eunchae and Jurin. "Oh, I'm sorry Professor Choi." You feel the heat rise to your cheeks even though you didn't do anything wrong.

"No worries. Good morning, ladies." Professor Choi flashes you, Eunchae and Jurin that 100-watt, dimpled smile that everyone is crazy head over heels for. He does a curt bow to acknowledge you and your friends properly, Eunchae and Jurin biting on their bottom lips to prevent themselves from smiling too big and giggling too loud. "How are you doing?"

"Good. Really good. Great talk, by the way!" Eunchae says, making him chuckle at her reaction. "How are you doing?"

"Aw, thanks. I'm good, can't complain. You guys having a good start to the quarter already?"

"I'd say so, yeah. Can't complain either." Jurin adds, holding onto the drink tray tightly. He nods, but turns his direct attention to you with a small smile. "Y/N. Excited to meet next week and talk about projects."

"I am, too." His eyes linger on yours for a little longer and Eunchae doesn't miss it. She gives your arm a good, subtle [but hard] squeeze— one that has you slightly squirming in her grip while trying to maintain eye contact with Professor Choi. He furrows his brows a bit when he catches it, trying his best not to chuckle at the way you and your friends are acting around him.

"Yo!" Mingi says, patting San's shoulder. His eyes go from him to the three girls in front, still lingering around. "Beautiful morning, ladies! Hope you're enjoying the event." 

"Hi Professor Song." You all say dreamily, watching as the taller man chuckles and bounces to the music playing. 

"Sorry to have to do this, but mind if I steal Professor Choi from you?"

"Go for it!" You respond. "See you next week, Professor Choi." You smile sweetly at him and he swears he feels his knees buckle a bit. He watches as the three of you turn and squeal, definitely talking about them as you continue to walk away and find other things to distract yourselves with.

"What's new?" Mingi laughs, making San chuckle.

"Stop it. They're just enjoying themselves." Mingi gives him a look that screams 'sure, whatever you say,' but he keeps it professional. Doesn't make any side comments and keeps it at bay, even though he enjoys the eye candy himself. They're still young. Although work and keeping up with their labs is tough, they're finally out of school— which their days only consisted of science, publishing papers, graduating ASAP and launching their own careers. Of course, they've had their shares in relationships, one night stands, situationships; whatever you wanna call it, all clearly not working out because of all the work they've had to put in. The attention they've had to put into their education, early careers. It has become such a norm for them that a relationship isn't even in their minds right now. Not because they don't want to, but because they're afraid. Afraid of not having enough time while they're still balancing their loads, afraid they'll accidentally put their relationships on a backburner. Afraid of things just falling out terribly. Mingi can honestly say he's afraid because of how San's marriage unfolded. Of course, all experiences are unique, but it still doesn't mean he can't be afraid of his own. 

Once they've gotten a better hang of things, then maybe. Right now, everything seems risky. Everything.

"Mmkay." Mingi snorts. "Good talk earlier."

"Thanks, my guy." San smiles. "They asked me to do it last minute because someone else dropped the ball."

"That was a nice impromptu talk then." Mingi and San start walking down the path, greeting other faculty and students that pass them by. "How is your progress report going?"

"Almost done now that I've gotten my class schedule out of the way."

"You have two TAs this semester, right?"

"Mhm. Alex is actually doing a bulk of the classes, then the TAs. I'm teaching 8 classes this entire quarter."

"That's nice." 

"What about you?"

"Around the same. I've got Doyun helping take over most lectures, along with the TAs."

"Can't believe it's another quarter."

"Time just flies." He nods towards another group of professors. "By the way, have you met the new Applied Physics professor? Zara?"

"What's her last name?"

"Cho."

"Oh." San nods. "Yeah, heard of her. I saw the announcement about her starting, but that's it."

"Let's go say hi." Mingi smirks, causing San to furrow his brows in confusion.

"Why?"

"Don't we like meeting new people?"

"For good reason, yeah. Not yours."

"Hey, mine is a good reason. Who says it isn't?" Mingi smiles. "You know, just making her feel welcomed." He lazily hangs his arm over her shoulder. "Discussing potential collaborations, joint advising." San rolls his eyes, shaking his head just as they approach the group. 

"Yeah, let's keep it there." 

"Maybe—" Mingi suddenly shifts his attention to the group as soon as they face him and greet the both of them. Phew, San thinks. Now he doesn't have to hear the stupid shit bound to come out of his mouth. "Hey!"

"I was looking for you two." Namjoon has hands dug deep into his pockets with that usual Namjoon smile of his, Yeosang on his free side. "Wanted to introduce you to Zara Cho." He looks down at her and gestures at the two. "Zara, this is Mingi and San. Both under bioengineering with me, Mingi in Biology by courtesy, too."

"Oh, I've heard all about you two." She smiles. She's got a beautiful smile, and San notices the way her eyes glaze over him the most. She's attractive, and she's softspoken; has a certain grace that she upholds. Her hair is in a pretty bob that comes right below her jawline, and it fits her well. "It's an honor, truly." She says, shaking their hands.

"So, how's it been on campus so far?" San asks.

"It's been alright, I think. Settling in well and trying to get a hang of things."

"Thats good! Taking it day by day." She nods in agreement with a small giggle. "How's getting the lab situated going?" Mingi chimes in.

"Ah, it's tough but I at least have a post-doc and grad student onboard." She shrugs.

"It's a start. Sooner or later, it'll be overflowing with them." She giggles and nods.

"Yeah, that's the hope." She fully turns to San again. "Now that I'm a bit settled, I was hoping we could chat a bit more, San." Mingi shoots him this certain Mingi look before slowly nodding with a smirk.

"Yeah, that'd be great."

"Don't you have a free schedule in the afternoon?" Mingi instigates, making San furrow his brows in confusion.

"Uh yeah, but I was hoping to—" Mingi nudges him.

"Sure you can make a few minutes, yeah?" Namjoon chuckles. San doesn't mean to shrug her off or anything. Truthfully, he can get pretty shy and he is aware of the work she does. He just doesn't wanna make a fool out of himself, and he wants to make sure their conversation is productive; as with any he has.

"We can meet any time, no worries." 

"No, they're right. Later is good. My office is at the Harvey Center."

"I can stop by later in the afternoon if you're around? 4:30 or 5?"

"4:30 is good."

"Cool." She looks around before checking her watch. "Hate to cut this short, but I have to head back for a meeting." She gives everyone a curt bow. "See you all around?" Everyone says bye in their own ways before Namjoon and Yeosang close the gap in between them, Mingi and San.

"I knew I couldn't trust your reasoning." San glares at Mingi and he chuckles.

"Bruh, I told you. Collaborations and co-advisorships are in the works." Namjoon laughs.

"He's not entirely wrong but, she seemed to be a big fan of your work. Thought it'd be good to chat with her anyway."

"I don't trust you guys." Yeosang snorts.

"Just have a good productive meeting." Yeosang pauses. "And if it ever flourishes into anything, we'll be right there to support—"

"I knew it. I'm heading back to my office." San starts to walk away from the group, sipping on this smoothie.

"Just want you happy!" Namjoon yells.

"I am already!" San smirks before saluting at the three and heading back to the Harvey Center. He greets people on the way over to his office, checking in on a few of his lab members before shutting himself away in his office. San likes to think he's happy. He feels happy. He doesn't think he's lacking anywhere even though for the longest time, he felt like he was after his marriage fell apart. It took him a long time to get to where he is now, and he hopes he'll never go back to feeling that way. Feeling hurt, lost. Betrayed.

—FLASHBACK

"Hey." Jongho looks at San with concern, stepping aside to let him into his home. San gives him a forced, tiny smile, but doesn't say much— immediately making his way to Jongho's couch. Jongho can tell it's been a rough couple of days, San looking more exhausted than he's ever seen him. His eyes are red. Hair's a mess. He can tell San hasn't had a proper meal or sleep, yet he's still coming into work like he's okay. 

He can only imagine how difficult it is. To have someone go from being your world— to absolutely nothing. Your bestfriend being the most trusted person on earth— to nothing.

"What's going on?" Jongho feels like it's such a stupid question, but he isn't sure how to break the silence right now and he needs to. He watches San sink into the couch and just let out a sigh, and it's clear he's about to release everything he's been holding in. "What happened?" Jongho repeats in a different form.

"Where the fuck did I go wrong?" Jongho sees his bottom lip trembling before he buries his head into his hands and starts sobbing. It breaks his heart to see his bestfriend like this; he wishes he could tell him everything will be okay because he knows it will, even though it feels like miles away right now. He wishes that'll be enough. He wishes he could just take the pain away and shove it somewhere else. Because someone like San, someone who loves hard and deep, someone who is loyal until the very end, doesn't deserve this.

"You didn't go wrong anywhere. It was never you, San."

"Why would they do this to me? Why didn't she just talk to m-me about everything? How could she do that so easily?" He continues to mumble as he cries, Jongho rubbing a hand down his back. He truly hates this. He has never seen San so defeated.

Destroyed.

"Because they're both immature and didn't care. I know this is a lot easier said than done but this isn't worth it. You don't need her. You don't need him. They don't deserve you and you'll find someone who'll truly love you for you and who wouldn't even dare do this to you. I'm sorry it had to happen to you, but I promise you'll find someone better. Worth everything. Let yourself feel this out and process it, but once you do, brush it off and continue to move on." San doesn't say anything because Jongho is right; he still needs to process this, and he still needs to feel this out in order to properly move on. 

"Jongho, I don't even know how I'll make it past this. I really don't know how I can."

"You will. Give yourself some time, but in the end, you'll come out stronger and you'll realize why all of this was never meant for you in the first place. There's always a reason, one being that something way better is in the works." San doesn't say anything, but he continues to cry. He continues to wallow in his sadness, what's left of his heart crumbling to pieces and shattering. He knows this is only temporary— but that light, the 'better' that Jongho speaks of, seemed so, so far away.

Unreachable.

—END

San shakes off the thoughts and continues to power through his work, getting through other emails and lab financials he needs to sort through. He's also skimming over his class schedule and hopping into a quick kick-off call with his TAs and lecturers this quarter. 

Sooner or later, time flies on by and he's wrapping things up, getting ready to meet with Zara. He realizes he didn't give her any details on how to get to his office, so he grabs his phone and heads upstairs to wait for her. 

"Hi!" She rushes in, heels clicking against the floor. "Sorry, I'm running a few minutes late." San chuckles and shakes his head.

"No, don't even worry about it. I, uh.. just realized I never gave you proper directions to my office and the lab." San digs his hands into his pockets and presses the button to the elevator. "How was the rest of your day?"

"Good, busy. Just feels like it's nonstop." She giggles, stepping in next to him but with some distance. 

"Mm, yeah. I get that feeling all too well." He laughs. "But, it'll settle in due time." Luckily, the elevator ride isn't too awkward and it's quick— prompting San to step out and lead her down the basement hallway. "I can show you around the lab."

"Do you still have lab members lingering around?"

"Oh, always. They're always holed up in a behavior room or doing surgeries. Some of them really just prefer to work late nights so they don't have to share the space and equipment with anybody."

"Makes sense." She smiles up at him and he nods. He continues to show her around, taking her room by room; allowing her to see his wetbench lab space, his behavior rooms, laser rooms and the mice. She's impressed by how tidy and kept together the lab is despite so many people running around and being together in one space. It's bound to get messy and chaotic, and it does, sometimes. He explains that he tries really hard to keep his space clean and organized, emphasizing it to his lab members so much that they do actually listen especially when it's time for them to go and start their own careers. He's never had a problem with anyone leaving mess behind. He always tells people it's a space for another person to grow and they take that to heart. It's the least they could do after San has been nothing but supportive of them during their time in the lab.

Afterwards, he takes her into his office and she compliments him on all his awards. He rubs at his chin to brush off the heat rising to his cheeks, sitting onto computer chair to talk to her a little more about her plans. She even turns to him for advice about how to keep things steady once they get going, how to tour the labs with donors properly, how to successfully snag grants and funding for the future. The conversation turns out to be a long, productive one, even though San doesn't feel like he's qualified enough to give great advice. Yes, he's done most of it on his own but a lot of it was through Namjoon's guidance. He does slip that in there, giving her a nudge to talk to him a bit further about the perfect grants to go for at this stage, things to do to keep recruiting great postdocs and lab students, funding in the meantime. She appreciates all the guidance and help— so much that the conversation continues even as San packs up and heads out of the office with her.

He does enjoy their conversation, but he definitely could tell you he wouldn't take this anywhere even if his friends tried to push him into doing so. He respects her, he respects her work and he respects her as a colleague.

"Look, look, look!" Eunchae grabs your arm and pulls you aside. She stops in her tracks and nods towards the other side of the street, spotting San speaking to Zara. "He's talking to the new applied physics professor. Professor Cho or something."

"I heard a bit about her work. She's really smart."

"And pretty." You nod in agreement. "He's legit walking her to her car and everything. What if they're into each other already?! Or, do you think it's a tap and dash thing? Do you think Professor Choi is an undercover hoe?"

"Girl?" You look at her questioningly. "What do I do with you?" You laugh and playfully nudge her. "Professor Choi is probably just trying to be a good colleague to her."

"Yeah, okay. She's definitely interested, though. Look at the way she looks up at him. I mean, who wouldn't be?"

"Definitely can't get anything by you, can I?"

"Nope. I'm excited for your rotation with him."

"Excited for the wrong reasons." You playfully run a hand down her hair. "Get out of your head, missy." She snorts.

"I can only dream and live through you." You laugh and link your arm with hers, carrying onto the gym. Meanwhile, Zara finds her way to her car with San in tow.

"Well, it was great talking to you, San." San smiles and nods, watching as Zara gets into her car in one of the smaller lots near the Harvey Center. "Thanks for showing me around your lab and for all your advice."

"Yeah, of course. Let me know if you need anything else. Happy to help. Maybe I can swing by once your lab is settled and kicking off." She nods. "But, definitely try to catch Namjoon and get that old man's wisdom." She laughs.

"Of course. Will do. Have a good rest of your evening." He gently taps the hood of her car before giving her a small nod.

"You as well, drive safely." He waits until she gets settled in her car and drives off before slowly walking over to his car in the usual lot he parks at. He catches sight of you and Eunchae walking towards the gym, your laughs echoing as you seem to be joking around, playfully pushing each other and in good spirits. Hearing your laugh brings a small smile to his face, remembering the events earlier today.

He can't help but be a little flattered, even a little curious as to what exactly you think about him.

—taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @persphonesorchid @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @vcutparis @chngbnwf @struggling101 @sanhwalvr @angelqueendom @barbielibra @brown88 @choisansplushie @yunhoswrldddd @hyukssunflower @vickykazuya @lucid-galaxys-world

[deerlysacred]

❦ one pot ⧼ soldier boy x witch fem!reader ⧽ | playing house

⟆ the first chapter of the ‘playing house’ series.

𐂂 𝄢 friday 04 : 32 p.m. { butcher left you to take care of this famous supe soldier boy for the weekend. }

𖣂 𝄢 fluff.

‼️ 𝄢 i do not own the boys or any of its characters; all rights belong to their respective creators. this is purely a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, with no intention of profit.

The safe house wasn't much to look at. A shitty little apartment in the middle of nowhere, with peeling wallpaper and a draft that whistled through the cracks in the windows. Butcher and the others had left hours ago, and now it was just you and Soldier Boy.

While they were out playing detective, you were tasked with making sure Soldier Boy —Ben— didn't do something stupid, like get himself killed before the job was done or accidentally vaporize an entire city block in a fit of PTSD. Babysitting duty, basically. Butcher had even been patronizing enough to say, "Keep 'im happy. Maybe cook 'im a meal or somethin'." As if you weren't already the unofficial den mother of this ragtag mess of a team.

So. Cooking it was.

You figured stew would be easy enough. One pot. Minimal effort. Warm, fulling, impossible to fuck up. All you had to do was get through the next weekend without pissing off the most volatile superhuman in history or dying from secondhand smoke inhalation.

Simple.

Except Ben was watching you. Very closely.

Not in the way most men did— sly glances, stolen looks when they thought you wouldn't notice. No, his stare was direct and sharp. It was the kind of look that made you hyper-aware of every movement, of the slow stir of the spoon in your hand, of the subtle hitch in your breath.

Ignore him. He's like an old cat— if you acknowledge him, he'll just do it more.

He was sprawled on the couch, beer dangling lazily between his fingers, the flickering TV screen casting sharp shadows over his face. Even like this —half-drunk and half-bored— he had a presence that was impossible to ignore. Broad shoulders slouched, thick arms corded with muscle resting over the couch. His long legs were spread wide, the denim of his jeans stretching over thick thighs. "What the hell are you even makin' over there?" His gruff voice cut through the quiet, laced with skepticism. "Smells weird."

You glanced over your shoulder for a second, catching him scrunching his nose like a spoiled golden retriever. "It's stew." you said, giving the pot another slow stir.

Ben snorted, bringing the beer to his lips, his throat bobbing with each slow swallow. "Christ. What, Butcher put you up to this? Thought you were my fuckin' babysitter, not my goddamn housewife."

Heat crept up your neck at that, but you ignored it, choosing instead to focus on chopping up some carrots. "Yeah, well, I figured if I let you fend for yourself, you'd either burn this place down trying to use the microwave or get scammed into buying twenty-dollar fast food. So here we are."

"Dont need a goddamn caretaker too. I'm a grown man." he muttered into his beer, but there was something almost amused in his tone. Maybe even… appreciative? You weren't sure. His default setting was 'grumpy' so it was hard to tell.

You scrapped the chopped vegetables into the pot, watching as they disappear beneath the simmering broth. The aroma was actually kind of nice, despite what Ben said.

For a while, there was only the sound of bubbling stew and whatever car chase was happening on TV. Then, Ben spoke up again.

"Didn't know witches cooked." His voice was a low drawl, rough around the edges like he smoked a thousand cigarettes (which, let's be real, he probably had).

"What, you think I survive on eye of newt and bat wings?"

He shrugged, took another swig of his beer, and gestured vaguely at you with the bottle. "Dunno. Figured you just… I dunno, chant some shit and make food appear. Like poof— supper's on the table."

You rolled your eyes. "That's not how magic works."

"Then what's the point?"

Your grip tightened slightly on the spoon. "Oh, I don't know, maybe I like doing things with my hands."

You realized your mistake the second his lips quirked up into a shameless grin.

"Yeah? Bet you do."

You groaned, immediately regretting everything. Maybe if I just jumped out the window— no, bad plan, third floor. Maybe—

Ben chuckled, low and satisfied with himself, as he settled deeper into the couch. "What's in it anyway? Gotta admit it's starting to smell… decent."

You grinned, dropping some salt in with a flick of your fingers. "Beef, potatoes, carrots, some herbs— basic stuff."

He raised an eyebrow. "You do all this by yourself?"

You blinked, a little thrown by the question. "Uh… yeah?"

"Huh." He took another sip of his beer, gaze sliding over you in a way that feels almost calculating. "You'd make a good housewife."

You froze mid-stir, processing that absolute relic of a statement. Then, slowly, you turned to him, wooden spoon still in hand. "Excuse me?"

He smirked, completely unrepentant. "You heard me."

Your fingers tightened around the spoon. "I'll have you know I am not housewife material."

Ben scoffed. "Bullshit. You cook, you clean—"

"I don't clean for you—"

"—you do all that magic hocus-pocus shit, probably got some potion that makes a man sleep like a baby. Bet you'd keep a husband real happy." He leaned forward, propping an elbow on the coffee table, the grin on his face wicked. "Ever think about settling down, sweetheart?"

Your eye twitched. "Yeah. Every day. With arsenic."

Ben barked out a laugh, a real one, amused. "Shit, you got some bite to you, huh?"

You sighed, turning back to the stew before you say something that gets you vaporized. "I don't know what kind of women you were around back in the day, but I'm not some 1950s housewife."

"No shit, women these days got more bark than they used to."

You tossed a disbelieving glance his way. "Gee, I wonder why."

Ben shrugged like it was all the same to him. "Not complaining. I like a girl with some fight in her."

For some reason, that made your stomach do something weird. Not good weird, but… weird. You busied yourself with the stew. "You're impossible."

"I'm a fucking delight."

"Sure."

Silence settled between you, broken only by the occasional pop of the stew as it simmers. Ben watched you for a while, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful. Then, surprisingly, he asked: "How'd you learn?"

You blinked. "Learn what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely to the stove, to you, to the whole cooking situation. "Somebody teach you?"

You hesitated, caught off guard by the genuine curiosity. "Yeah… my mom."

Ben hummed, gaze drifting slightly. "That right?"

"Yeah." You stirred absently, the memory coming back to you. "She used to say that food is one of the simplest ways to care for someone. That a good meal can fix a lot of things."

Ben took that in, quiet for a beat. Then—

"That's some sappy shit."

You sighed. "Of course that's what you take from it."

He smirked. "Hey, you wanna cook for me, I'm not gonna complain. Just sayin' —a blowjob does the same thing and takes half the effort."

WHAT THE—

Your hand twitched violently, almost sending the spoon flying. Ben just laughed at your shock. You didn't throw the spoon at Ben's stupid face, but God, the temptation was there. Instead, you took a deep breath and focused on the task at hand. The stew was done. It smelled rich and hearty, the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs. You grabbed two bowls, ladled some in, and set them on the table, sliding one towards Ben with a little more force than necessary.

"There. Eat."

Ben eyed the bowl, then you, smirking like he could hear every profanity currently screaming in your brain. "Didn't even spit in it. How sweet."

"Yet." you muttered under your breath as you sat across from him.

Ben picked up the spoon, scooping up a chunk of beef and potato. He gave it a cautious sniff —because apparently, despite surviving years of eating God-knows-what, he suddenly didn't trust food— before taking a bite.

His chewing slowed.

You watched him carefully. "Well?"

He didn't answer right away, just chewed, swallowed, and went in for another bite. Then another. His brow furrowed slightly, like was confused. "…Huh."

You raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"

Ben pointed his spoon at you. "This is actually pretty fuckin' good."

You snorted. "Wow, thanks. High praise from a guy who probably ate paint as a child."

Ben grinned. "And look how I turned out."

"Oh yeah. Perfect specimen." You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help feeling a little pleased as he kept eating. Soldier Boy, the walking nuclear warhead, was sitting in front of you, wolfing down your cooking like it was the best thing he had in decades.

He gestured at the bowl. "So, this, uh… this is normal now?"

You tilted your head. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Like… people don't eat TV dinners and spam anymore?"

"Okay, first of all, people still eat that stuff. But yeah, home-cooked meals are still a thing. Not everyone survives on frozen shit."

Ben grunted. "Didn't have time to cook back in the day. Always off doin' supe shit. When I was home, I had a hire girl do it."

You gave him a dry look. "Of course you did."

He smirked. "What? S'how it was. You'd have fit right in back then."

You scoffed. "Yeah, except I wouldn't have been cooking for you."

Ben chuckled, shaking his head as he dug back into the stew. For a while, there was just the sound of eating— the quiet clink of spoons against bowls. It was oddly… peaceful.

Then, naturally, Ben ruined it.

"So, what's the deal with you and Butcher?"

You paused mid-bite, blinking at him. "What?"

Ben gestured vaguely. "You two got a thing or somethin'?"

You nearly choked on your food. "What—God, no!"

Ben smirked, clearly entertained by your horror. "That a little too much mustache for ya?" Caressing his beard.

You shuddered dramatically. "Ew. Please. I don't need that image in my head while I'm eating."

"Figured. Butcher doesn't seem like the type to go for weird little witch girls."

You narrowed your eyes. "Weird little witch girls? I'm gonna hex you."

Ben laughed, deep and throaty, one hand drumming against the coffee table. "So if it ain't Butcher, you got someone else?"

You frowned. "Why do you care?"

He shrugged, popping another bite into his mouth. "Just makin' conversation."

You studied him for a moment, then sighed, stabbing at your stew. "No. No one."

Ben raised an eyebrow. "What, a cute thing like you, no boyfriend?"

Your face heated slightly, but you rolled your eyes. "Oh, please. I don't have time for that. I've got more important things to worry about than—" You waved your spoon vaguely. "—dating."

Ben hummed, considering you. "That's a damn shame."

You cleared your throat. "Why? You wanna sign up?"

"Depends. Do I get more stew out of it?"

You scoffed. "Oh, that's what you're after. The food."

"Hey, I ain't gonna lie to you, sweetheart. You cook like this, a man starts thinkin' long term."

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly sprained something. When you were done, you stood up. "I'm gonna go wash my hands." Ben just grunted in acknowledgment.

You headed to the dingy little bathroom, shaking your head as the faucet rattled before spitting out a weak stream of warm water. Just as you were drying your hands with a towel, you heard it—

Ben's voice, raised and pissed.

Your stomach dropped.

Oh, God. Nononononononono…

You barely dried your hands before rushing out of the bathroom, half-expecting to find him punching holes in the walls or squaring up against some poor delivery guy. Instead, you skidded to a stop in the middle of the living room and found him standing there, broad-shouldered and brimming with barely restrained fury, gripping your phone in one massive hand like he was debating whether to crush it.

"You answered my phone?!" you yelled.

Ben turned his head, green eyes blazing, irritation sharp in the hard set of his jaw. "You didn't answer it," he shot back. "Thought it was somethin' important! Instead, some dickhead named Greg starts yappin' in my ear about 'overdue payments' and 'interest rates'— what the hell kinda scam you wrapped up in?"

Your eyes widened. "Wait— you talked to the bank man?"

Ben crossed his arms, his expression pure fury. "Damn right I did."

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. "Oh my god. What did you say?"

"I told 'im to go fuck himself, that's what I said! Told 'im he's a snake oil peddler and if he wants his money so bad, he can come down here and fight me for it like a man."

Your jaw dropped. "BEN."

"What?"

"That was my credit card company! I owe them money!"

Ben blinked, his green eyes zoning out for a second. "…So?"

"So, now they probably think I'm trying to threaten them instead of paying them!"

Ben scoffed, waving a hand. "Good. Maybe they'll stop calling, then. Bunch of bloodsuckers, the lot of 'em."

You groaned again, stomping over and snatching your phone from his grip. "Unbelievable. You threatened my bank!"

Ben smirked, utterly unrepentant, his lips quirking like this was the most fun he had in weeks. "Ain't my fault they folded like wet paper. Bunch of pussies."

"You told Greg to fight you over my credit card bill!"

His smirk widened, slow and wolfish, dimples cutting deep into his bearded cheeks. "Hell yeah, I did. Told 'im I'd meet him anywhere, anytime. Guy backed off real quick."

You stared at him, equal parts exasperated and horrified.

"Y'know what?" You inhaled sharply, shaking your head as you turned away. "I'm just gonna pretend this didn't happen." With that, you flopped onto the couch, grabbing a pillow and covering your face with it, muffling a scream.

You were never letting him near your phone again.

Later that evening, after the dishes had been washed (mostly by you, with Ben half-assedly drying them and complaining the whole time), you made coffee. Because let's be honest, after that absolute disaster Ben caused, you needed caffeine. Badly. You brewed it. Strong, dark, and just slightly sweet.

Ben eyed the two steaming mugs as you set them on the table. "You drink coffee at night?"

You shrugged. "Why not?"

He scoffed, grabbing his. "No wonder you're so high-strung."

You shot him a flat look. You wanted to say 'Says the guy who's been vibrating with unresolved rage since 1984.' but you bit your tongue. Knowing which lines to not cross.

Ben took a sip, his expression barely changed, but the way his shoulders loosened just slightly told you that he approved the taste.

You curled up on the couch, hands wrapped around your mug. "So… now that we're stuck together for the weekend, what do you usually do to pass the time? Besides smoking, drinking, and picking fights with my credit card company?"

Ben smirked over the rim of his mug. "That about covers it, sweetheart."

You rolled your eyes. "Figures."

For a while, silence settled. Not awkward, not tense. Just… quiet. The only sounds were the occasional clink of a mug against the table, the low hum of the fridge, and the faint noise of a distant car passing outside.

Then Ben spoke.

"You really think a meal can fix shit?"

You blinked, turning to him. "Huh?"

"That thing you said earlier. About food fixin' things." He didn't look at you, just stared at his coffee. "That just some witchy sentimental crap or do you actually believe it?"

You hesitated, then answered honestly. "I think… it's not about the food itself. It's about what it represents. Taking care of someone. Letting them know they're not alone." You traced the rim of your mug. "Even if it's just for one meal. It's a moment outside of everything else— outside of all the chaos. A moment where you sit down, you eat, and you know, for just a little while, that you're okay. That someone thought enough of you to keep you warm, to make sure you had something real in front of you. Then adding another meal, another evening onto it. Then another, then another… Building something safe and sound with a person."

Ben was quiet. His fingers tapped against his mug in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. Then—

"…No one ever did that for me."

Your chest tightened. You turned to him fully, but his expression was unreadable, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with something distant.

"…Not even your team?" you asked softly.

Ben huffed a bitter laugh. "Yeah, right. Those assholes? They couldn't wait to get rid of me."

You frowned. "Payback."

Ben's grip tightened around his mug. "Yeah. Bunch of goddamn backstabbers. Lied to my fuckin' face. My own team— people I trusted."

The weight in his voice made something twist in your gut. Crimson Countess was already dead. You didn't ask for details— if Ben had killed her, you doubted there was much left to find. But the others… they were still out there. Still breathing. They lived freely while Soldier Boy was trapped in there for years. You did know his reasons to want revenge. Or at least, you had an idea. The experiments, the isolation, the years of being kept in a frozen hellhole with nothing but agony and rage to keep him company.

"…That's why you want revenge."

His eyes flicked to you.

You didn't look away. "I understand that. I may not be in your shoes but I can't even guess how much I would want to get revenge if I was."

Ben exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as he shook his head. "They don't get to walk free after what they did." His jaw clenched. "They don't get to live their goddamn lives while I spent forty years rotting in a cage."

You swallowed. You could hear it in his voice, that deep, burning rage. But beneath it, buried under layers of anger and bravado— you could hear the hurt.

You hesitated, then you decided to say it anyway.

"…What if it doesn't make you feel better?"

Ben's brows furrowed. "What?"

You held your coffee a little tighter. "What if you get your revenge, but it doesn't change anything? What if it doesn't make the pain go away?"

Ben stared at you.

The question hung in the air, heavy and unspoken.

Then, he scoffed, shaking his head. "Christ. You always this fuckin' sentimental?"

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. "Just something to think about."

Ben didn't respond right away. He just took another slow sip of his coffee, his gaze distant, like he was turning your words over in his head.

For once, he had nothing smart-assed to say. And for some reason, that unsettled you more than anything else.

You pushed yourself up with a yawn, your eyelids getting heavier. "Alright. I'm calling it. I need sleep."

"Tch. Lightweights, all of you."

You ignored that. "There's a room for you down the hall. I set up the bed earlier."

That got his attention. He turned, giving you a slow once-over before he smirked. "That right? Real cozy set-up we got here. What, you tucking me in too, sweetheart?"

Your eye twitched. "No. But I will hex you into insomnia if you keep pushing it."

Ben chuckled, low and amused, but thankfully he didn't tease further. He stretched— an obnoxiously big stretch, broad chest rising, arms flexing, before he finally stood with a groan. "Fine, fine. Since you're gettin' all cranky."

You rolled your eyes, already padding toward the bedrooms. The safe house was small, so it wasn't much of a walk. Just two rooms, side by side, with a narrow hallway between them. You stopped in front of your door, reaching for the knob, when you heard Ben behind you.

"This one mine?" He nudged the door beside yours with his boot.

"Yeah." You stifled another yawn. "There should be clean blankets in there."

Ben huffed. "You really went all out, huh?"

You glanced over your shoulder. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with a tired yet amused look.

You shrugged. "Just figured you'd rather not sleep on a couch that smells like stale beer and mix of suspicious liquids."

Ben snorted. "Sweetheart, I spent years sleeping in a fuckin' icebox. I ain't picky."

There was something about the way he said it— too casual, too offhand— that made your chest tighten a little.

You hesitated. There was a beat of quiet, only the faint hum of the old heater filling the space between you. You shifted on your feet. "…Well. If you need anything, just—" You gestured vaguely towards the wall between your rooms. "Bang or… whatever."

Ben's lips quirked. "That an invitation?"

Your fingers tightened around the doorknob, nails pressing into the cool metal. The way he looked at you now —hooded gaze, mouth curled just enough to be tempting— it sent something warm curling in your gut, heat prickling at your neck.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, gripping the door handle. "Goodnight, Ben."

"Night, witchy."

You groaned, stepping into your room and shutting the door with a click. But as you laid back down, the sounds of the apartment settling around you, the knowledge that he was right there, just on the other side of the wall, was… strangely comforting. You didn't want to think further why you felt that…

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 5: Venice]

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, In-N-Out Burger, accidental fake dating, discussions of pregnancy and abortion (not who you think), a wild Becca appears!

Word count: 6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

You sleep deep but wake up early. When Baela wanders out of the bathroom in a fuzzy purple robe and a gale of steam, she finds you dressed in your grey work uniform and sprinkling a packet of flower food you got from the Rite Aid down the street into the vase of sunflowers. You are smiling to yourself; you can’t seem to stop.

“Heyyyyy!” Baela says, slow and salacious, hoping for interesting stories. You very rarely have any to share. “How’d the Maroon 5 shoot go? Not so bad, right?”

“It was good.” You rearrange the sunflowers, pruning any leaves that have begun to wilt. Daylight streams in through the windows; outside you can see power lines, palm trees, a shopping center featuring—among other things—a Starbucks, World Star Vape, and Carl’s Jr.

“Did you meet Adam Levine?”

“Briefly and uneventfully. But he seemed nice!”

“And you survived the bathtub thing, I see.” Her tone implies that you were ridiculous to ever fear you wouldn’t, childish, ignorant, histrionic.

“Well…I actually didn’t have to do it.”

“What?” She reaches into the refrigerator and removes a plastic bowl full of raspberries, sets it down on the kitchen counter, eats absentmindedly as she stares at you. “Really? Why not?”

You shrug, a little shy but desperately wanting to tell somebody, because that will make it real. Blood burns in your face. “Aegon saved me.”

Baela’s eyes narrow and her brow crinkles. You find yourself—as you often do—casually in awe of the smoothness of her skin, the perfect arches of her eyebrows, her expressiveness that is never inelegant. She chews her raspberries very slowly. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, so…I didn’t have to film that scene. But I did the rest of them and it went fine.”

Baela’s gaze drops to your shoes and travels northbound, examining you with skepticism and dread, as if she is afraid to ask. “Did something else happen?”

You can feel yourself glowing, flushing, beaming helplessly. “Kind of.”

Her jaw drops open; there’s berry juice on her teeth like blood. “How? Where?!”

“We went back to his office after the shoot. I mean, he drove us back to his office. But I wanted to go too.”

“And you did…what, exactly? How many bases?”

“Um…all of them?”

“All of them?!”

“Twice.”

Baela looks horrified. “Oh my God, you really fucked a married guy.”

“No, remember, he’s not married. He’s just engaged.”

“It’s the same thing!” Baela exclaims, and she has completely forgotten about her raspberries. “You’re a cheater, how does that make you feel?”

You shake your head; she doesn’t understand. “I know it sounds bad, but when I’m with Aegon…he’s just so…he’s so protective and he’s smart and he’s brave and he actually believes in me, he’s the only person who doesn’t think I’m hopeless and delusional, and he’s always trying to help me, and there’s something about when we’re together that just feels…magical!”

“Of course it’s magical!” Baela bursts out, and now Jace is peeking blearily out of her bedroom, his dark curls in disarray. “He’s a fuckboy, that’s what they do! He gives you some otherworldly encapsulated experience that leaves you dickmatized but it’s not real, because then he goes home and he does the same thing with his soon-to-be-wife, and then the next day he’s probably hooking up with some other impressionable starstruck client, and you’re standing here thinking you have something special with him when he’s already onto the next girl!”

You can’t imagine that being true, and yet you wonder without wanting to: why did he have condoms in his desk drawer? “I don’t think he’s happy with Becca.”

Baela groans as if she’s in physical pain. “I knew this would happen! I knew somebody was going to take advantage of you. You’re too idealistic, you’re too naïve.”

“I started it,” you object feebly.

“You think you seduced him? You think you were calling the shots with a middle-aged man whose family is Hollywood royalty?”

You look down at your shoes, uninspired white Skechers for work, ashamed. “I guess not.”

Baela huffs a sardonic sigh and scarfs down the last of the raspberries, chewing them aggressively. “You know, people talk shit about Jace—”

“Who talks shit about Jace?” Jace asks from the doorway of her bedroom.

“—They say he’s a hobosexual and lazy and jobless and whatever, but that man is loyal, he doesn’t even look at other women, and I wouldn’t trade him for anybody. Because apparently it’s extremely fucking rare to find someone who won’t get naked for the first stranger who promises to make all their wildest dreams come true.”

You are collapsing in on yourself, a wilting flower, a crushed spider, and you remember years ago finding the emails between your father and that hospital intern, and you marvel at how easy it is to fixate on one star and lose sight of the constellation. Jace slinks back into Baela’s bedroom and closes the door. “Yeah, you’re right, Baela,” you say softly. “I was wrong. I don’t know why I did that.”

Now Baela frowns at you with a nauseating combination of judgment and pity. “Look, are you sure you wouldn’t be happier back home on the horse farm? This place…you’re too nice for it, you know? You’re too trusting. You’re going to keep getting hurt.” You don’t have what it takes.

You steel yourself. “I’m staying here.”

“Okay, and are you going to find a new agent? Maybe somebody who isn’t trying to sleep with you, or at the very least isn’t in a committed relationship while doing it?”

You are thunderstruck by the question; you haven’t even considered this. “No one else wants me.”

Baela tosses the empty plastic bowl into the kitchen sink—it rattles harshly there—and casts you a hard glare as she stalks towards her bedroom in her purple bathrobe. “I am so disappointed in you.”

You turn to watch her leave, crestfallen and deserted. “Are we still going to see the fireworks later when I get done at Cold Stone?”

Baela stops and turns around, and now her face is all pity, like you’re too pathetic to stay mad at, like you aren’t cognizant enough to be held responsible. “Yeah. We’re still going to see the fireworks.”

“Yay!” you reply, a strained little squeak.

“Jace can stay here when I’m in Paris, right?” Baela asks. “He swears he’ll vacuum and take the garbage out and stuff. And you know he won’t fill up the sink with dirty dishes, he basically only eats takeout.”

“Yeah, of course, no problem! He can stay.”

“Thanks.” Baela gives you a small smile—a charitable you’re a dumbass but we’re still friends sort of gesture—and disappears into her bedroom. Then you go find your phone and purse so you won’t be late for work.

All afternoon as you are bent low scraping scoops of ice cream out of the freezer and mashing in mix-ins on the chilled countertop, each time the glass door opens and the string of bells jangle you look up to see if it’s Aegon, because maybe he’s found you another job or maybe he just misses you, and he’s daydreaming of you now in the sweltering sunshine that rains down golden and cloudless. But your only customers are strangers: flocks of influencers in yoga pants who pick at Like It-sized sorbets, flustered mothers trying to relay their lisping children’s orders, giggling couples on dates who you love watching, the way their eyes are alight and their fingers forever ache to intertwine.

At dusk, you and Baela and Jace are lounging on a blanket at the Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook, your breathing still labored from the hike and guzzling cans of La Croix that Baela packed, awful as always but not so bad when you feel like you’re dying of thirst. As you wait for the fireworks to start, you take a few selfies with the distant incandescent mirage of Downtown to the northeast, towards Chinatown and Elysian Park, towards Apple Valley, Minnesota if you drove far enough.

You post the most flattering selfie to your Instagram story with a caption of patriotic emojis: an American flag, the Statue of Liberty, a bald eagle, an exploding pink firework. In the row of circles at the top of your screen, you observe that Aegon—a.k.a. superstargaryen—has also posted a story today. In the two minutes you spend debating whether to watch it, he has seen yours, liked it, and replied: Miss America 2025.

“What are you grinning about?” Baela asks from where she is sitting in Jace’s lap, his arms around her waist, and you can’t tell her because you don’t want to make her mad again.

“Just something my sister sent me.” You click on Aegon’s story; he is standing beside a massive grill covered with hotdogs and hamburger patties, wielding a pair of tongs, and wearing his aviator sunglasses and a green apron with seemingly nothing underneath. You like it and reply: I have literally never wanted a hotdog so bad in my life.

Aegon reacts with a laughing emoji and types: Come and get it. But of course you can’t, because Becca is probably there too.

“You better post the picture we took together,” Baela tells you. “We looked cute as fuck!”

“What about me?” Jace asks playfully, nuzzling the side of her face. “Was I cute as fuck too?”

“You were okay,” Baela says, and they both laugh.

“It’s a really good photo,” you agree. And it proves that you have friends to do activities with, that you aren’t quite as pathetic and alone in Los Angeles as your parents and Clara and Tripp and Mason might think. You post it as a story: you and Baela smiling together, Jace in the background brandishing a peace sign. You add a bunch of red, white, and blue hearts for decoration. Aegon watches your new story within a few minutes, but he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even like it. You frown down at your screen, confused.

“Oh look, it’s starting, it’s starting!” Baela says excitedly, and now there are booming explosions in the darkening sky and threads of shimmering remnants descending like falling stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are early for your appointment because you want to see Aegon again, and you don’t even try to tell yourself it’s for any other reason. It’s Tuesday, July 8th, and there are still charred firework wrappers and singed sparklers strewn on the sidewalk. You find a parking spot a ways down the street from Aegon’s half-duplex and trot to the front door. You are wearing your tan TOMS wedges, a top the color of dark fertile earth, a green maxi skirt, and swampy verdant eyeshadow to match: matte brown Rewind and sparkly emerald Damaged, both by Urban Decay.

Behind the reception desk, Brandon is squinting at the computer screen and scrawling notes in his planner with his flower pen. “Hey girl!” he greets you, and although he is preoccupied he still gets a bottle of Perrier out of the minifridge and sets it on the edge of the desk.

“Thanks!” you say as you take it. “I’m really sorry about what happened last week with the address thing. I hope you weren’t too freaked out. I didn’t want to ruin your holiday.”

Brandon laughs and waves a hand dismissively. “It’s totally cool, I wasn’t worried at all. Aegon must be hella stressed lately because he’s always mixing things up and forgetting appointments, then he yells at me but feels bad about it afterwards and pays me overtime. Well worth it! I think it’s the wedding. Becca’s constantly showing up asking for his opinion about cakes and decorations and whatever and it’s just a lot.”

You smile politely; it takes some effort. “Yeah, weddings are nerve-racking. My sister Clara is planning hers right now.”

“Oh for cute! Are you going to be her maid of honor?”

“Actually, I don’t know. I hope not. Sounds like a ton of work.”

“You’d be marvelous at it,” Brandon assures you, then snatches up the phone when it rings. “Targaryen Talent Agency, this is Brandon, how can I help you?” You say goodbye and continue to Aegon’s office.

Inside, he is wearing the same green Nike Killshots he had on the day you first met and has them propped up on his desk as he plays his Nintendo 64. Mario is traversing a narrow stone pathway surrounded by a sea of blood-red lava. Aegon’s tank top is the color of the pine trees back in Minnesota; the unbuttoned short-sleeve Oxford shirt he’s thrown overtop is white and wrinkled. The room has been tidied up, all signs of your transgression erased: debris swept off the scratched wood floor, his desk once again littered with folders and papers and Juicy Fruit gum wrappers, new frames for the photographs, Honeycrisp apples filling up a bowl that is blue china instead of plain bone-colored ceramic.

“Hey,” Aegon says, glancing at you but still clicking buttons and swiveling the joystick on his transluscent orange controller.

“Hi!” You are grinning as you sit down in the chair in front of his desk. “Your office is back to normal.”

“Yeah, I have cleaning people that come in a few days a week.”

“Are you winning?” you ask, meaning the game. Mario veers off the precarious walkway and into the lava, screams and tries to leap to safety, sails over a stone island, hits the lava again and dies.

Aegon chuckles; he sounds tired. His bruised knuckles, five days gone, have sickened to a ghastly green and plumes of opaque violet. “I guess not.” He turns off the Nintendo 64. “How was your 4th of July?”

“It was awesome! I hung out with my roommate.”

Aegon gives you a disapproving look like he doesn’t quite believe you. You can’t fathom why. “I might have another job for you.”

“Really? Great!” But despite the good news, you’re beginning to feel like you’re sinking. You keep waiting for Aegon to acknowledge what happened here, what you both did, what you were to each other even if only for a few hours under the cover of darkness.

“There’s a casting call for a very minor part in a new Mavel movie. I’m sure that’s not exactly your dream role, and it’s not really what I see you doing either, but you said you’d take anything and it’s an opportunity to get you in front of some big-name people. So I booked you a spot.”

“I accept.” Is he going to pretend it never happened?

“I’m keeping an eye on the indie projects that make it to pre-production. I can imagine you shining in a niche little thriller, maybe a romantic drama…you do angry really well, you know. Which is strange, because you’re never angry in real life. But that’s what makes you an actress. You become other kinds of people.”

Does he think it was a mistake? Does he think it didn’t matter? “Okay,” you hear yourself say uncertainly.

Aegon studies you, his Nike Killshots still resting lazily on his desk. His blonde hair is slicked back from his face; his eyes are a remote somber blue like the ocean through an airplane window. “You alright, sunshine?”

“Yeah, I just…um…I mean…” You glance uneasily around the small plain office, scuffed wooden floorboards and cracked paint on mint green walls and glaring daylight that pours in through the windows that face the east. “What happened Thursday night…was that a one-time thing, or…?”

Slowly, Aegon smiles, and there’s something about his voice that strikes you as smug, maybe taunting, maybe even cruel. “It was that good for you, huh?”

You are suddenly reminded of every doubt, every warning, every belittling comment you thought you had convinced yourself not to absorb: from Mom, Dad, Clara, Tripp, Mason, Baela, Jace, agents and directors and surgeons. You thump your cold glass bottle of Perrier onto Aegon’s desk, clutch your purse, and bolt for the door. “Sorry, I have to go.”

Aegon is stunned. He scrambles to his feet. “What—?”

“Sorry, bye. Please don’t follow me.” You don’t want him to see you crying. You’re already humiliated enough.

You run awkwardly in your wedges through the lobby—Brandon watches you from behind his desk, baffled—and burst out into the hot late-morning sunlight. You almost tumble down the concrete steps but regain your balance, then flee towards your Honda. Window air conditioning units whir, dogs bark, car engines rev, a radio in an open garage is blaring Domino by Jessie J. Now your phone is ringing.

You yank it out of your purse and, through the tears that blur your vision, see that the name on the screen is Aegon’s. “Hello?” you answer stupidly, as if you don’t know who it is.

Aegon’s voice is equal parts defensive and resigned. “Do you want a new agent?”

“No,” you sob.

“Then come back here.”

“I just…I just feel like I really messed up, I mean I’ve never cheated on or with anybody and I can’t believe I did that, and now you’re pretending it never even happened, and it feels weird, it feels wrong, and I ruined everything, and maybe people were right when they said I couldn’t handle being out here—”

“Come back to my office,” Aegon says calmly. “And we will talk about it. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whimper, and turn around.

You clop into the lobby and give Brandon an embarrassed wave. He nods, puzzled. Then you return to Aegon’s office and take your place in your chair, slumped, red-eyed, ashamed.

Aegon sits down too, places his elbows on his desk, laces his fingers together and presses them against his lips as he gazes at you, his large blue eyes glossy and pained. After a while, he says quietly: “This is exactly what I didn’t want. For you to be hurt, for you to be sad.”

So you won’t start crying again, you distract yourself by rotating the green glass bottle you left on Aegon’s desk, slippery with condensation. “I don’t even like Perrier.”

“Then why do you drink one every time you’re here?”

“I thought it would be the easiest thing for Brandon to get me.”

Aegon shakes his head; and for a long time he just watches you. Then an idea strikes him. “Do you want to go to the beach?”

~~~~~~~~~~

He takes the 110 south to the 10, then the 10 west towards the coast, then Venice Boulevard until you hit the canals. Aegon parks his Sebring in a tight spot on the street; he has to cut it half a dozen times to squeeze between a BMW X5 and a Volkswagen Tiguan. When he rests his bruised hand on the back of your seat so he can twist around and look behind him, you feel a disorienting sort of loss. Is he never going to touch me again? Then you both get out and walk towards the towering palm trees and beckoning open blue that peeks out from between hotels and surf shops, the genesis of the Pacific Ocean that continues uninterrupted for over five thousand miles to the shores of Japan.

On the way here, Aegon stopped at an In-N-Out Burger. You said you didn’t want anything when he asked—you have no appetite whatsoever—but at the drive-thru window he ordered two cheeseburger combos: Cherry Cokes, grilled onions on the burgers, Animal-Style fries. He paid in cash, because he is full of deceit, or at least that is what you told yourself. And so now you are carrying the Cherry Cokes, condensation sweating out of the cardboard cups as midday heat radiates up from the sidewalk and teenagers on bicycles and skateboards weave around you. You pop into one of the surf shops and Aegon waits outside, bemused, until you emerge with a blue can of Coppertone Sport tucked under your arm.

When Aegon finds a spot he likes on the beach and sits cross-legged in loose warm sand, you set down the Cherry Cokes—ice jingling in the dripping cups—and spray yourself with the Coppertone Sport until all of your exposed skin is glistening with SPF 50. Then you try to pass the can to Aegon.

“I’m good,” he says, opening the paper In-N-Out Burger bag to distribute the contents.

“Do you want to get skin cancer? Are you trying to look like Clint Eastwood when you’re forty?”

He gives you an irritated smirk but takes the sunscreen and halfheartedly mists himself with it. Then he flings the can aside and passes you your burger and fries when you sit down beside him. Aegon takes large, sloppy bites of his burger, grease dribbling down his fingers; you can only manage queasy nibbles at your own. In the waves, surfers are paddling far out and then riding swells back in, skittering to a stop in shallow water or being dragged under by the gleaming sapphire currents. California gulls squawk overhead and dive greedily when Aegon throws them some of his fries. To the north is a jetty of stones to mark the territorial boundary between the surfers and the swimmers; to the south is a long wooden pier for fishing. A group of people are playing volleyball nearby. From their boombox drifts a Red Hot Chili Peppers song; you feel like you’re being haunted by them.

“It’s the edge of the world and all of Western civilization,

The sun may rise in the East, at least it settled in a final location

It’s understood that Hollywood sells Californication…”

“It’s not your fault,” Aegon says. “I’m the one who’s engaged, I’m a decade older than you, I’m sort of your boss. It was my responsibility to put the brakes on, and I didn’t because…” He gestures helplessly. “Because I really like you. And I didn’t want to stop. But you’re not to blame for it and you shouldn’t feel guilty and you didn’t do anything wrong. I did.”

You stare out into the waves, glittering with sharp lacerations of sunlight. “So you wish you’d stopped it.”

Aegon sighs and slurps his Cherry Coke, ice clinking around in the cardboard cup, red and white and reminding you of those zodiac calendars at Chinese restaurants. “I guess. I don’t know.”

“You don’t feel guilty?”

“It wasn’t the first time. I’m sure it’ll happen again at some point. It doesn’t change what I have with Becca.”

You turn to him, revolted. “You just cheat constantly? That’s how you live?”

“Not constantly,” Aegon says, annoyed. “Not even that often. Maybe once or twice a year. I bump into someone at a party or a club, or on a film set, or on a plane…you know. Things happen. But it doesn’t go any further than that and it’s never serious.”

“Never serious,” you echo morosely.

“Never long-term,” Aegon amends.

“Marry me, girl, be my fairy to the world, be my very own constellation,

A teenage bride with a baby inside getting high on information,

And buy me a star on the boulevard, it’s Californication…”

Aegon taps the mostly-untouched burger in your hand. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You said you’d listen to me. I’m telling you to eat.”

His logic is sound. You make more of an effort, washing each bite down with Cherry Coke that you usually never drink, empty calories, fleeting forbidden sweetness.

Aegon is watching you closely, the creases around his eyes deep and thoughtful. “Could you tell me…like, specifically…what exactly you’re upset about?”

“I guess I thought it meant something.”

“I’m not pretending it didn’t. I just said I really like you.”

“But you’re still getting married in September.”

“You honestly believe I’d rip up the life I’ve have planned out for years for someone I met a month ago?”

“I don’t understand how you can have feelings for me and be marrying somebody else. That doesn’t make any sense. When I’m really into someone, I don’t want other people.”

“That’s adorable,” Aegon says, like you’re an idiot. After a moment he adds, rather combatively: “And if you’re such a one-dude kind of girl, who was that guy in your Instagram story?”

You have no idea what he’s talking about. “What guy?”

“The guy on the 4th of July. Young gym bro curly hair guy.”

It takes you a few seconds to realize who he means. “Jace?”

“That’s his name? Jace? That’s not even a real name. That’s like James or Jason, but make it the trailer park remix.”

“I think his parents have money,” you say absently, fascinated by Aegon’s reaction, trying to decide if you want to divulge that Jace is in no way available or romantically interested in you.

“That’s not the point.”

“He’s a friend.”

Aegon rolls his eyes and shoves a handful of Animal-Style fries into his mouth, sopping with melted yellow cheese and grilled onions and secret-recipe spread that tastes suspiciously like Thousand Island salad dressing. “Right.”

“Where are you going after you get married?”

“Becca’s family is in Houston.”

“What’s there for you?”

He laughs, a curt little cackle. “Segway tours, rodeos. The Space Center.”

“What about your family? What about Aemond and the others?”

“If they want to see me, they can catch a flight.”

“If you’re so hellbent on leaving Los Angeles, then what’s the point of this? Just ditch me now. Just give me to some other agent and we can both move on.”

“Sure,” Aegon says, like he is being deliberately stoic. “But I need more time to find someone I trust enough.”

“You can’t think of a single person who isn’t going to try to make me get naked or leap off a building?”

“No, I can, but I need someone who actually believes in you too. And you haven’t done much work out here yet. So it would be better if I had more to show them.”

“Can’t you just forge me another resume?”

Aegon looks at you, a challenge, a dare. “Do you really want to never see me again?”

The truth is humiliatingly simple. “No.”

“Then why are you arguing?”

You toss a few fries to the seagulls; they wrestle over them when they fall to the ground, kicking up golden sand and pecking murderously at each other. “Do you love Becca?”

Aegon scoffs. “Oh, come on.”

“What?”

“It’s a stupid question.”

“It’s an extremely relevant question.”

“Are you twelve years old?” Aegon says, then slurps forcefully on his Cherry Coke. “Life is more complicated than that.”

“More complicated than marrying people you’re actually in love with…?”

Aegon gazes blankly out over the Pacific Ocean for a while, the breeze in his hair and the Coppertone Sport shimmering on his face, and then at last he turns to you. “Okay, listen,” Aegon begins. “About a year ago, Becca got pregnant.”

You’re so startled you accidentally knock over your Cherry Coke, scrabbling for the cup as dark reddish liquid spills into the sand. “You have a baby?!”

He watches you, severe, grim, maybe a little afraid of what you’ll think. “No.”

Then you remember. “You don’t want kids,” you say softly.

“Right. And I didn’t then either. So I told her I’d have absolutely nothing to do with it if she kept the baby, and that my preference was for her to terminate. And that’s what she did.”

You are speechless, you are horrified, you are staring at him and struggling to imagine it.

“I’m not convinced it was unintentional,” Aegon is saying; you are only half-hearing him. Your skull is full of rumbling waves and the shrieks of seagulls. “Becca told me that she moved out here to be an actress and a model, but I never saw her really pursuing that. Once we met, she jumped right into being the perfect caretaker, and some people are like that. They need someone to need them. She was great at it, it was all she wanted to do, looking after me and the house and the Targaryen family Hollywood bullshit that I can’t stand. And eventually Becca started dropping hints about getting married, and I ignored them. I think…maybe she thought having a baby would speed up the timeline. But now she knows how serious I am about not having children. And I’m a lot more careful.”

“So…you’re marrying Becca…out of guilt?”

“No,” Aegon says, exasperated that you don’t understand. “I’m marrying her because I’m who she wants, and she would do anything for me. And being with me is a sacrifice, right? So the least I can do is give her the official title. It works for both of us. It’s good for both of us.”

You still can’t comprehend it. It seems so incongruous with who you know him to be: protective, warm, unconventionally noble. “You pressured Becca into getting an abortion?”

“It was her choice,” Aegon says weakly, knowing that he’d put an insurmountable weight on the scale.

“That’s a horrible thing to do.”

“I know,” Aegon snaps. “What do you want me to say? That I’m a fucking terrible person, that I’m a curse to everyone who cares about me? Sure, fine, okay, you got it. But to my knowledge I’m the only person in your corner, so let me help you for as long as I can.”

You shake your head; none of it makes sense. All of it is awful. They were right. I don’t belong here. “Why do you care about what happens to me?”

“Because you’re kind, and you’re gentle, and you’re real, and you want this for the right reasons, and I’m not going to let anybody beat that out of you.”

You swallow noisily. “I feel really guilty.”

“I’m sorry,” Aegon says, and he seems to mean it.

“I don’t think it’s fair to let Becca go through with the wedding without knowing that we just hooked up in your office.”

Aegon raises his eyebrows and shrugs uneasily. “Look, I’m not going to tell you what to do, but Becca wouldn’t want to know.”

“Why? Do you have some kind of arrangement?” Like my parents do. “She doesn’t concern herself with your cheating as long as she doesn’t have to see the evidence?”

“I mean, has she ever used those exact words? No. But I think that’s pretty close to how she feels.”

You nibble on a fry. Your eyes are downcast, your words hushed. With one index finger, you draw stars in the sand. “That’s so sad.”

Aegon sighs, defeated. “Do you want to ride with me to the Marvel audition or do you want to drive yourself? It’s on Friday.”

“I don’t want you there at all.”

“Well, I’m going to be there. But I can try to stay out of your way.”

You’re sulking. “Why do you have to go?”

“In case something happens, obviously,” Aegon flares. “In case a director or an actor is a creep, in case they want you to do a dangerous stunt, it case they try to tell you to get surgery, in case they lie to you about the terms, in case a million other things go wrong. No one is going to listen to you, but because I’m a Targaryen they’ll listen to me.”

“You’re my hero,” you say sarcastically; it comes out more miserable than mean. You’ve never been good at cruelty. It’s not a language you speak.

“I’m the best you’ve got,” Aegon pitches back, and you sit with him in heavy silence under the sizzling afternoon sun for a long time, neither of you speaking, neither of you moving to leave.

An hour later, back in Elysian Park, Aegon parks his Sebring curbside and says Brandon will text you the address for the Marvel audition. You thank him briskly and impersonally. Aegon jogs up the concrete steps and into his half-duplex; you begin walking down the sidewalk towards where you parked your 2003 Honda Accord this morning. You are most of the way there when you see her approaching: long dark hair, wide-leg jeans, bridal white crop top, carrying a massive bakery box. Becca is beaming and humming to herself, but when she spots you she jolts to a halt.

“Hi, Becca!” you say very cheerfully, overcompensating.

“Hey,” she replies flatly, then goes to pass you, heading towards Aegon’s office.

“Wait, sorry, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Reluctantly, Becca stops and peers at you, agitated, guarded, unwelcoming. “What? I’m busy. I have wedding cake samples for Aegon to taste.”

“Oh neat, that’s so fun!”

She glares at you, waiting.

“Okay,” you start. “Um….well…I just wanted to…um…Becca, there’s something I feel like I need to confess to you, and I want to profusely apologize because even though it wasn’t planned, I still knew better and I should never have—”

“You people,” Becca hisses, and you gape at her, bewildered.

“Sorry, what?”

“Always trying to break us up,” she seethes hatefully, defiantly. “Always trying to tear us apart. You think you matter enough to jeopardize what Aegon and I have? He comes home to me, always, and no one can change that. You think I don’t know loving a man like that means having to share him with the world? I know it. But you should know you’ll never get to keep him.”

“No, Becca, that’s not—”

“And if he was going to leave me, he has better options than you.”

Her hands are full, but she lowers a shoulder and shoves you hard with it, and you go stumbling backwards, your feet twisting out of your wedges. Pain bolts up through your left ankle and you yelp as you collapse onto the front lawn of a small yellow house. When you look up at Becca, staggered and appalled, she is sashaying swiftly up the sidewalk and is already halfway to Aegon’s office. You grab your wedges and limp to your Honda on bare feet, the concrete beneath them searing under the arid southwest sun.

The apartment is empty, Baela getting drinks with her L.A. friends before jetting off to Paris next week, Jace at one of his infrequent PhD classes. You grab an ice pack from the freezer and shuffle clumsily to your room, flop down onto your bed, apply the ice pack to your throbbing, swollen ankle.

“This day fucking sucks,” you mutter to nobody. Then you turn on your laptop and open Spotify in one tab. You recall seeing a lot of Alanis Morissette in Aegon’s playlist, and you find one of the few songs of hers you already know because it’s your mom’s favorite: You Learn.

As you listen, mulling over Aegon and his mazelike contradictions, it occurs to you that maybe losing his father at such a young age did something to him, scarred him, traumatized him, made him terrified of letting people get too close. Perhaps that is a baseless assumption. Perhaps you are desperate to make excuses for him, to believe that there’s still hope for the two of you.

How old did Aegon say he was when his dad died? In college? That could mess someone up.

Wikipedia once told you that Viserys Targaryen passed away at his Malibu home after a long illness. Was it bad? It had to be, right? A disease that was torturously slow and horrific for the whole family. An experience that wounded Aegon somewhere deep and immutable.

You Google: Viserys Targaryen cancer. There are no relevant results. You try again.

Viserys Targaryen Alzheimer’s

Viserys Targaryen ALS

Viserys Targaryen multiple sclerosis

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

You roll over and stare up at your bedroom ceiling, listening to Alanis Morissette’s serrated mezzo-soprano twang, and whatever is required to be taken seriously as an artist—to make people see you, to make people listen, to earn the privilege of not spending forty years impersonating someone who never feels the siren call of other lives—she has it.

Maybe there’s no profound explanation for why Aegon is marrying Becca. Maybe he really is a fuckboy like Baela said.

Maybe he just doesn’t like you enough.

[jamespotterismydaddy]

Lord Husband (Chapter 6)

cregan x reader

A/N: feel free to let me know if this is a shit chapter because there were far too many people in my vicinity when i wrote it and focusing is already hard enough

series masterlist

word count: 1,500 words

Thunderstorms. Fuck. It’s hardly welcoming that, as you enter the North, in the last weeks of your journey, it would be pouring so hard that the men on horseback can’t see through the rain. The travels all have to come to a rest, annoyingly prolonging your time spent on the road.

There’s a knock on the door before it swings open to reveal Cregan, looking very damp. But still, a goofy grin graces his face.

Before anyone else can say anything, Safia speaks. “Oh. my lord! You must come in to get away from the cold rain.” She insists and he gives her a nod as he directs the grin at her.

Cregan knows you likely wouldn’t grant him entrance so he takes your handmaiden’s words at face value and steps into the carriage. “Thank you, ladies.” He says and both of your handmaidens blush. Since they sit together, the only free space is by your side and he seems to have no qualms with making himself comfortable. “I do hope lightning doesn’t frighten you, princess.” He says with a light teasing tone.

“You smell like a wet dog.” You say firmly and glare at him.

“I suppose that I would. Perhaps I need to dry off?” He says almost mischievously and then shakes his head side to side, flinging water droplets from his hair. Safia and Rose squeal and giggle at his actions. You just groan.

“Ugh! Cregan, stop that.” You say in a frustrated tone.

“Oh, are we on a first name basis now, y/n?” You want to sigh at how nice your name sounds when he says it, dripping from his tongue like nectar. It makes you angry.

“I did not mean to say it.” 

“I think we ought to call each other by our first names. We are to be man and wife very soon.” He says with a smile and you take in the sight of him, his damp curls, his goofy grin, but you quickly snap yourself out of it.

Man and wife. What a plague.

“Of course… Cregan.” You say through gritted teeth and though you don’t sound like you’re talking to a lover, he seems more than pleased with the progress.

~~~  

You do have to admit that the North is beautiful. You’ve seen winter. You’ve seen snow, but never like this. You want to press your face against the window like a silly child. It’s all you’ve wanted to do since you entered the area a few days ago, but you can’t. Because it is time. Winterfell must be just around the corner because the procession stops. There is a  want to make a big show of you and Cregan as a united front, side by side on horseback as your dragon flies overhead. So that must be what it is time for, you think as the carriage door is opened for you. 

“My dearest betrothed.” Lord Stark says as he holds out a hand for you. You feel the cold air nip at your cheeks as you accept it and step out of the carriage. You shiver a little bit. “You are cold.” He says as he removes one of his own furs.

“I am fine, my lord.” You say but he drapes it around your shoulders anyhow.

“I thought we agreed that you would call me by my name in non-formal settings.” He says a bit teasingly.

“We did.” You confirm and he chuckles when you don’t address him further.

You hold his arm as he leads you to the front of the procession. “Your horse.” He says as you approach a silver mare.

What a coincidence, a silver horse for a Targaryen.

You like the look of the beast anyhow. Even if you never had much need for horses before, you still are a skilled rider. By the time Cregan is motioning for a mounting block to be brought over, you have already helped yourself into the saddle with the stirrup. He looks almost surprised.

“If one can mount a dragon without aid, then they can do the same with a horse.” You say to him.

“Of course.” He replies with a little smile before mounting his own horse next to you. You wonder if you look like a true Northern lady, riding next to Cregan Stark with furs draped over shoulders. You assume the dragon flying overhead ruins that image. People cheer as you make your way into their city and stare in awe at the Hellion, Sȳndror. You assume that a majority of them have never seen a dragon.

They are lucky to lay their eyes upon him.

When you ride through the gates, into the courtyard, a small greeting party waits for you. The maesters, the advisers, they all express how delighted they are to meet you. What surprises you the most is the girl you are introduced to.

“My sister.” Cregan says.

Sister? He doesn’t have a sister.

“Your sister…” You repeat as you nod your head at the woman who seems to be around your age.

“Sara Snow.” He finishes and you try not to let your surprise show. Nobody expects to be formally greeted by a bastard. Cregan treats her like she’s trueborn.

You wonder what prompted him to allow her to be introduced this way. Perhaps he always treats her like an equal. Perhaps you like it.

“It is a pleasure to meet my future good sister.” You say sweetly because she looks a tad bit frightened.

“It is my pleasure entirely, princess.” She says back with a smile.

“I am tired from my travels.” You say to nobody in particular. “I would be seen to my chambers.” You speak as if it’s a preference but Lord Stark knows it isn’t a simple request.

“Would you like to eat first?” He asks tenderly.

“My food can be brought to me.” 

“Of course. I have some things to tend to first but I shall check on how you’re settling in later.” You allow him to press a kiss to your hand before you are led away, through the castle.

“Girls, go and figure out your accommodations. I will be alright without you for a moment.” You say to Safia and Rose and they scurry off as you enter your chambers with Ser, Robert where there’s servants bringing things into the grand room.

“How is it still fucking freezing? We’re inside.” You murmur and Robert laughs. “Boy, light a fire.” You say to one of the servants who puts down the chest he was holding and immediately gets started on the fire.

Even after the fire is burning in the hearth and you’ve worked to set things up in your space, with the help of your handmaidens once they returned, you’re still cold.

“Rose, please run a bath and then you both may leave me. I want some time to myself.” You say quietly as you look out the window, contemplating your new home. You barely notice when they do leave but you know you should undress soon, before the water grows cold. 

You’re just about to when there’s a knock at the door. “Enter.” You call out.

Cregan walks in. “Is the room to your liking?” He asks gently. You’ve never known such a formidable warrior to look so nervous. Though, he hides it well.

“It’s a fine room.” Is all you say.

“It’s very close to my chambers. One of your chambers’ doors connects to one of mine as well.” You’re not sure how he expects you to react to this information. “But it shan’t be used without your permission.” He adds.

“Hmm…” You hum in response to show you heard him. “I was just going to have a bath.” You say.

He blushes at that, actually blushes. “Yes, it shall take you some time to get used to the cold so i’d imagine that would help.”

He stands there for a moment too long so you shed your cloak. He clearly didn’t get the hint that the conversation was over. You begin to untie the back of your dress as well. Poor Lord Stark is clearly stunned.

“You’re undressing.” He says dumbly.

“The water is getting cold.” The water is still steaming and would burn a normal person.

As you continue to untie the gown, his eyes follow the curve of your neck, to your shoulder, and then for a moment, to the swell of your breasts before quickly flicking back to yours. You’ve got the man flustered like a virgin now.

“Of course, my apologies. I’ll leave you to your bath.” He says quickly before leaving the room as swiftly as he can.

You giggle to yourself as you drop the gown, baring yourself completely before you step into the tub, enjoying the burning warmth. You know Cregan Stark is a proper gentleman but you also catch yourself wondering how long he would’ve stayed if you didn’t open your mouth, how many garments he would have let you remove.

taglist (comment to be added): General: @valeskafics @urmomsgirlfriend1 @girlwith-thepearlearring @darylandbethfanforever9 @lovellies @juhdoche @papichulo120627 @watercolorskyy @ophelialaufey

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[smusherina]

bridges burnt - chapter 4 [epilogue series] (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: When an invitation to Gretchen Wieners' wedding ended up in your mailbox, you'd been sure it was a mistake. Only, it read your name in neat, swoopy calligraphy. It was addressed to you. And Regina George, whom you hadn't spoken to in years.

additional clarification: This is set in the universe of yard work, a series of mine that can be found on my page! Reading this one might be a bit challenging without the context of the series :)

chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 5

You clapped along with everybody else when the bride and groom made their entrance. You kept a polite smile on your face even as Regina's hand, rested on your knee, had your blood rushing.

The couple would be making the rounds, talking to and thanking guests before speeches were given and toasts were made. Then (finally) the food would be served.

You sipped fizzy apple juice from a champagne flute, leg jittering uncontrollably as you waited for Gretchen and her husband to get to your table. Regina was doing the same, though looking remarkably calmer. Looked like it would take a while, considering the flock of relatives accosting them.

You did not pity them. Those cheek pinches looked painful.

"You gotta calm down," She eventually said, squeezing your leg.

"I can't help it. You know what Gretchen did. I don't even know why she'd- y'know- invite us."

You hoped Regina got your meaning. You'd been broken up for a long time now and it wasn't like Gretchen didn't know. When you'd moved back to town and Mrs George had gotten wind of it, she'd talked very excitedly to all the neighbours about her daughter's best ex living in town.

Gretchen's mom, part of the most pernickety HOA, a soccer mom of extreme intensity and a domineering PTA rep, of course, relayed the information to her daughter—and anybody who'd listen—when she got wind of it from someone. The network of middle-aged women was insane in the area. You digress. There was no way to know this for a fact but you could make an educated guess.

"I suspect it's because she's a heinous bitch," Regina said, casual as ever. "A vengeful, hateful, homophobic bitch."

"Careful, there's ears everywhere." Janis piped up, eyeing the room.

"You know I'm right." Regina defended, eyebrow notched.

"Obviously," Janis made a face like she couldn't believe Regina would suggest otherwise. "But, personally, I wanna get a taste of the menu before we're kicked out."

"Now, that's an idea..." Regina hummed, tapping her chin.

"What's an idea?" You asked. Regina didn't answer. "Reggie. What idea? What ideas are you getting, Regina?" Almost frantic.

"Don't worry your sweet little head about it, babe. I've got everything under control." She teased, pressing a patronizing kiss on your cheek. Your brain made computer whirring noises, blue flashing before your eyes. Rebooting.

"I don't like this," You mumbled into Regina's ear.

"Meet me in the bathroom hallway in five minutes." She whispered back, turning with a coy look in her eye.

You chugged the rest of your drink. Fuck. This was gonna be rough. Shane looked equally nervous but seemed to calm down when Aaron came by. You shook hands very awkwardly. He asked about you and Regina. You told him you were good, that she was good. Maybe your tone was a little too aggressive, leftover from your angsty teenage jealousy, because he settled to chat with his boo from then on.

Five minutes passed very slowly. You eyed your watch for the last minute of it, on the edge of your seat.

"Was nice seeing you, Aaron." You gave a quick, apologetic smile. "Best of luck." Hopefully, that sufficed as an olive branch.

"You too, man, you too," He called after you. You waved behind your back and strode towards the bathroom hallway.

There were too many goddamn guests. You navigated through the throngs of people best you could, muttering sorry and excuse me as you pushed through.

"What the fuck, girl?" You startled when Amanda took you by the cuff. She led you to a nearby wall, so very close to your destination.

"I thought you broke up?" She asked, hissing more like.

"We did. I don't know what's going on."

"Uh, tell her to back off? People are talking that there's, y'know, a very passionate lesbian couple here. Relatives from the bible belt not impressed." Amanda gave you a look, narrowed eyes and crossed arms. "Have you been lying to me?"

"No!" You denied vehemently. "It sounds crazy, I know, but she just came up to me like that."

"And why didn't you, hmm, I dunno, push her away?" Amanda's eyes turned soft. "She didn't treat you right, we discussed this."

"I didn't treat her much better, Amanda." You sighed and rubbed your forehead. "I... I can't say no to her. I- I don't want to say no."

"This isn't good for you." She said as if you didn't already know.

"Yeah. Well." You spread your arms and let them drop listlessly. "You know me, I do a lot of things not good for me."

"You're hopeless." She turned to the rest of the room. "Just remember, you're my ride home."

Your eyebrows rose.

"You sure about that?" You cast a meaningful glance towards the bar. The same guy, still being bothered by the same lady you were pretty sure, kept throwing helpless glances Amanda's way. She was gonna take that puppy home, he was so her type.

"Are you calling me a slut?" She grinned. "If all goes according to plan, I'll text you where to pick me up tomorrow morning."

"Great. Don't get murdered, yeah?" You patted her on the shoulder. "I gotta go."

"I have your back, Jay. Don't forget that."

You nodded solemnly and continued your journey towards the bathrooms. Just as you crossed into the hallway, looking left first, someone grabbed you roughly by the collar and slammed you against the wall.

"What-" You yelped but didn't get any more words out before Regina descended on you. She took you harshly, lips on yours sealed tight like she was keen on sucking the life out of you. Your body slumped against her, mouth seeking hers as she dipped her tongue in.

It was sloppy, a little gross, and loud. Had you been any other person, some innocent bystander, you probably would've been disgusted. But this was Regina George and she was kissing you. That still floored you.

Regina hadn't kissed you like this since high school. When you spent senior prom at your house, cooped up and pretending it didn't matter all the other couples got to dance and have fun while you hid. When you both got so angry that the only way to find release was in each other. When you broke up and decided you were better separate, crying in the middle of intimacy and so, so desperate.

"Keep your eyes on me, jorts." Regina breathed into your lips. You tasted her, something sweet and minty. "You can go back to your little girlfriend when we're done here."

"Huh?" You made a sound. "What girlfriend?"

"The one you were talking to just now." She trailed kisses to your ear. Your eyes fluttered, heart skipped beats. "You got multiple?"

"No, just you, uh, I mean- she's not my girl." You tried to produce full sentences with mild success. "She's here for emotional support."

"What's your relationship with her?" All these official questions while her hands were roaming under your suit jacket, feeling up your back, scratching with her nails. You shivered.

"Friends." You swallowed, panting as Regina sucked marks on your throat. There would be no hope of covering those up.

"Good," Regina said gutterally, voice almost like a growl as her leg pressed between yours. Oh god, was she going to fuck you right here?

"Now, you're gonna be real good for me and do exactly as I say." She kept touching your sides, your hips, your thighs, and you could not take much more. Her lips dizzied you, talking so low you had to strain to hear every word. Her gloss was all over you, sticky and tacky.

"Reg, what the fuck are we doing?"

"We're pretending, baby, and we're gonna sell it." Your stomach sunk. You knew this was some act but having it spelt out like this, that Regina was using you for revenge, stung. She continued:

"I will do everything in my power to ruin this wedding. I have ideas and I just need you to assist a little bit."

"Regina," You sighed and pushed her by the shoulders, lightly and gently. She went willingly, though with a pout. "You're doing it again. Revenge. This is why we broke up."

"We broke up for many reasons, jorts." She retorted, nails scratching at your tummy. You tried to hide your trembling.

"Yes, and- Regina!" She attached her lips to your pulse, where you were especially sensitive.

"Still got it," She mumbled cheekily into your skin, pressing kisses there just to torment you.

"You're horrible," You whined, hands holding onto her shoulders for dear life. Her leg hiked further up on the wall, pressing against you firmly. You kept your hips still, not daring to enter that territory somewhere so public.

You were at the end of your rope. Not much more now and all reservations would be null. You were sure you wouldn't say no if she unzipped your fly then and there.

"You know I am, baby." She squeezed your waist and sucked a hickey right on your jugular.

"Why are you doing this?" You asked, voice weak.

She didn't answer for a while. Just kept touching you, feeling you, kissing you. It was driving you mad but at the same time, you were beginning to feel like the reason didn't matter.

"Good question. Just go with it, yeah?" She breathed, finally pulling away enough to look into your eyes. "You look ravished." She looked so pleased with herself, with a little smirk on her face and her eyes glinting.

"Thanks," You tried to catch your breath.

"Now, we're gonna make out until someone finds us and that'll stir up something." Regina leaned back in but you dodged her kiss, giving her your neck instead. She didn't seem to mind, teeth getting in the mix.

"Y'know there's- there are more effective ways to ruin a wedding than kissing in a secluded hallway." You pointed out.

"Maybe. But this is more fun." She pulled your shirt out of your pants, ruining the careful tuck you'd done. Her hands grabbed at your lower back, nails scraping on your flesh teasingly. She was trying to kill you, surely. You told her so.

"You're gonna kill me, Reg."

"I'd never hurt you." She whispered, sounding more sombre than you would've expected. "You're the exception."

"Why can't you make exceptions for anybody else? Gretchen doesn't deserve this or all this effort."

"Jorts, baby," She brought her lips to your ear, whispering right up against it. You bit your lip not to moan. "You deserve all the effort."

That got you thinking.

"Did I deserve it back then?" You asked, careful, a little too quiet.

Regina paused, hands resting and mouth unlatching. "Yes."

You stood there, breathing together. You were all kinds of messy, so obviously kissed stupid, but you couldn't help the sting in your eyes.

It was dramatic, you knew that, crying over a bygone high school romance. You'd been just teenagers. It shouldn't matter anymore, not at this point when you were both adults. You both had real jobs, your own homes, your own lives.

"I missed you," You said, resting your forearms on Regina's shoulders. You touched your forehead to hers.

"I missed you, too," She said back, just as quiet. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too." It felt like a weight lifted off of your chest. "What should we do?"

"How about..." Regina looked up at you through her lashes. You felt lightheaded. Her lipgloss was smeared in the sexiest way. "We get revenge on Gretchen for all the shit she did in high school, for being a homophobic bigot, and for almost getting Kylie expelled."

"Kylie? Expelled?" That surprised you. You hadn't seen Kylie since her sweet sixteenth last year, which she'd invited you to. You stopped by before any of the guests or Regina got there.

"Gretchen caught her kissing one of her younger cousins at their place. A girl. Obvi, Duvall didn't let it fly but it pretty much outed Kylie."

You took a deep breath.

"Let's give the kids kazoos. And water guns. That will ruin any wedding."

Regina laughed. "Where are we getting kazoos? And water guns?"

"I did some volunteer work as a camp counsellor this summer. There's some good stuff in my car." You got an idea then.

"We can lure raccoons into the reception hall!"

Regina cackled.

Notes: I googled "ways to ruin a wedding" and got some awesome results. Look forward to that in the next chapter!

Taglist posted seperately! If you want to be added, please comment on that post!

[paragonrobits]

in adventure time stuff, Marceline is front and center as indisputably the single most popular character, widely loved within and out of the fanbase; she's kind of a distillation of the series' wacky tone because she is unironically a vampirized half-demon child of Satan Stand-In, a heavy metal rock star who's dated a mad scientist princess, her adoptive dad is arguably one of the most powerful entities in the setting and a terrifying ice wizard who survived the apocalypse through cunning BEFORE he was consumed by his curse, and the greatest hero in the land who is otherwise a mundane human won her friendship by punching her so hard she went 'FUCKING SWEET, WE ARE NOW BROS FOR LIFE'

but the thing about Marceline that is arguably the single most essential aspect of her character, and not something that is apparent from the joke or memes around her

is how nice and genuinely sweet she is.

Yes, she's a badass. Yes, she is probably the single most powerful character in a conventional sense among Finn's friend group, to the point that she is less present in serious situations because her picking a side would trivialize just about anything short of the Lich or the apocalyptic arrival of Golb.

But as we see more of her character, we see that she goes out of her way to actually avoid seriously upsetting people. The most recurring motif of her songs is that while they sound threatening or spooky, she says them in a very sweet and loving way that makes them too silly and harmless to take seriously. At her core, that's kind of who she is; she's honestly a genuinely nice person who deliberately distances herself from people because she outlives everyone she cares about, one way or another, and she pushes people away so she doesn't have to see it happen, but she can't help but get close to someone.

In a lot of ways, Finn helps her grow out of this mindset, and the relationships she establishes through him, or rekindles because of him, help her grow out of this. But even then, she has no real mean-ness in her

ironic, given the "MARCELINE WHY ARE YOU SO MEAN" song, but she gives her own answer right there:

"I'm not mean/I'm just a thousand years old and I lost track of my moral code"

Tellingly, when we see her as a young girl (and before meeting Simon, likely almost right before she met him), she has internalized the idea that she's a horrible, awful monster who scares people away. That she loses everyone around her, because SHE'S a scary monster. We see the source of her tendency to push people away, because that way she has some kind of control over it, and otherwise she thinks its inevitable.

But she can't help but get close to people anyway, and in many ways, her relationship with Ash is a very clear example that she is NOWHERE near as violent or ferocious as she looks. Their relationship openly has her abused, meek and quiet, and she is a nigh-unstoppable soul-eating monster that NO ONE could reasonably fight. Even so the closest she gets to actually lashing out against a guy who sold her most cherished possession (and the last remaining reminder of a father figure who can't ever come back) is to just end their relationship instead of lashing out against him.

Much like the reveal of her relationship to Ice King (which interestingly also maps to his slow recovery from being a villain at all, to the point that around the time this becomes a big aspect of his character he is functionally not really a villain, though still a danger to himself and others), its a slow burn. Showing that she's by far one of the least malicious beings in the entire setting, and she could be a hero.

And the answer to that one is: because she used to be. And that part of herself isn't as long-gone as she would like to think.

[auadd]

Article transcribed below:

(The front cover of Broadcast Magazine May 2024. An image of Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton wearing black tie suits, looking out at the viewer, their faces lit by a vertical sliver of light as if from an opening door.)

The text reads: After No. 9.

On the bittersweet task of bringing their black comedy anthology series to an end.

Writers and stars Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith are pulling down the shutters on their black comedy anthology Inside No. 9 after nine series. They talk to Robin Parker about the show's sketchy origins, why an old-fashioned weekly drop was key to keeping audiences gripped, and wrestling with the best kind of send-off for their labour of love.

Such are the mind-games played by Inside No. 9 that when Reece Shearsmith says he felt "like a rabbit in the headlights" thinking about how to end the show, it's just possible that he's referring to the hare statue that fans are challenged to find in every episode. But it is the ultimate paradox: after nine series and 55 episodes, how do you wrap up a show that resets each week? They were tempted to replay former glories with sequels to favourite episodes or returning characters, but that wouldn't have felt true to the show, Shearsmith says. "We tussled with the enormity of the fact that it was the last series, but then decided it should be like any other: six new stories. Some we'd had for a while, and some seemed to fit that it was series nine. No ending could put a neat bow on 55 separate worlds." While they've acted in other writers' plays, series and films - and, in Pemberton's case, appeared on Taskmaster - this has been their chief focus for 12 years. How does it feel to be stepping off the treadmill? "We hope it's seen as a fitting send-off," Pemberton says, but he admits it's nice not to have to think about the next series as soon as the current one ends. "While it's been a total privilege, the pressure has never gone away." Whatever comes next will require some recalibration of their writing brains. "We've become so honed into this structure where you get in very quickly, you get a lot of exposition in - or hide it - and then blow it all up within 30 minutes."

Limitless imagination.

The duo have enjoyed unprecedented freedom with the loosest of concepts. From writing an episode entirely in iambic pentameter to experiments in animation and fixed-rig, they've let their imaginations run riot. Inside No. 9's origins are almost laughably sketchy. With enthusiasm waning for a third series of their BBC2 comedy Psychoville, they looked back on an experimental episode - itself a late addition, due to some leftover budget - that was filmed on one set and looked to be shot in one take. "We said we wanted to tell a different story every week," recalls Pemberton. "Sent away to write two, we came back with a domestic comedy and a paranoid, psychological thriller. Everyone enjoyed the contrast, so that idea of doing very different episodes crept up on us. At no stage did we do a pitch document, or hand over a list of ideas for the next series."

While aware of the fortunate position afforded to them by The League Of Gentlemen's pedigree, Pemberton says Inside No 9's success offers general lessons for commissioning. "You can become far more creative by a) putting boundaries on things while b) just being two writers left to come up with whatever you come up with," he says. Having developed their talents through sketch writing, where there are few outlets today, he lays down the gauntlet for commissioners to consider more anthologies. "It's a brilliant way to bring on new writers with either a common theme or sense of tone. It's tough for commissioners - there are fewer singles every year and I think it's a great shame." They feel the limitations imposed by the show have changed them as writers. "Taking on something seemingly undramatic - someone doing a crossword, or four people sitting around at a restaurant table with all the information coming into that room, always feels like an achievement," says Pemberton. Discipline coupled with creative freedom has created a unique contract with the viewer. "It's satisfying to tell a story in 30 minutes and we enjoy exploring how to tell them in different ways," says Shearsmith. "People feel we're a pair of tricksters, so it's partly a game we play in terms of what viewers are going to get each week." Yet Inside No. 9's repeated ability to pull the rug from viewers is arguably wedded to the fading era of scheduled TV viewing. After all, the thrill of a live episode going wrong is hard to replicate on iPlayer. Shearsmith's proud that to the end, the BBC released it weekly. "Each one is its own mini event; you don't want people to binge them and you don't want all the endings and surprises out there. "I like the fact that it's drip-fed in the old- fashioned way - it's an agonising but fun wait for the next one. A lot of fans want to watch it when it goes out, which is a great testimony to its currency." Pemberton extends kudos to the BBC for allowing some of its more outlandish flourishes. "On episodes like 3 By 3 or Dead Line, we were lying to our audience and to journalists, to give that really satisfying moment of surprise and awe where they can't believe what they're watching." Which begs the question: have either of them lied in this interview? Shearsmith quickly says no, though, of course, that's no proof. Maintaining the surprise One last try at gleaning more on Inside No. 9's finale, then. Most series have concluded with an episode that erupts into full-blown horror. In its closing moments, will we be left with a smile on our face or fear in our hearts? Pemberton flashes an enigmatic smile. "We like to do a bit of both. That's the joy: even halfway through an episode, you're not quite sure what direction it might take. So the less we say about it, the better." To understand Inside No. 9's impish heart, he says, look at series five's magicians episode, Misdirection. "Each of our episodes is like our own little magic trick. We don't want you coming behind the cloth and seeing the Wizard of Oz pulling his levers - we want you to enjoy skipping down the yellow brick road." And, of course, if you live at number nine, there's no place like home.

'DEFINING MOMENTS: THREE OF INSIDE NO. 9'S STANDOUT EPISODES.'.

THE BREAKTHROUGH. The 12 Days Of Christine (series two, episode two, 2015). A disorienting series of moments are revealed to be Christine's life flashing before her eyes. Steve Pemberton: We weren't sure what we'd written. We didn't think it was a comedy, and we were a bit scared about the reaction, but it blew us away. Adam Tandy (exec producer): We thought if we could make this ep work, we would have almost reached the zenith of what we hoped to achieve. It was a very big, early win that put us on the map creatively. We haven't sought to repeat it - trying to do the same kind of emotional sucker-punch again wouldn't have come off.

THE LIVE EPISODE. Dead Line (live Halloween special, 2018). With echoes of the BBC's legendary Ghostwatch, sinister things start happening in the studio during the advertised story.

Reece Shearsmith: Keeping a lid on Dead Line going 'wrong' was great. I thought it would get out somehow. We leaned into the overarching notion of a live episode, blindsiding everyone to watch it in case we got our lines wrong - that's why most people watch live episodes of Holby or EastEnders. I was pleased that some people turned off - it meant it worked. SP: We couldn't monitor what was going on, other than we were live, being filmed, looking at our own phones - we didn't want props - and seeing the live Twitter reaction to what we were doing in the moment. It was surreal, exciting and an episode I'll never forget doing.

THE LATE SWAP. 3 By 3 (series eight, episode five, 2023). Viewers expecting an On The Buses spoof featuring Robin Askwith, as teased in publicity shots, get instead what seems to be a gameshow fronted by Lee Mack. AT: Most of the work to suggest a supposed change from the billed episode to the real one happened in the 15 minutes before TX. The broadcast chain being what it is, I was on Zoom calls of more than 30, soothing them and ensuring we made the changes to the EPG and iPlayer. At 9.55pm, we gave the continuity announcer a new script to say, "Unfortunately, we're not able to bring you this episode of Inside No. 9, here's something else." It still surprises on iPlayer, because even though it says it's Inside No. 9, it doesn't look like a regular episode.

Interview with Adam Tandy, Executive producer.

WORKING ON A UNIQUE SERIES.

Inside No 9's final series opens with one of its most ambitious shoots yet. Boo To A Goose is not the first episode set on a train but, unlike 2015's La Couchette, it was filmed not on a set but a genuine Mersey Rail carriage. Along with an episode featuring a full symphony orchestra and a rare period-set episode, it's a demonstration of where the show has been able to scale up in the two years since production moved to Manchester and qualified for the high-end drama tax credit. "In the early days, we'd have about 45 cast and crew - on this series, it's sometimes up to 100," says executive producer Adam Tandy. As ever, the mix allows for more intimate episodes, including the series' only two-hander between Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton. "Because we have a notion of there being no house rules, whatever they deliver, as long as I can achieve it, it's fine by me," says Tandy. While he finds it hard to quantify the working relationship with the show's creators beyond "hard work in a spirit of friendly engagement", he says he will miss the unique trust they've built. After 20 years on comedies from The Thick Of It to Detectorists, this show has made him a "much more complete producer", Tandy says. Effectively, he's learned a new skillset on every episode, from the authentic 1970s studio production of The Devil Of Christmas to this series' Mulberry Close, which is told through a video doorbell. After a slightly "theatrical and traditional" start, he reckons Inside No. 9's ambitions took off with series two. He credits exec John Plowman with quietly championing the show, and then BBC head of comedy Shane Allen for asking not to read scripts so he could avoid spoilers. "For four or five years, we'd have no contact with the commissioner between commission and delivery," he marvels. Endings are bittersweet, but Tandy isn't giving up hope of more from Pemberton and Shearsmith. "I'm not guaranteeing anything, but I think it won't be long before they come back with something else in the same sort of vein. They've been constantly creating the show all this time, which can't have been easy when it's just them doing it. I think they're too good at it to want to leave it alone for long."

[dre6ming]

On set of Dune II

This part of “The delicate beginning rush” universe- whole series HERE

If you want to be tagged

Masterlist

Pairing: Austin Butler x fem reader

Warning: smut 18+, blow job, cursing, MINORS PLEASE BE AWARE

Word count: 2k

Plot: you want to surprise Austin on the set of dune 2 and he gets shy about his fight scenes, but that is all forgotten when you work your magic on him.

A/n: this was a request by someone and it was so exciting to write, if you have more, send them to me and I’ll get to them as soon as I can.

With my busy schedule I barely got my assistant to fit this surprise flight to Budapest, so I could visit Austin on set of Dune 2. We haven't seen each other in person in 5 weeks, filming taking all of our time, on opposite sides of the world. It's not easy and it definitely is not pleasant, but we aren't the first nor the last to go through long distance. I have a few days off, time which I should have spend in the studio with Taylor, who's working on her new album, but I could not stay any longer without seeing Aus.

"Y/n so nice to meet you in person, I'm Denis. I have to say, I look forward to some day working with you, you're amazing!" The director says, putting his hand forward for me to shake. I smile kindly at him and take his hand. "Oh that's so beautiful of you to say, I look forward to that day as well, your work is so detailed and ambitious." I giggle, blushing a bit at his compliments. "Now I know this is a surprise for Austin, I did not say anything" he zips his lips closed chuckling "but you do have to sign some papers, just formalities you know." I nod and sign away, promising not to tell anything that I see today to anyone. "He's working, full make up, so brace yourself, it's really, it's a bit scary, come on."

Denis puts his hand on my shoulder and leads the way, as we walk I can start hearing grunting and thudding and all sorts of scenes. I am a bit worried about seeing Austin in full make up and acting like this psychotic character, considering that after the first time seeing him over video in full makeup I had a horrible nightmare. Granted he did call me at 3 am in the morning and I did answer kinda unconsciously, but still. There's big lights centered on two figures in the middle of a blue room, the rest is pretty dimly lit, so my eyes take a moment to adjust. I could recognize Austin's grunts anywhere, having had them in my ear for so long, so my knees feel a bit weak, my skin already hungry to feel him.

As I get used to the light, I see Austin move so athletically, jumping back avoiding hits, then throwing some good punches himself. He's been working very hard in the gym gaining a few pounds of muscle, looking toned like never before. God he looks so weird with this make up, I miss his blonde curly hair, thank god for the other movie he's filming, and this is all a fake bald cap. The other guy he's fighting with, uses a small knife, which I'm pretty sure it's fake but still scary. He swings it, in front of Austin's face and next thing I know he falls to the ground, catching himself mid fall, turning his head to the camera, showing his face full of blood. I stifle a scream, covering my mouth, feeling my heart pounding in my chest, I look at everyone, no one seems to notice. Austin flashes a smile, black teeth showing, with trembling hands I push my hair behind my ears and try and act as if I had known this was all an act.

"Cut! Austin man, amazing! Let's get makeup in here and clean it up, I want to shoot it one more time. Let's take five!" Denis says, and suddenly Austin's whole demeanor changes, it's so strange, he looks so scary, but his stance is so Austin. I clear my voice and wipe my sweaty palms on my pants, walking forward. Austin, being the sweet guy he is, is shaking hands with his partner. "Hi there stranger, need a tissue? I think you got a bloody nose." As soon as he hears my voice, he turns around, scooping my up in a tight hug, getting fake blood all over me. "Y/n!" Austin says, holding me tight to his chest, his lips kissing my neck, leaving wet splashes of fake blood. "Did you miss me baby?" I ask, patting his back, as my feet touch the ground. He doesn't answer, instead, his hands hold my face and he pulls me in for a kiss. It wet and bitter, even a bit sticky, but it tastes like him still. Austin breathes into the kiss, his tongue, entering my mouth exploring. I lace my hands around his neck and moan into him, forgetting for a minute where we are.

Austin pulls back resting his forehead on mine, breathing softly. "What are you doing here?" He asks a smile evident in his tone. I giggle when he rubs his nose against mine, pulling back to look at me. "Oh fuck, I got fake blood all over you, honey I'm so sorry!" He tries to wipe it with the back of his hand, but I take it away, holding his hand in mine. "It's fine, I'm just glad it's fake, I thought it was real." Austin can see that I'm as honest as they come and his eyes look sympathetic "I'm so sorry darling, I didn't mean to worry you!" He says, kissing my forehead head, then grunting annoyed. "I really should stop kissing you now." He says, rubbing his thumb over my forehead, on what I'm assuming is another fake blood stain. "You look so buff and scary, so so hot!" I say biting my lip.

"Really?" Even though all this white makeup I can see the slight blush he has on, turning all shy and avoiding eye contact. "So so hot!" I stand on my tiptoes and whisper in his ear, feeling him shiver as my breath fans over his skin. "I can't wait for you to make those pretty noises for me!" I laugh, but my breath gets stuck in my throat as his arms circle around me and he pulls me in, flush to his front. "Baby these leather pants are very very tight and leave no room." He says rubbing his pelvis in mine so I can feel his hard on. My blood starts boiling and I can almost see myself with him on top of me.

"Ask for ten minutes, bathroom break or something." I plead under my breath. Austin looks hesitant, but he still does it anyway. Denis gives his ok and we bolt to his trailer, knowing we don't have much time. I laugh all the way there and he tries to make small talk, telling me all about how filming as been going so far, event this he's already told all this stuff. I listen, but in the back of my head I'm far gone.

We close the door to his trailer and his lips are on mine instantly. His hands hold mine down, so that I won't be able to try and thread my fingers through his nonexistent hair. "Get on the bed!" I say breathless and step back, letting him move past me and onto the bed. "Y/n, my darling, I've missed you so so much." Austin says, sitting on his bed, leaning back a bit, legs spread wide, sporting a noticeable bulge. "I've missed you too." I admit and move in front of him, placing my hand in his hard on, squeezing him through his pants. "Fuck!" He says, throwing his head back. I work his pants open and slide them down enough to free his hard dick, looking red and needy. I lick my lips and get down on my knees. This would be my first time ever doing anything like this, but I've been thinking about it a lot and I've been wanting to try.

"Y/n y/n, no no baby you don't have to, honey come on!" Austin tries to lift me off the ground but I keep my position. "I want to, but I've never done it before, so if I do something wrong, just tell me. Please!" I bat my lashes at him and his hips thrust in the air. "Just, ok, but take it easy ok?" I nod and hold him in my hand. I spit on him and move my hand up and down, using my thumb to touch his head gathering more sleek from there. I can already feel my panties getting wet, so I squeeze my thighs together. I lean forward and take him in my mouth. So far he's been quiet, but now that my warm mouth is on him, he lets out a long breathy moan, fisting the sheets beside him. "Fuck, you are an angel! I love you so much!" He tastes salty, but good in a way. I swirl my tongue around and suck, bopping my head up and down. One of his big hands leaves the sheets and finds purchase in my hair. I moan around him and feel him shiver as a few more cures slip past his lips.

God I've missed him. "Fuck baby, you look so beautiful with your mouth around my cock, do you like it? Like how I fit in your mouth?" I love when Austin talks dirty to me, so I moan, picking up the pace, causing him to fall back on the bed, crying out In pleasure. I finally understand why he loves to do this for me, I think I could watch him like this for ages and not get bored. I feel him twitch in my mouth, so I move my free hand from his thigh, to his balls, squeezing softly. "Shit, fucking hell!" He grunts, pushing his hips a bit in my mouth. "Y/n, baby, I'm not going to last long, if you don't want it in your mouth, I'll tell you when ok?" I nod, but I know want it in my mouth, I've tasted him before, after giving him hand jobs, so now I'm more than eager to get a taste of him.

I sneak my hand under his balls and push slightly on the spot there, which causes Austin to jump off the bed a bit, pushing himself further down my throat making me gag, tears prickle my eyes. I breathe through my nose and relax for him, working on him, pushing on that secret spot. "Fuck, Y/n, baby that feels so good, ahh I'm cu-" he doesn't get to finish what he has to say, as his body goes rigid and he spills himself into my mouth. I stay calm and swallow him whole, enjoying they way it feels. When he's done, I let him out of my mouth, give him a few more strokes, ending with a kiss to his head, smiling at the way he curses.

He lifts me up into his arms and I lay my head in his chest. "Wow, are you sure you've never done this before? Because this must have been the best I've ever had!" Austin says out of breath. I giggle and kiss under his chin. "I like to read, I learn what I read." I explain, sighing when he moves his head to kiss my lips. His hand travels down my body and gives my ass a good squeeze, making me yelp, so he can sneak his tongue into my mouth.

A knock on the door as us parting, him quickly putting his pants on and me, wiping my face with a tissue. "Back on set!" A voice shouts from the other side of the door. "In a minute!" Austin screams back, trying to make himself as presentable as possible. "Can I come watch you some more?" I ask, turning the water on to was the dried fake blood from my face. I look back at Austin and he looks so timid now, scratching the back of his head. "I mean of course baby..."

"Aus..? What's up?" I ask using a towel to dry my face, while I look at him, his eyes wondering the room, avoiding mine. "Well I guess I'm just a tad shy, you know, I have to act pretty barbaric out there and I feel so silly, I'm just I don't know.." he says dropping his head. I get close to him and take his hands in mine, rubbing slow circles on his knuckles. "You don't look silly, you look fierce, and bold and scary, you have nothing to be shy about." I say kissing the tip of his nose. "Now come on big boy, you've got work to do, and the faster you finish here, the sooner you get to make love to me!" I wink at him and he chockes on his laughter, blushing a deep red.

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[dykeknightrises]

US

A/N: I'M BACK! This is the third and final piece of the falling series, finally making it's appereace! While I'm not super happy about it (which is probably because I feel a bit weird writing dialogue and this one has much more than the last two), I feel like this is the closing I wanted for it! I truly hope you guys enjoy it!

PART 1: FALLING

PART 2: PROMISES

Having Alexia look at you like that took your breath away. Her hazel eyes looking at you like you were the only thing in the world gave you goosebumps. It wasn’t until a frown made it’s way to her forehead that you realized she was talking to you.

“I said: ‘I was hoping we could have our usual Thursday? I have a lot that I need to say to you.’” She said, before frowning ever deeper before adding, “Where are you going? It’s Thursday.”

“D-Date. I’m going on a date right now.” You replied, cursing the stuttering at the hasher tone she used on the last sentence.

“I didn’t know you were going on a date today.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was supposed to inform the team captain of such personal affairs.” You snarked back.

“That’s not what I meant and know it.”

“I don’t know, Alexia. For the past few months, we’ve only spoken as teammates. I don’t think it was wrong of me assume that this is how we were now, nothing more than teammates.”

“This is not fair, Y/N. You said we were okay.” Alexia gritted, pushing past you into your apartment.

“I thought we were too! I wasn’t the one who kept cancelling every week.” You scoffed.

“But you can’t just go in date like that!” she bit back.

“Excuse me? You know what, forget about it. Just leave, captain.”

“I can’t! I can’t let you go on that date before I tell you how I feel!” The Catalonian yelled.

“The last thing I need is to hear how much you don’t care about me!” You yell back, pushing past her and leaving her alone in your apartment.

***

The blonde’s words rang in your ears as you drove late to the date. The restaurant wasn’t very far, but you chose to drive to ground yourself. The argument with the Spaniard and the quick conversation that followed made her eyes turn glassy as she blinked to try to see the traffic better.

Trying to find the teammate that Leah set you up with was a downward spiral. Not being able to locate whoever it was, Y/N could feel the stress and the frustration leak through her cracks. A hand gripping your shoulder brought you back to the moment, making you turn and face soft brown eyes.

You could feel the warmness emanating from your former teammate as she enveloped you in a tight hug. Dressed in a high waisted pants, a very nice blouse and ready to kill, Lia Walti stood smiling at you.

“Leah outdid herself this time.” The Swiss laughed with you.

“Now a lot of things are making sense.” You agreed.

Following your friend to the table the English captain reserved for you two, it was easy to lose yourself in the conversation, as you caught up. It wasn’t easy, however, to do it completely, with a very specific person occupying such a bug part of your thoughts.

“Do you want to talk about her or are you pretending she doesn’t exist?”

“The second option.” You pout back.

“Well, I know why Leah set this whole thing up but, in all fairness, I’m not ready to go all in again. With how things ended between me and her, it still stings, you know? I mean, the whole summer fling was nice, but ‘real world’ wise I’m not there yet.”

“Oh, thank God. I’d hate to ghost you after this.” You joke at her, making her roll her eyes.

“Asshole!” She laughed, throwing a balled-up napkin in your direction.

With the underlining expectation of the night becoming nothing than a hang out between friends, you two relaxed considerably and dug deeper into the mess she had been in and the one you were now.

Dropping her off in her hotel after you both agreed on telling Leah the date was great so she wouldn’t set up either of you again, at least for a while, you drove back home. Talking to Lia about Alexia was very good, as she was removed enough from the situation to have convinced that maybe the last thing you yelled to the Catalonian was unfair.

With that happy though in mind, you got ready to bed, preparing yourself for an unruly night filled with Alexia, as usual.

***

Having a flat tire on your way to the Camp Nou was most certainly not a part of your plan and only served to make a bad day even worse. First you missed you alarm after only being able to sleep as the sun started peeking from the horizon. Then, you ran out of literally everything that was your usual breakfast food for Game Day. And now, a flat tire after already being late. Yay.

Leaving the car after parking and now even glancing checking where you were, an Uber arrived only a few minutes after and dropped you off on the wrong side of the stadium. Another check for bad day.

“I’m so sorry I’m late! The alarm, then the food, then the car, the Uber…” You apologized to Jona and the rest of you team, after finally making to the Locker Room.

“Uhh, don’t worry, Chica Amante!” Lucy teased.

“Oh, how do you say that in Swiss German?’ Mapí joked.

The team quickly joined in, clearly having heard details from Lucy and Keira, who Leah unquestionably gossiped to. Rolling your eyes, you started getting ready. It didn’t scape you that the only person who didn’t join in was Alexia, who had been lacing the same boot since you walked in.

“Ohh, Y/N, you can be late for game after a deliberate session of Seven Minutes in Heaven in the closest empty room!” Someone joked.

“Bonus if you don’t need all the minutes!” It was added.

As the girls kept poking fun, you could see Alexia get more and more tense, until she finally got up rather abruptly, mumbling something about needing more tape. As she closed the locker room door behind her, the glassiness in her eyes made the decision you had been struggling since the day before much easier.

After not finding the older woman in the most obvious spots, Y/N went to their spot, the little Video room for any last-minute adjustments. Alexia was sitting in the first row, right in front of the projector, as if she was waiting to watch a game tape.

The blonde had her head down, on her hands, shoulder shaking, and sobs barely muffled by her hands. Choking down her own sobs at how hurt Alexia was, Y/N made her was quickly through the room, sitting next to the Spaniard, pulling her into a hug.

“Shh… First, we get thought this, then we talk.” You whisper, cutting her protests.

With her safely tucked in your arms, you two stayed like until she was ready. Holding her for what felt like forever, Y/N felt more in peace than she had felt in the past months.

A small part of her brain kept reminding her that this was one of the most important game of their careers, but Alexia was far more important. It was almost a full hour before the Spaniard was ready, slowly untucking herself for the safe spot that hid her from the world. It was several minutes later before she even managed to look in your direction. It was even longer before she spoke.

“I’m sorry.” The blonde broke the silence, with her voice trembling and oh-so-quietly that Y/N had to strain her ears to hear it properly.

“Alexia…”

“No, I’m sorry. For everything, really. You deserve so much more than what I’ve done to you.” She whispered, before adding with a broken voice. “I-I hope the date yesterday went well.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m stupid.”

“Alexia.”

“I was scared. After Jenni, I was completely broken. Then I let myself open up and she broken me too. Hell, a part of me was still broken when you came along. In the beginning of the year, I promised myself that right now I just needed to focus in getting better, so I closed myself for any shred that could lead into something more. But then you came and made me yours without me even realizing. When I did, I got terrified. I-I was certain that you would break me too, but I couldn’t take it. Not from you.” She cried softly.

“So, you took a step back before I could do anything?”

“Yeah. I thought that if you didn’t know you couldn’t break me too.”

“Ale…”

“No, it’s okay. I can get over it, is not even your fault that I completely fucked everything up.”

“Well, I really hope you don’t. I spent almost the entire “date” yesterday talking to Lia about you, about how much I love you.” You said, caressing her jaw, getting yourself lost on her honey gaze.

“Oh…” She gasped. “But..”

“Well, we agreed on telling everyone it went well because we were not interested in doing that again, but with a stranger. Neither one of us were ready to move on.” You chuckled.

“Can I kiss you? Please?”

You nodded, leaning forward, and meeting her lips. In that moment, everything was right again. Hearing her breath get caught up, her hands caressing your waist, the warmness of her skin. Everything was Alexia. You were undoubtedly hers.

Getting lost on her was far too easy. It always was. It took you every ounce of self-awareness too pull back, only to be allowed after a shred of pecks and nips. Eyes closed, breathing the same puffs of air being expelled from your heavy breathing, you felt like you were dreaming again. Too afraid to open your eyes and wake up, you remain basking in her.

“Can I have another chance? I need to make it right, to be yours and make you mine forever.” Alexia asked, hazel eyes looking through heavy hoods, as if you’re the only thing in the world.

“I don’t know if I trust you.” You whisper, feeling you vision blur though unshed tears.

“That’s okay. I want to earn it back, it’s the most important thing for me. I want your permission to work for it, but if you don’t want it, I swear to leave you alone.”

“Don’t you dare doing that.” You tell her, kissing her cheek.

You two stay there for a few more minutes before getting up, finding you way back to a very panicked locker room. Turns out that vanishing for over an hour right before a match made everyone very worried.

Making up with Alexia was easily the peak of the day but beating Lyon and kicking them out of the Champions League in a packed Camp Nou, after losing to them on the away game, with you two having the game of your lives surely made its way as a second peak of what started out as a bad day.

The next few months were spent with you two thick as thieves once more, the team back on the comfortable routine. It was the next year’s pre-season when you gave her the green flag that you trusted her, and it was exactly a few after she gave you a bar of you favourite chocolate that she asked you to be her girlfriend. It was also then that she told you that she bought all the chocolate of her favourite store.

The Sun made you feel warm, loved, cared, cozy, at home, yourself and so many more things that you weren’t quite sure that could be described as feelings. But right now, buried under and completely surrounded by everything her on their home, Y/N would vow on whatever entity that existed that Alexia the Sun itself.