#or an indulgent scotch at two in the afternoon

[mister-eames]

Arthur/eames song rec: born to beg by the National

Oh nonnie... goddamn. This made me feel things.... the instrumentals? The dotty, constellation sort of quality to it? It felt like a goodbye and a hello kiss at a train station or an airport, like a hug from behind and a whisper in your mind, teakettle love, i'd do anything (for you) - thank you, thank you for this rec, its perfect!!!

[delirious-donna]

There’s A Girl In My Tub [Part Two]

story summary: Your best friend lets you crash at her place over the spring break since you have nowhere else to go. Little did you know that it isn't actually her place. Instead, it belongs to a tall (grumpy) hot guy who finds you in his apartment–her brother.

chapter summary: Kento walks in on a woman he doesn't know neck-deep in his bath. What is he meant to do now?

pairing: Nanami Kento x female reader

warnings: reader described as having hair that can be put in a ponytail, SFW

Part One | Series Masterlist | Part Three

The mistake was clear from the second he lunged inside the bathroom. Where he had presumed to find his younger sister submerged in his tub, sat a woman he did not know splashing and spluttering from both the shock of being jump scared and the bubbles that shot up your nose.

Kento wasn’t sure what his predominant emotion was, whether it be complete mortification for interrupting someone bathing or indignant anger at the complete stranger using his apartment like some kind of luxury hotel.

“Who the fuck are you?” The stranger half yelled, half spluttered.

Realisation dawned on him like icy dread spider walking up his spine. What had meant to be a practical joke was no longer looking so funny.

“You’re not Karin…” He said matter-of-factly.

At this point, he was simply stating the obvious. What he found interesting was the comprehension that he could see illuminated in your eyes. You might not be Karin, but you knew who she was. The connection between the two of you was what he needed to establish next, or well… after he found out your name.

“I’m Nanami Kento, and you’re in my bath. Who are you?”

His eyebrow cocked in a mixture of continued annoyance and the first hint of curiosity. Given that you were familiar with his sister meant you weren’t some crazy intruder, not that he thought that in the first place given your luggage in his room and the fact that you couldn’t have gained access without a keycard and code.

You offered your name in no more than a timid squeak, and he didn’t recognise it. He huffed a tired exhale and turned towards the door to give you a modicum of privacy. His mouth opened to speak, but you beat him to the punch, silencing him effectively with your more confident tone.

“Look, can we not hash this out whilst I am naked in your bath? Give me ten minutes, and I’ll meet you in the living area,” you enthused, hands gesticulating wildly. It sent a flurry of bubbles into the air which Kento watched before giving a curt nod of agreement and stalking out without uttering another word.

He needed a drink in the worst possible way, even if it was only early afternoon. It was going to be entirely necessary to indulge in his top-shelf liquor to help with his current predicament.

Once more, he glanced at the haphazardly packed case open on his bed. This time studying the contents a little more closely. Perhaps he should have considered doing this earlier, as one glance was enough to confirm that even the style of clothing was so unlike his sister, not to mention the stuffed animal, which he guessed resembled a bunny rabbit despite its ragged appearance. Karin hadn’t been one for stuffed toys, preferring dolls and the pretty furniture to fill ornate dollhouses growing up.

Speaking of his dearly beloved sibling, Kento fished his phone from his pocket as he made his way back to the kitchen. He cradled it between his ear and shoulder whilst selecting a crystal tumbler and a bottle of scotch. The ringing went to voicemail. Of course, it did.

“Karin, call me. I don’t appreciate surprises, and you owe me an explanation.” He kept it short and sweet, his specialty. He pushed the phone across the kitchen island and turned to lean his back against the pantry door.

What the hell was going on? He mused silently, swirling the dark amber contents of his glass before bringing it to his lips and swallowing a healthy mouthful. The liquor coated his teeth and burned his throat as it slid into his mostly empty stomach.

Everything had happened in such a rush that he couldn’t even picture your face as he waited. He hadn’t thought to get a good look at you, not when the circumstances were so intimate–vulnerable even. Not for the first time today, his palm scrubbed down his face. What must you think of him? You were this–he floundered for a moment in thinking of how to accurately describe you–young woman, naked and trapped in a room with one exit. An exit that he had blocked with his body.

He groaned, pressing the cool crystal tumbler to his temple and rolling it across his forehead. This was exactly the type of situation you saw in horror movies, except he wasn’t some crazed killer on the hunt for young virgins or any young women for that matter, but he would understand if you were fearful of him. It would only be logical.

As if summoned by thought alone, the soft pad of your socks alerted Kento that you had finished with the bath. He glanced sideways, eyeing the simple black leggings and an oversized sweater emblazoned with the logo of Karin’s college, and some pieces of the puzzle fell neatly into place.

Your hair was mostly dry except for the ends that had been splashed by the unexpected dunking they had received, the strands tied loosely into a ponytail that softened the stern expression plastered across your features.

Standing with the kitchen island between you as if it afforded you some semblance of protection, Kento tried not to smile when you folded your arms across your chest and tilted your chin in his direction. The sleeves of your sweater engulfed your arms so completely that only the tips of your fingers showed. He admired your courage in the face of a stranger, a male one at that, and one that could likely impose his height and weight against you if he so inclined. Sure, he admired it, but it was also incredibly dumb.

“Did you enjoy your soak?” He asked, taking another sip of scotch to hide the quirk of his lips.

Your eyes narrowed. Damn, he hadn’t felt amusement like this in the longest time. Some would claim that he didn’t have a funny bone in his body, but they were wrong. Kento simply didn’t entertain cheap humour, and this situation was far from bargain basement.

“I was. That is until this massive oaf leapt inside screaming like a maniac and scaring the life out of me.”

That was enough to wipe the smile from his face. Kento straightened and set his tumbler down. He ran a hand through his hair and endeavoured to end this charade right here and now. To hell with the fact that you amused him, he didn’t know you from Adam.

“How do you know Karin? And I am not an oaf, for the record,” he added with what sounded even to him as a touch of petulance.

You rolled your eyes. “She’s my friend, maybe even best friend, actually. We go to the same college, different majors though. How do you know her? Are you her dad or something?”

It was Kento’s turn to narrow his eyes. He could see it for what it was, a direct jab at him, but you didn’t truly believe he could possibly be her father, or at least he hoped not!

You picked at your nails whilst the silence lingered on. He debated whether to rise above your petty attempts at riling him, but something stopped him. Kento was the level-headed one, always reasonable, however, something about you crept beneath his skin.

“Can’t be that much of a best friend if you don’t even know that she has a brother… that would be me, by the way. Hi. I’m the brother, and this is my apartment. I do hope this is some kind of elaborate joke.”

Sure enough, his aim was true. Your face crumpled at the truth he laid out so cruelly. Instead of feeling some sense of triumph for gaining the upper hand, he resigned to the guilt settling heavily in his chest. He almost rubbed at his heart but stopped at the last second.

Why did he care? That’s what he really wanted to know. Yes, you were cute. He was a man after all, he could appreciate your soft feminine features, but he was hardly known as a man who sought out the company of the opposite sex often.

Kento pinched the bridge of the nose. It was upsetting to watch you fold in upon yourself like this, your shoulders hunched inward and your head bowed low. He cared, and that was surprising. He wished for that spark of confidence to ignite again, longing to kick himself for being the one to douse it in the first place.

“I’m… I’m sorry. That was cruel of me, but you did call me her dad!” He tried to rationalise his outburst, and he was glad when your head snapped up to scrutinise him. “We’ve started on the wrong foot. Can you blame me for acting a little irrational? I’ve never found an intruder in my home before, let alone a naked one in my bath. Why are you here?”

Without a word, you stretched out a hand for his near-empty glass, swallowing down the remnants in one gulp. You hissed through your teeth, dancing on the spot whilst the potent alcohol slid into your belly to warm you. Kento cocked his eyebrow but chose to remain silent.

He had so many questions. Why you were here in his home was curiously not at the top of the pile, but it seemed inappropriate to be querying your age and probing your interests at this point in the conversation. Not to mention, you were his sister’s friend, nothing more.

Nothing more, Kento.

“Well, your darling sister told me this was her place, and that it was empty right now. Clearly, neither part was true, and I will be taking that up with her as soon as she answers her damn phone!”

“Hm, so Karin is avoiding your calls too. Curious.”

You blew out a long breath, the strands of hair framing your face dancing around and… Kento glanced away, refusing to acknowledge the desire to fix them behind your ear.

“Aren’t you on spring break? Why aren’t you shacked up in some overly loud and raucous resort? I’m certain that’s where Karin will be right about now.” Kento rolled his eyes at even thinking about it. He well remembered his years in college and how he loathed this time of year. It was his idea of hell.

Scrunching your nose in distaste, you walked around the edge of the kitchen island and hopped up to sit yourself closer to him. Again, he cursed your trust. He could be lying to you. He could have nefarious intent. So why did it make him want to protect you all the more?

“No thanks. I’d rather catch up on some classes and prepare for the new semester, but…” You trailed off, eyes lowering to your fingers which continued to fidget incessantly–an annoying habit he noted.

“But what?” Kento got the sense that he wasn’t going to like your answer much. He braced for it, both palms flush on the marble countertop and coaxing you into maintaining his steady eye contact.

“I don’t have anywhere else I can go. My parents are renovating, and I can’t afford to rent a place for two weeks, at least not somewhere actually habitable.”

Kento froze as the weight of your words washed over him. There was a chance that Karin was truly being a good friend since she had been aware of the business trip he was meant to be on right now. It would be so like her to help out a friend in need.

Was he meant to toss you out on your ass? He was within his rights, of course, but could his conscience allow it? It was obvious you weren’t lying or exaggerating to gain his favour, you looked just as uncomfortable telling him the truth as he did hearing it. This whole situation was a mess, and he didn’t see a clear way out of it.

Well, shit…

[tswhiisftteedr]

Not to be rude but you accidentally put val's story in vox's masterlist instead. Srry I didn't feel comfy dming you. Nothing against you at all I'm just a coward wanting to hide in anon haha. Ig while I'm here could I get vox general hcs pls?

What the Tv do? ☆ Vox General Headcanon + Drabbles (SFW & NSFW)

☆ Vox General headcanon + Vox x Gn!Reader(Employee!Reader??):

Some general thoughts about the tv man and also his relationship with the ‘reader’. This is silly, this is fun, fluffy and smutty.

Warnings: Mature Content, Not Proofread, Drinking, Death(literally overdose on coffe nothing gruesome), Drug use(c0caine and others substances), Sadistic Tendencies, Dub-Con, Power Imbalance/Power Play, Obsessive and Possessive Tendencies and Acts, Stalking, Voyeurism & Exhibitionism, Boss x Employee, Pet Play?(Just collaring and slight animal based pet names), Valentino.

Words: Total: 5496 = Sfw - 2609 + Nsfw - 2887

Note: I only wrote 1 drabble, i might add more if people request it about the specific headcanon they want more on. so I’m not good with request like these, I like when they are more specific so I have sort of something to base my writing on, so sorry if you anon or people don’t like what I’ve wrote, r.i.p. >:/ Though tell me if you want more!!

☆ more under the cut. ☆

SFW:

☕︎ Coffee addict and 𓏊 Alcoholic

Vox is the figurative and quite literally incarnation of the ‘don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee’ phrase.

But we’re talking coffees instead of coffee with him — two cups straight out of bed to be precise. When totalling the day’s consumption, Vox indulges on average, 6-7 cups of 10 oz coffee; in addition to his morning coffees, he likes to have a mid-morning cup, then two during lunch and finally 1-2 cups during the afternoon depending how late he is working.

Is this per say, ‘healthy’? No, not at all, Vox couldn't care less — worst ‘worst’ case scenario, he quote on quote dies, the coffee he had intake ends up intoxicating him due to the splurging amount of it, turning this mondaine drink into a lethal liquid for the overlord’s body. His heart would stop, sub-consequently, him and his body would be out.

Though the good thing — or bad, it all depends on your angle — about hell is that in about the span of 10 minutes his body will have fully regenerate and be back open for business. Some sinners call it it a curse, he calls it a blessing, as this part of the ‘eternal punishment’ practically makes him immortal.

So is he going to work on regulating his caffeine intake? Obviously not!

Worst thing he gets from his ‘little problem’ is a heart attack, and they don’t permanently keep him down. — Sure, they hurt like a bitch, and he would rather not be having them at all to be truthful.

But he honestly he doesn’t see his bimonthly cardiac arrests as that steep of a price to pay. (Honestly how can such a smart businessman be so dumb about his health. * face palming and baffled at the idiocy of it all *)

Now when alcohol is the subject of conversation, Vox takes a slightly different approach, albeit one still characterized by overindulgence.

You see, he prides himself on being the epitome of a charming, classy, and self-controlled casual drinker, compared to his drunkard of a pattern —Valentino— our lovely show host with anger issues and both inferiority and superiority complex is a sophisticated and savvy man.

However, beneath this facade of self-control, which he upholds quite well to the public eye, hides his obvious alcoholism issues.

While he may not be stumbling and blubbering around, picking fights,— in most instances at least— Vox is certainly what you might call a “day drinker."

In fact, this is actually a canonical trait, which was displayed in episode two of the show; Him discussing with others Vees on how to deal with the radio demon’s comeback, a drink in hand.

I presume thatit was a scotch on the rocks due to it’s colour but also it’s historical relevance in relation to Vox’s person— Scotch whisky poured over ice, gained popularity in the 1950s primarily in Western countries such as the United States, the United Kingdom, and Canada.

It became a symbol of sophistication and leisure, often enjoyed in upscale bars, clubs, and lounges frequented by the affluent and fashionable crowd of the era.

Additionally, its popularity was bolstered by the rise of cocktail culture during the mid-20th century, as well as the increasing availability of Scotch whisky in international markets. — this fits quite nicely Vox’s character as it is both a drink of his time on earth but also one that remains relevant in the contemporary era.

It easily mirrors Vox's overarching desire to maintain relevance and significance, both in the present and in the ever-evolving future.

The overlord definitely adhere to ‘it’s five o’clock somewhere’ religiously. Though he does prefer to enjoy his daily drink around 5 p.m. PRT (Pride Ring Time).

He will occasionally enjoys a drink with his lunch, often opting for wine, although this isn't a regular occurrence for the man.

As someone constantly under stress, with his mind racing to keep up with the ever-changing trends and opinions in hell, Vox is a type to indulge in a nightcap or two before bed.

It helps him unwind and achieve the relaxed state of mind necessary for a restful night's sleep.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Sleep

While the notion of ‘Vox's dreams playing on his screen while he's asleep’ is an amusing concept for fanfiction or artwork, I personally find the idea of ‘the VoxTek logo bouncing around like the DVD logo’ to be more fitting for Vox.

Before delving further, it's important to note that initially, it wasn't necessarily the VoxTek logo projected on his screen; however, I'll address this shortly.

The reason I lean towards the DVD logo concept is because I find it unlikely that Vox's screen would be completely black during sleep. A completely dark screen would imply the device is completely off, no energy is being received or given by it, which would suggest that it is no longer alive. Having some activity on Vox’s screen while asleep would signify that his program is still active, indicating he's still functioning, essentially alive.

Now regarding the widely shared headcanon, I have my own personal take on it.

When Vox first manifested in hell, his 'real name' appeared on screen. By 'real name,' I mean the one he had on Earth, which I believe wasn't Vox —That name seems too futuristic for a person born in the early 1900s or the kind of name you'd associate with a 1950s businessman— Vox is a name he chose for himself after death, symbolizing a fresh start, though I do think that his real name might also have started with a V.

(This perspective extends to other 'Vees' as well, although Velvette seems more plausible as a given name, I suspect it might not be her original one. Valentino, on the other hand, feels like a name assigned to him, but he too might have adopted a new one after death.)

Initially, Vox was unaware of his old name appearing on his screen while he slept since he wasn't conscious during that time. It wasn't until about half a year into his time in hell, during which he introduced himself as Vox to everyone, that one of his acquaintances pointed out this aspect of his physiology. Something along the lines of "Who's V———?" or "Why does V——— show on your screen while you sleep?" triggered a cascade of reactions in him.

Firstly, he panicked, realizing that people had access to his old identity. Secondly, he was puzzled by this phenomenon since no TV he had encountered displayed such behavior, which was normal considering DVDs weren't invented before 1996. — Hell sure was weird, he possessed technological features as part of his physiology before they were even invented— Lastly, this revelation instilled in him a new fear of sleeping.

This behavior stemmed from Vox's desire to construct a fresh existence in hell, complete with a new identity, image, empire, etc. The thought of others accessing his old name and exploiting it to uncover details about his past, including his behaviors, weaknesses, and tactics, filled him with dread.

As a result, he became hyper-vigilant, refusing to sleep unless he was certain of his solitude, fearing the potential repercussions of his former identity being known.

It wasn't until the mid 1960s that Vox had finally managed to upgrade his system, replacing ‘V———‘ with 'Vox'. However, even after this upgrade, he still harboured reservations about sleeping around others for about a year or two. He feared a potential glitch that could revert his screen to displaying his previous name.

Around the late 1970s he had made an adjustment to this aspect of his body once more, replacing 'Vox' with the VoxTek logo after a certain moth had suggested it.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Sexuality

Our beloved Tv Demon a canonical bisexual man, but I personally believe that while he may have bisexuality as his sexual orientation, — his attraction to men was something he only came to realize after death. Although there were subtle hints of his attraction to the same gender based on how he felt about them, he unfortunately didn't grasp them while still alive;

It would have been the late 1950s, and Vox had been in hell for about a year or two. In his earthly life, he had been with his fair share of women, and even in the "surprisingly not so fiery pits of the underworld," his ability to attract partners hadn't diminished much once got over his TV head appearance and let place for his charming and savvy persona to take over.

His love life seemed unchanged, perhaps with occasional exploration of new kinks, until that fateful night of October 11, 195X...

Vox had gone out for a drink after a grueling day at work, back when he was still toiling away at a low-paying job in an electronics factory, toasters, vacuum, etc. Despite the shitty work he had to go through, he had the perk of taking home broken scraps, which eventually played a role in his rise to success. But let's refocus on his night out, shall we?

He walked into his newfound favorite spot, a comedy bar where he sought solace in laughter and libations after a hard day. Arriving just as the performer began their set, he headed straight to the bar for his usual whiskey on the rocks, with nothing else on his mind. It wasn't until the comedian delivered a particularly hilarious joke that Vox turned to look at them and found his attraction piqued.

It was evident that they were a man with the specific style flashy outfit and makeup they wore. The voice was also a dead giveaway. The person now standing on stage, delivering one funny punchline after another, was a drag queen – a stunning one in Vox's eyes.

He couldn't tear his gaze away; there was something irresistibly captivating about the humorous individual on stage.

After the performance, as they made their way to the bar, Vox seized the opportunity. He introduced himself, and they exchanged pleasantries. They shared drinks and engaged in lively conversation, making for a truly enjoyable night that ended with a bang, quite literally.

In the morning, as clarity returned, Vox couldn't help but feel confused. He had never been attracted to men before, so he initially chalked it up to the alcohol or the fact that his night companion appeared so feminine that he mistook them for a woman.

However, as memories of the night flooded back, he couldn't deny his genuine attraction to every aspect of his partner, even the unmistakably male parts.

Initially, it felt strange to Vox as he reflected on the experience. However, after hours of deep contemplation, everything started to fall into place.

Vox realized he had always felt an affinity towards men, though expressing it as "liking men" might have appeared odd to outsiders. When he used that phrase, it wasn't in the context of sexual or romantic attraction but more of an admiration.

Yet, upon further reflection, he acknowledged that his feelings surpassed mere admiration.

He had never entertained the idea of it being anything akin to sexual or romantic attraction, but his recent encounter forced him to reconsider as he contemplated his life and the events of the previous night.

Vox liked men;

— Vox had always been drawn to the men of his time who exuded masculine confidence and assertiveness, finding their presence alluring and desiring to be in their company constantly.

He liked when they wore classic masculine fashion, such as tailored suits with narrow lapels, fitted jackets, and straight-leg trousers. These outfits oozed sophistication and professionalism, and Vox admired the attention to detail displayed.

Additionally, he liked when men would add classic accessories like fedora hats, skinny ties, cufflinks, and pocket squares to their outfit, they added to the polished and stylish appearance.

The preppy style also appealed to Vox, as he admired men who wore V-neck sweaters, button-down shirts, khaki trousers, and loafers. This style exuded a sense of casual elegance and refinement that he found attractive.

He also had a penchant for rebellious men who embraced a non-conformist aesthetic, often seen in leather jackets, denim jeans, white T-shirts, and motorcycle boots.

Vox liked when men were smart and witty, could keep up with the conversation and also teach something along the way.

Vox liked men who exuded strength and athleticism, finding their ability to handle themselves physically appealing. For instance, witnessing a fistfight between coworkers would stir his emotions, initially attributing his excitement to the violence of the altercation.

However, he would inevitably find himself gravitating towards the winner, intrigued by their display of strength and skill, and feeling drawn to them in some inexplicable way. There was something about winners that captivated him and sparked his desire to get closer to them.

He like men who were daring, adventurous, and unafraid to push boundaries, they appealed to his sense of excitement and thrill-seeking.

He liked men who were ambitious, goal-oriented, and willing to pursue their dreams with determination might have resonated with Vox on a subconscious level.—

After his one-night stand, Vox was determined to clarify things once and for all. Following another grueling day of work, he ventured out again, this time to a gay bar, seeking the company of someone who embodied the traits he found most appealing in men, wanting to ensure it wasn't just the alcohol or the femininity of his previous partner. Without delving into detail, let's just say he had quite the night and afterward, there was no doubt in his mind: ‘he liked women, and he definitely also liked men.’

Following that experience, Vox began seeing more individuals of the same gender. However, he still held onto the notion that while he might be attracted to men, he didn't believe he would be interested in them as anything more than sexual partners. That was until he met Alastor...

Initially, Vox approached the radio demon seeking friendship or perhaps a partnership, given Vox's burgeoning company and rising status as an overlord. However, he soon found himself enamored with Alastor. Unfortunately for Vox, his feelings were not reciprocated. After that, Alastor distanced himself from Vox, leading our TV host to regard his old love as an enemy.

In response to the rejection, Vox decided to cease seeing men altogether, engaging in a series of short-term relationships with women. However, he soon realized he was simply idealizing Alastor and shifted his focus from woman to men for meaningless relationships, attempting to prove to himself that any other man was better than "that Bambi bitch."

But this approach only intensified the emptiness he felt. Recognizing the detrimental effects of his frantic behavior on himself and his company, Vox resolved to regulate and get back on a more business focused path.

The fact that rumours began circulating about his supposed "homoerotic relationships," was also a big push into getting back on track, as a word like that getting out was detrimental to business, since being gay was still stigmatized even in hell, during this time period.

It was around the late 1970s, with the rise of gay rights activism, that Vox began publicly dating men. Coincidentally, this was also when he met and began his business partnership (and more) with Valentino.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Names

Vox has a penchant for using endearing or patronizing nicknames, regardless of the gender of his employees. He will refer to them as "sweetheart," "doll face," or simply "doll."

In moments of frustration or when faced with resistance, he's not shy about using terms like "little girl" or "little boy," or even "kid," to belittle those who question him.

Additionally, he might employ terms like "Princess" or "your highness" as forms of condescension, no matter the gender of the person he is addressing.

NSFW

𓊔 Party

Despite Vox's obsession with his and the Vees' image, when it comes to partying, he becomes a total animal — I’m talking ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’ type of wild.

Lavish gatherings marked by obscene spending and excessive drug intake, especially cocaine.

Vox typically indulged in doing lines off his desk or the luxurious crystal table in the lounge. However, what truly exited him was snorting lines off someone, getting his rocks off at their inability to refuse his advances and delighting in the control he exerted as he pinned them down to prevent any squirming.

The slight anxious tears and nervous mewls from whoever served as his snorting surface always stirred something within Vox. While he would grow irritated if they moved too much, the subtle signs of fear, such as the wetting of their eyes and trembling breath, would quickly reignite his unstable emotions. He found himself intensely aroused by their scared state, and more than once, he acted on these desires…

Drabble:

You were a VoxTek employee, more specifically; Vox’s secretary.

As Vox's secretary, navigating Alastor-related tantrums and enduring the grueling hours could be incredibly taxing, but the job itself had its perks.

Thanks to your position in the company, you enjoyed luxurious accommodations in the finest suites the V Tower had to offer.

Despite the challenges, Vox could be surprisingly pleasant, his charismatic charm reminiscent of his earlier days when his hypnosis wasn't as potent. And beneath the unconventional exterior of his TV head, there was no denying the appeal of his well-built physique.

Given the close proximity and constant interaction with Vox, it was inevitable to develop a small crush on your boss. His magnetic presence and the fact he was practically the only person you interacted with regularly since he requested you to work closer to him about three months ago only fueled this infatuation.

You liked your boss, but at this moment, you couldn't stand him;

It was 3 a.m. on a Sunday, the one day of the week you were supposed to have some semblance of off-time, with the luxury of sleeping in until noon.

But instead of enjoying your well-deserved rest in bed, you found yourself reluctantly entering the elevator, begrudgingly making your way to the usually closed-off top floor of the building.

Why? Because you had received a threatening and slightly slurry phone call from your boss, demanding your immediate presence or else face termination.

With your livelihood seemingly hanging in the balance, you complied without questioning, even though you loathed every second of it.

After punching in the code provided, you entered the lounge area of the top floor to find all three Vees lounging about. Valentino was enveloped in smoke, while music filled the air.

"Y/N! So glad you made it! Come 'ere," Vox exclaimed, his gestures frantic, urging you to approach quickly. He appeared laid-back, friendly, and strangely excited, a stark contrast to his usual demeanor of coldness and condescension.

Confusion clouded your expression as you approached the couch, unsure of what to make of Vox's sudden change in behavior. Velvette, noticing your bewilderment, chimed in with an explanation. "He took some MDMA before he called you — actually, he couldn't stop blabbing about your ass once that stuff kicked in," she divulged matter-of-factly, adding another layer of peculiarity to the already bizarre situation.

‘Ah, he’s high — that explains the weird friendliness.’ You thought to yourself.

But before you could dwell on it too long, Valentino's words snapped you out of your thoughts, "Yes, little Voxxy over there couldn't stop talking about how much he wanted his little secretary with him right here. He just had to call you, despite it being the middle of the night. I'm sorry you're losing your beauty sleep right now, cariño," he said, his tone tinged with insincerity from false remorse. A small chuckle escaped his lips as he finished speaking, adding to the surreal atmosphere of the moment.

“Val, Vel! You can’t tell them that! Or they’ll, they’ll… fuck!” Vox began to say, but something mid-sentence seemed to frustrate him.

Before you could question it for too long, Valentino answered that question for you. “They’ll figure out you have a little crush on them. Aww, don’t worry papi, it’s not like they can say no to you either way,” the moth darkly announced, frightening you, as it was technically true that you had to obey whatever order your boss gave you; it was in your contract after all.

To your somewhat relief, Vox scoffed at his part-time boyfriend's comment, as if to convey that he wouldn't behave in such a manner.

"Shut the fuck, Val!" Vox began, his frustration evident, before redirecting his attention back to you. "And you, lay down on the table." Confused by the request, you briefly wondered if he was joking, but the seriousness etched on his face made it clear that he wasn't. Resigned, you followed his instruction and laid down on the table as he commanded.

As soon as you complied, a smile spread across Vox's face. "Good, good. Now be a good little secretary and stay still as I do some lines off you, m'kay?" he instructed.

Before you could process anything or say something, he pushed your shirt all the way up, ending just under your chest, and tugged your bottoms down slightly — exposing your whole stomach.

Attempting to voice your discomfort, you were promptly shushed by Vox. "Shhh, you're being a table for me right now, and last time I checked, tables don't talk, now do they, sweetheart? So be a doll and shut up," he said, eliciting laughter from the two other Vees.

You complied with his instructions and remained silent as you felt him pour some powder onto your abdomen. Knowing the drugs he usually made you order on his behalf, it was probably coke.

With that, he quickly formed about three lines and began snorting them. The sensation felt odd and somewhat ticklish to you, but what you didn't expect was for him to lick the parts of your belly where the powder had just sat — long lines that started from top to bottom, causing you to squirm involuntarily.

Vox didn't appreciate your movement, because ‘how dare his table move?’. In response, he firmly gripped your waist on both sides and forcefully slammed your hips against the table as a warning to ‘stop moving’.

However, his claws dug into your skin, causing you to cry out slightly. Upon seeing the small tears in your eyes, his mood shifted once more, from aggravation to something more lustful.

He relished the sight of you with tears in your eyes, so he decided to inflict a bit more pain. With a predatory glint in his eyes, he bit at your sides, knowing that you couldn't retaliate due to the hierarchical difference between you.

His bites started from the top, gradually getting lower until they ended up just above your crotch. With a slight, heavy breathing, he remarked, "Now what do we have here? A snack for me? You shouldn't have." As he removed your bottoms, leaving you in your underwear, a slight moist patch formed due to the position you were in.

Sure, Vox was an entitled asshole, but god, did he look and sound incredible when he was being mean and bossy. How could you not get aroused, especially when his face and long tongue ass were so close to your intimate parts.

"You want me to play with you, darling?" Vox asked in a manner that almost made it feel like you had a choice. There was something about it that suggested he might respect your decision if you said no—sure, he wouldn't like it, but he definitely had this thing where he wanted you to want him, to beg for him, to need him. Forcing himself on you wouldn't align with that desire.

You nodded, but he tutted at you, wanting a verbal answer. "No, no, no, it's 'Could you please, sir?' or 'Would love to, Mr. Vox,' or 'Please, I need you, Vox.' You've got to speak up if you want me to do anything to you, got it, dollface?" he clarified, emphasizing the importance of explicit consent, whether it was due to genuine respect for your boundaries or just his enjoyment of your yearning for him, it was a bit unclear. However, knowing Vox, he probably just got off on your embarrassment.

"Yes, sir," you said, feeling embarrassed. "So? Do you want me to give some love to these," he asked, tracing the outline of your underwear, "lovely parts?" He perked up.

"I would love for you to, sir," you managed to speak out. With a 'perfect' from your boss, he was now eagerly devouring you with his tongue, sending small pleasurable shocks through you as he did. No part of you down there was left un-licked.

Just as you were about to reach that sweet, sweet release — Vox removed himself from you, causing you to whine at the loss of pleasure.

"Don't worry," he said, but before you could complain too much, Vox lifted you up and threw you onto the couch, your face soon hitting the satin pillows. As you heard the sound of his belt unbuckling, you felt your hips being repositioned, leaving you face down and ass up.

Vox quickly pumped his cock a few times, not needing much as it was already hard from the sight of you writhing due to his tongue. Getting close to your ear, he whispered, "Cuz I'm not done with you, dollface."

Then he promptly shoved himself inside of you. Thankfully, whatever he was doing with his tongue a couple of instances ago had prepped you, because, woof, did the stretch sting.

After giving you a few moments to adjust, he began pounding you into tomorrow, playing with your front and sending small shocks here and there. With no regard for his colleagues sitting right beside him —or should I say colleague, as in singular—Velvette had left as soon as he began working you with his tongue. However, Valentino remained, watching the scene unfold with keen interest.

Your soon came undone due to his rough ministrations, but he was far from done with you...

⫘⫘⫘ Ownership, ⛌⛌⛌ Humiliation & Collar

If you haven't already figured it out yet, Vox is a sadist. He thoroughly enjoys power dynamics and the act of humiliating others.

Continuing from the previous headcanon, picture yourself as either hired as his secretary or as a low-ranking demon in his company who catches his eye. If you're the latter, he'll undoubtedly arrange for you to be transferred to work closer to him.

But anyway, my point is, as soon as you're in his close proximity, he'll literally makes you his bitch on call in the blink of an eye. And obviously, you can't refuse because, one, he's your boss; two, he's an overlord; and three, he's Vox.

Who would refuse that hunk? Even if you weren't initially attracted to him, you'd find yourself becoming so after a couple of weeks, even if it's just some weird mild attraction—you're still into him.

Once he's got you in his grasp and has fucked you at least once, this is when he begins to play with you. He'll make you start wearing a vibrator under your clothes at work, ordering you to remove your clothing every morning and show him, to ensure you did it. Then he'd send you on your merry way.

If he wasn't physically with you, he'd be watching you through his cameras.

And every time you would be talking to someone and he deemed it too long, you weren't paying attention to him, or you were zoning out/getting distracted, he would turn the vibrator on to 'get you back on track'.

Though he did like to sometimes turn the vibrator on just to tease you. For example, you're in the middle of telling him about a shift in his appointment in a room full of people, and he would suddenly turn it on to fuck with you.

He also has a huge thing for pulling you by your soul chain. He just loves, loves, loves summoning it out of nowhere and just tugging you along with it.

For instance, you could be telling him about some issue concerning a recent project, and he would tell you to come closer so he could hear better.

As you walk closer towards his desk, he deems your pace too slow. Without warning, he summons and tugs at the chain around your neck, causing you to fall to the ground.

In an attempt to brace the fall, you put your arms out, catching yourself and ending up on all fours.

But as you try to get up, he would tut at you, ordering you to “Crawl to me.” You’re humiliated, but you still do it as he watches you like a hawk, a satisfied grin on his face.

If you also happen to scrape or bruise yourself when you fell and some small tears form in your eyes, let me tell you, he would get so bricked up as soon as he noticed them.

And of course, he would make you blow him, though it would end up with him face-fucking you, as it usually did.

He would also hold your head down as he dumped his cum down your throat, then he would pull your nose with his free hand, saying that “you don’t get to breathe until you’ve swallowed it all.” And of course, you would do it because you don’t want to literally choke to death on your boss’s dick.

Once he was sure you had swallowed it all, he would finally release you, allowing you to take some air in. Then he would make you stick out your tongue, and he would spit in your mouth, making you swallow that too.

𐂯 Training

He liked using small electrical charges as a ‘training method’, and this method has two stages. This would happen after he already had you as his personal toy— I mean, ‘secretary’.

At first, he uses electricity to reprimand you whenever you weren’t paying attention to him, questioned him, said no to things, or did anything that he considered as bad behaviour.

He would shock you, making you associate ‘bad behavior’ with pain, so you would end up automatically correct yourself before you even do or say something.

If you take a bit too long to ‘adjust’ to this new way of acting, he might resort to a little bit of hypnosis, but he would prefer not to.

He gets off on the fact that he can train you to behave just with his words and actions, without the help of any special ability.

Anyways, when he is sure that he has drilled into you what proper behavior is, he’ll employ phase two. He’ll start training you to enjoy the sting of his electricity.

So, whether he's fucking you, giving you head, touching you, or basically providing any sort of pleasure, every time you would be close to reaching your peak, he would send jolts of electricity through you, gradually increasing the dosage over time.

Things would get to the point that a small shock from him would be enough to get you turned on, and bigger shocks would be able to literally make you cum.

ฅ Pet

For the most part, he wouldn’t see secretary!reader as a partner. It’s only after a while, like a year or more, that he would start considering it.

He views them as his romantic interests, but not on his level. To keep face with the other Vees, even though they both knew about his crush from the beginning because he was so obvious with it, he would call you his pet.

Sometimes literal ‘pet names’ like puppy, kitty, bunny, etc. (Personally, I would love for him to call him his bunny <3.)

What he calls you all depends on your appearance and behaviors. For example, if you manifested with a more feline appearance, he would call you his kitten or kitty. If you didn’t have animal-like features but for example, were very needy, had a tendency to follow around, and were a sucker for praise, he would likely call you his puppy.

𓌏 Punishments

Besides using electric shocks, he is definitely into spanking as a form of punishment—whether it involves pulling down your pants or lifting your skirt, spanking you for every ‘transgression’ you’ve committed is something he’s totally down for.

It can be a really strange experience if you weren't a masochist to begin with because he'll end up having you conditioned to enjoy physical punishments;

For example, he would be spanking you, and you find yourself getting turned on, arousal literally leaking due to his rough treatment of your behind.

Edging and overstimulation are also big in his book, though each has its own set of circumstances where they would be implemented.

For instance, if you weren't paying attention to him because of someone else, he would overstimulate you to the point where you couldn't think about anyone but him, asserting his superiority over whoever had your attention.

If you weren't paying attention for any other reason, he would edge you, because ‘how dare you ignore him when he should be the most important to you!’.

Thanks anons for requesting!

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Me & You & Everyone We Know | 12 | S.R

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Chapter Summary - Spencer and Maeve get into a heated argument moments before Daisy’s birthday party in which Spencer is finally forced to face his real feelings over his ex. You overhear more than you bargained for.

A/N - I don’t know if it was ever stated how old the Simmons kids were, if it was I certainly wasn’t paying attention. This was a guess.

Pairing - Single Dad! Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, smut minors DNI.

Warnings - swearing, drinking, talk of cheating, arguing, confessed feelings, overheard conversations, tears, drunk Spencer, vomit, mommy JJ to the rescue.

WC - 5.8k

Chapter 12 - Let it Hurt

Seven forty two in the morning,

Eight seconds before it all sinks in.

Put your best face on for the world,

Fake another smile and just pretend.

But you're just puttin' off the pain,

Nothing's ever really gonna change.

Spencer arrived at Rossi’s early and spent the entire morning slaving over decorations and readying the house for the onslaught of teenagers due to descend upon Rossi’s pristine mansion this afternoon. 

He was exhausted before the party even started. 

He hung banners and streamers from almost every inch of the ceiling. He set up a large table that took up most of his yard with food and paper plates. 

Rossi restocked his fridge with soda bottles from the garage and beers and wine for the adults. 

Spencer wrapped a ridiculous amount of presents, the divorced parent guilt making him spend an exuberant amount of money on his eldest daughter. 

JJ arrived a few hours before the party and rewrapped them all as she told him they looked like the dog had done it. 

They had around a half hour to spare once the house was set up. Rossi had retreated to his study to recoup before his house was flooded with teens. 

Spencer and JJ sat in his backyard, JJ indulging in a glass of wine while he had one small scotch just to take the edge off. 

He could see her staring at the side of his face while he sipped from the tumbler and eventually he sighed and turned to look at her.

“What?”

“You’re nervous.” She had that knowing glint in her eye. 

“You becoming a profiler was the worst thing that ever happened to me, do you know that?” His words caused her to laugh. 

“And now you’re deflecting.” She smugly sipped her wine. 

“My ex-wife and her boyfriend are going to be here today. My ex-wife who I haven’t spent more than a few minutes with since she moved out of our home. Of course I’m nervous. I’m kinda glad we decided to do it here actually, I couldn’t imagine her spending that much time in my house. The house she destroyed with her betrayal.” He finished his scotch but it didn’t help the way he’d hoped. 

“Has it ever occurred to you to move?” She cocked an eyebrow at him, regarding him curiously.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.” He confessed with another sigh. “I thought painting would help. I thought about asking Morgan to help me just gut the place. But changing the facade isn’t going to erase the memories that house holds.” 

“A fresh start would be good for you all. Especially with your blossoming new relationship.” JJ wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, leaning over and nudging his shoulder with her own.

“I don’t know about that.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s going to last with Y/N.”

“But she’s coming to the party? She’s going to meet your kids?” 

“Yeah that might have been an error in judgement.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t want it to end, it’s not like I actively want this to fall apart.” 

“So why do you think it's going to?” She frowned at him. 

“I’ve done the family thing. I don’t want to do it again.” He sighed deeply. “I told her I wasn’t sure if I’d ever want anymore kids but that wasn’t true. Jennifer, I don’t want more kids. Not now, not ever. I love Daisy and Lily with all my heart but I don’t want anymore. I don’t want to get married again, I don’t want any of it. I am crazy about her and I would happily spend the rest of my life with her. But marriage and more kids aren’t in my future. But they are in hers.” 

“Shit,” she sipped her wine. “Shit.” 

“Yeah.” He groaned, reaching across and grabbing her glass from her hand. 

She let him take it and watched him down the entire glass in one. 

“You don’t like white wine.” She rolled her eyes. 

“I do not.” He pulled a face as he swallowed. “That was disgusting.” 

“You’ve gotta talk to her, you know? Probably before she meets your daughters.” 

“That’s gonna be kinda hard don’t you think? What am I meant to do just wait by the door for her to arrive and turn her away? God I’ve fucked up, I need another drink.” He pushed himself up and JJ was quick to do the same. 

Before he could pass her towards the kitchen she grabbed his arm. 

“That is not a good idea.” She tugged him back. “You’re about to host a birthday party for your daughter, do you really want to be drunk for that?” 

“Yes?” He pulled a face with a shrug. 

“Trust me when I say you don’t.” She chuckled. “Maybe once the party is over and the kids have gone back to Maeve’s, but not right now.” 

He heaved a large sigh which told her he conceded even if he wasn’t happy about it. 

“Will you get drunk with me after the party?” He asked a little meekly. 

“Sounds like a date.” She smiled at him. “I’m sure we can even get the others on board.” 

“That would be good, I need that.” He nodded just as the doorbell rang. 

He checked his watch and frowned as he still had fifteen minutes until people were supposed to show up. 

“Why are people always early?” He grumbled, heading to the back door but once again JJ stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. 

When he turned back to her she was proffering a packet of mints his way with a small smile.

“You don’t want Maeve or the kids smelling wine on your breath.” She deposited one in his hand.

He nodded his thanks and popped the mint in his mouth as he continued through the back door and towards the front. 

When he opened the door she was smiling at him over a cake which was at least four times the size of his head. 

“You’re early.” He grumbled, stepping aside to let his ex in Rossi’s house. 

“I wanted to see what you’d done before the party kicked off.” Maeve followed him inside. 

“Didn’t trust me to throw my own kid a birthday party?” He huffed as they headed to the kitchen where JJ was fussing over some food in the oven. 

“Can we not do this today?” Maeve sighed as she set the cake on the counter. 

“Do what?” 

“The passive aggressiveness. Can you just take one day off from hating me so we can celebrate our daughter's birthday?” 

Spencer was going to argue, Maeve knew it and JJ knew it too. JJ came around the kitchen island and stood between the two of them. 

“Where is the birthday girl?” JJ intervened before Spencer could say anything. “Spence, take the cake out to the yard.” 

Spencer huffed like a child, JJ half expected him to stamp his foot. But he did as he was told and picked up the cake, retreating back outside. 

“Bobby took the girls for ice cream. They're going to head over in a bit. She actually believes we aren’t doing anything for her on her birthday.” Maeve giggled. JJ did not.

JJ not so secretly harboured a lot of ill will towards Maeve for the pain she’d caused her best friend. She didn’t try to hide it, didn’t try to pretend to like her. 

Even if Spencer wouldn’t admit how much Maeve’s infidelity had hurt him JJ could see right through him. And so she didn’t try to make a habit of hiding her disdain towards the other woman. 

“Ok.” She replied, heading back towards the oven to put another batch of party food inside. 

Maeve looked around uncomfortably, half wishing she’d come with Bobby and the girls and not on her own. Perhaps this whole party had been a terrible idea. 

Nonetheless she found herself gravitating towards the yard where Spencer was straightening place settings that didn’t need straightening just to avoid going back in the house and talking to her. 

He heard her step out onto the deck but refused to look up, instead kept focused on the table.

“The place looks great, Daisy is really going to love it.” She didn’t dare come closer, staying firmly on the decking.

“Glad you approve.” He scoffed. 

“Spencer,” Maeve sighed. “Is it too much to ask for you to be civil for one day?” 

His eyes suddenly snapped up at her, his movements halting. 

“Was it too much to ask my wife not to cheat on me?” He bit back. 

“I don’t know what else I can say for you to see how sorry I am. I tried to fix things, you’re the one who kicked me out. You’re the one who didn’t want to work on things.” 

“What was there to work on?” He raised his voice. “You were fucking another man behind my back for three years, Maeve! You really think we could have come back from that?” 

“I hurt you, I get it. And I am sorry for that, but at some point you have to get over it, Spencer!” 

“You didn’t hurt me.” He rolled his eyes. “You hurt Daisy. You hurt Lily. You didn’t hurt me.” 

The raised voices caught JJ’s attention. She sighed to herself as she set the oven timer, rounded the island once more and headed for the back door ready to break this up before the kids arrived. 

She got halfway across the kitchen when she heard a tentative knock at the front door. She glanced back towards it before looking back at Spencer and Maeve. 

Hopefully they could refrain from murdering each other while she answered the door. 

With any luck it would be Will and the boys and hopefully Henry and Michael could cheer up their uncle Spencer. 

She padded through the house towards the door as another gentle knock sounded. She unlocked it and opened it to see a slightly frightened young woman on the front porch. 

You rolled your lip between your teeth as you took in the stunning blonde opening David Rossi’s front door. 

Oh jeez, is that his ex? He never mentioned her being so pretty, you mentally cringed. 

She smiled a beautiful and heart stopping smile at you as she held the door open. 

“You must be Y/N?” She beamed, stepping aside. “Come in, please. Spence is in the backyard.” 

Your stomach was coiling into knots as you entered the house, feeling sick about this whole situation. Your hands shook at your sides. 

“It’s so nice to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.” Her bright blue eyes sparkled and you felt utterly intimidated.

“You…you have?” 

“Of course! Spencer can’t stop talking about you.” She laughed. “I’m JJ by the way.” 

You felt the lead weight in your chest loosen, like you could breathe freely again. 

JJ, she’s JJ. His friend from the BAU, not his ex-wife. Thank god.

“JJ! Sorry yes, Spencer has told me about you too. I’m sorry I thought you were his ex and it threw me a little.” You laughed too. “It’s so nice to…”

You trailed off when the sound of a woman yelling filtered through the house from the backyard. You and JJ exchanged a look as the shouting continued. 

“Uh, that’s his ex.” JJ sighed. “Excuse me, I should see what’s going on.” 

You watched JJ flee towards the back of the house and without really meaning to you followed her. Through the large open back doors you could see Spencer and his ex-wife in mid standoff. 

His back was rigid, his face was bright red, the vein in his forehead pushing wildly and he had his hands clenched into fists. 

Maeve didn’t look any more composed than he did, steam practically coming out of her ears. 

“I swear to god, Spencer, you are such a child sometimes!” Maeve yelled, throwing her arms in the air. 

“I’m a child? I’m a child?” He spat. 

You and JJ stayed in the kitchen, JJ not wanting to get in the middle of this but also not wanting things to get any worse. 

“Yes! You act like you’re fine and that my affair meant nothing to you but then you can’t be civil towards me for even a second. If it really meant so little to you then why do you have to behave like this?” 

“Fine,” he snapped like a frayed cord. “You hurt me, is that what you want to hear?”

“I didn’t say that.” Maeve sighed loudly. “I just wish you would-” 

“I would what? You wish I would, what? You hurt me, ok? You really fucking hurt me.” He cut her off, the pain she’d caused evident in his voice to all three of you. 

Your stomach tightened again, not wanting to be privy to this conversation and clearly neither did JJ. 

Maeve looked away from him, somewhere across the garden and her shoulders slumped. 

“I…I’m sorry Spencer.” She lowered her voice. 

“It’s too late for that. I loved what we had, I loved you! And you hurt me more than I ever thought it possible to be hurt. Are you happy now?” He shook his head angrily. “I wanted to pretend that you didn’t cut me up inside with what you did because it was easier to deal with. I act like I only care that you hurt the girls because if I have to dwell on the fact the love of my life was cheating on me for three years I may never make it out of bed in the morning! 

Goddamnit Maeve, you fucking broke me. You broke me, ok? I will never be the same because of what you did to me. So I’m passive aggressive towards you because if I’m not I might just break down every time I have to look at you. You broke me. You broke my heart.” 

As he said that you felt your own heart breaking. In your peripheral vision you saw JJ looking at you but you were staring right at the side of Spencer’s face. 

And when his first tear escaped, so did your own. 

“Y/N, I-” 

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” You cut JJ off. “I should go.” 

You turned on your heels away from the back door the second Spencer glanced away from Maeve. He saw JJ staring at him in disbelief first and then he saw the back of your retreating head. 

“Y/N?” He wiped his eyes. “Y/N!” 

He started after you and you quickened your pace through the house, desperate to get out of here before having him confront you. 

But of course he caught up with you, just before you reached the front door you felt his hand around your wrist. 

When he tugged you back to face him it was impossible to hide the fact you were crying. 

“Y/N I…I didn’t mean for you to hear that.” He rolled his lip between his teeth guiltily.

“But I did hear it.” You sniffed. “I’m never going to be her am I?” 

“It’s not like that.” He shook his head. “My feelings towards her are complicated. This whole thing is complicated.” 

“Let me uncomplicate it then Spencer. I’m taking myself out of this equation. I’m walking away.” You wiped your eyes on the back of your hand. 

“Please don’t do that. Let’s just talk about this, please?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. We want different things and you have very unresolved feelings for your ex. There is nothing left to say, Spencer. We don’t have the same idea of the future and maybe that’s because you can’t see yourself being with anyone but Maeve and I get it, you were together a long time. I just wish you’d been honest with me from the start. I wish I hadn’t had to witness the love of my life telling another woman she was his.” You turned away from him again to the door and threw it open. 

“Y/N, just wait please I can…” he trailed off seeing a gaggle of teenagers skulking up Rossi’s driveway towards the house.

With everything going on he had almost forgotten about the party. 

It allowed you to make a break, weaving between the kids on the driveway and Spencer couldn’t stop you. 

He plastered on a smile and welcomed Daisy’s school friends to Rossi’s home whilst watching you disappear. 

And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. 

***

He watched Daisy and the beautiful, bright smile on her face from the kitchen window, arms folded across his chest and just trying to drink it all in. 

The teens had the run of Rossi’s backyard, the adults relegated to the house to allow them some freedom. Music blared from a series of smart speakers which Spencer had no idea how they worked. 

But the kids seemed to enjoy it. 

Daisy was sitting on the edge of the pool, a blonde girl sitting by her side as they chatted and the smile that encompassed his daughter's face told him that girl was Meredith aka the most popular girl at Daisy’s school.

He tried to ignore the way his blood froze in his veins due to the fact his fourteen year old little girl was wearing a bathing suit with teenage boys in the vicinity. 

Her cast had been removed a few days ago, just in time for the party. He was glad she’d healed but also kind of wished she’d had it in a little longer and then at least she might not have been able to swim and therefore wouldn’t be in a damn bathing suit. 

It only really occurred to him as he watched her how grown up she had become. In his mind's eye she was still a little girl, the same little girl who loved ponies and came running to her dad when she was hurt. 

Lily still did, still looked at him like he hung the moon. But it wouldn’t be long before she was a teenager too and pushing her dad away. 

He still remembered the day Daisy was born as though it could have only been yesterday and now she was turning fourteen. She’d be going off to college in the blink of an eye, moving out and forging her own life. And surely it wouldn’t be all that long before Lily was doing the same.

He’d been a father for so long now he didn’t know what he would do with himself when they grew up and he became obsolete. Who was Spencer Reid without his girls? 

He continued watching his eldest daughter, partly because he wanted to feel included in her life and partly because he was avoiding Maeve like the plague. 

He felt a presence enter the kitchen and he prayed that it wasn’t his ex. His company sidled up next to him and he glanced at them, breathing a sigh of relief that it wasn’t Maeve. 

“Is it too much to ask to keep them young forever?” Spencer spoke wistfully, looking back at his daughter.

“Tell me about it,” Matt chuckled dryly. “My eldest is twelve now and I just can’t comprehend how that happened.” 

“I swear it was just yesterday I was bringing her home from the hospital.” 

“Yeah I know that feeling.” Matt patted Spencer’s shoulder. “Just be grateful for the time you still have with Lily before she becomes a teenager too.” 

The tone in Matt’s voice was almost pitiful and Spencer turned away from the window to look at him. 

“You spoke to JJ.” He frowned at the older man. 

“She might have mentioned an altercation.” Matt shrugged. “I assume that’s why you’re avoiding Maeve more than usual.” 

“My daughter's birthday was not the place I imagined my repressed feelings coming to the surface.” He sighed. “Not that I imagined them ever doing so.”

“And in front of your girlfriend too. That’s rough.” Matt offered him a sympathetic smile. 

“I’m almost positive she’s not going to be my girlfriend after today.” 

“Oh man, I’m sure you’ll-”

“Dad!” Daisy’s slightly frustrated voice cut Matt off. 

Spencer spun around to face his daughter who was now in the kitchen, hands on her hips and glaring at her father.

“What is it, pumpkin?” 

Daisy’s cheeks flushed pink and she glanced to her side where the blonde girl was standing, giggling under her breath. 

“Gross, don’t call me that.” Daisy rolled her eyes. 

Spencer pouted, her harsh tone hitting him straight in the chest. He’d called both of his girls pumpkin since they were babies and Daisy had never minded before. 

“Uh…what’s up, Daisy?” He tried again. 

“Can you change the music? My friends don’t want to listen to this old man stuff.” She huffed in such a sassy way Spencer wasn’t even sure he recognised this girl as his daughter. 

He frowned, tuning his ears into the music and noting a Frank Sinatra classic was playing through the speakers. 

It was a great song, but probably not to a fourteen year old. 

“I’ll sort it.” Matt spoke with a smile. 

“Thanks uncle Matt.” Daisy smiled at him before the two girls turned and started back towards the yard.

Spencer watched the blonde link her arm through Daisy’s as they walked.

“Your uncle is so hot.” Meredith’s voice carried towards them. 

Spencer grimaced and Matt chuckled. Spencer shot him a look. 

“What?” Matt shrugged. “I can’t help it.” 

As the two girls headed into the yard, Meredith’s voice met their ears again.

“Your dads kinda creepy though. He’s been watching us through the window for ages.” 

“I know right.” Daisy replied. 

Spencer slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead and grumbled under his breath. 

“This is the worst goddamn day of my life.” Spencer groaned. 

Matt laughed again and clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

“No one ever said raising a teenager was easy.” 

“No kidding.” Spencer mumbled, following on Matt’s heels as he went to change the music. 

***

Two hours passed and the teens had well and truly taken over Rossi’s yard. The older man spent most of the day in the armchair in the corner of the grand living room sipping scotch and trying to pretend the kids weren’t going to destroy his house. 

Spencer kept himself out of the kitchen, not wanting his daughter or her friends to see him as creepy as Meredith had so kindly labelled him. 

Instead every fifteen minutes he sent another member of the BAU to the kitchen for something innocuous so they could subtly check on the teens.

Maeve kept her distant but he still caught her looking his way every so often. He tried to ignore her the best he could, knowing no good could come of talking to her. 

Lily flitted about the room, dividing her time between her parents and all her aunts and uncles as Daisy had strictly told her mother that Lily was not allowed anywhere near her party. 

He excused himself from the room after a while and headed upstairs to make a call. He knew you wouldn’t answer but it didn’t stop him trying.

As expected he got your voicemail and left a long rambling message about how sorry he was for what you’d overheard and how he wanted to explain. He begged you to call him back but wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t. 

When he was about to head back downstairs, he saw her heading his way and he honestly wanted to throw himself over the railing and straight into Rossi’s marbled floor below. 

Anything was better than talking to her. 

“Daisy wants her cake and I knew you wouldn’t want to miss it.” Maeve had her hands in the pockets of her summer dress and she shrugged her shoulders.

“Ok, thanks. I was just coming.” He nodded. 

“No sarcastic response? No passive aggressive comment?” Maeve frowned. 

Spencer sighed loudly, shaking his head. 

“I’m so tired, Maeve.” He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “I am exhausted with it all. I can’t keep fighting all the time.” 

Her frown deepened. She was fairly sceptical, and with good reason. For the last year all Spencer had wanted to do was fight, he almost seemed to enjoy it. 

“You don’t want to fight?” 

“I don’t have the energy to fight.” He shrugged. “We’re never going to be friends or anything like that, but I’m not fighting anymore. It takes too much out of me. You’re the mother of my children, you’re always going to be a part of my life whether I like it or not.” 

“I appreciate that.” Maeve softened, smiling gently. 

“It’s not for your benefit.” He scoffed. 

“Well that was short lived.” Maeve rolled her eyes, turning away from him and heading towards the staircase. 

“I’m trying.” He called after her, stopping her in her tracks. “I’m not saying it’s going to change overnight but I am trying.” 

She didn’t turn back to him, but she nodded her head as she started down the stairs. 

***

“This has honestly been the worst day ever.” Spencer slurred slightly, waving his glass around and spilling some of the contents over his shirt sleeve. 

“Should we cut him off?” Luke whispered to Penelope who was sitting on his left. 

The party had been over hours ago and all the children had since left, leaving Spencer and his old BAU team to drink in Rossi’s trashed yard. 

Daisy had a wonderful birthday and that was the most important thing to Spencer. The second most important thing was the fact he had royally messed things up with you. 

The moment he’d seen Daisy and Lily off with their mother he’d poured himself a giant glass of scotch in lieu of going home alone. Taco was at the kennel for the night so he had no need to go home.  

At this point he was well over half way through the bottle.

“I think he needs this.” Garcia shrugged sadly. 

“I fucked up with Y/N. She’s never going to talk to me again! What the fuck was I thinking?” He groaned loudly, splashing more alcohol down himself as he gesticulated. 

“It was probably time you finally faced your feelings over your divorce, kid.” Rossi sipped his drink. “Divorce is hard, it’s a shit thing to go through. Trust me, I would know.” 

“You know what’s dumb though? Really fucking dumb considering I’m supposed to be a genius?” He paused to sip his drink. “I honestly didn’t think I was in love with Maeve. Not until she told me she’d cheated. And it felt like my whole fucking world crumbled around me.” 

At least he had stopped crying. For at least an hour he’d sobbed and JJ, Garcia, Emily and Tara took turns holding him while he wept. 

They would all take him angrily ranting over crying any day. 

“Have you considered seeing a therapist?” Tara threw out the question on everyone’s lips. 

“What would I do that for?” He frowned, trying to focus on her but his eyes were misty from the alcohol. 

“Clearly you have a lot of unresolved issues.” Tara replied and that was putting it nicely. “I think talking to a therapist will really help.” 

“No, not gonna happen.” He was scrambling to get out of the lawn chair and failing miserably. 

JJ rolled her eyes and got up, wrapping her arm around his waist and helping him to his feet. 

“Where are you trying to go?” She asked, keeping an arm around him in case he fell over. 

“I…I don’t know.” He pouted. 

“May I suggest bed?” Emily piped up. “Sleep it off Reid.” 

“Yeah I’ve got plenty of room.” Rossi waved a hand in the general direction of the house. 

“Hmm good idea.” He nodded, leaning his weight against JJ. Seconds later he pulled away, his face drained of colour. “Oh fuck…gonna puke.” 

Maybe it was her mothering instinct but JJ jumped into action and managed to speedily help Spencer inside to the kitchen sink, just in time for him to violently spill his guts. 

The sounds emanating from him echoed around the room and into the yard. JJ stroked his back soothingly while he vomited profusely. 

“I think that’s my cue to leave.” Matt downed his drink and stood up.

The rest of the team silently agreed, finishing their own drinks and meandering into the house. 

Rossi saw them off, Matt and Tara who had only indulged in one drink each got in their cars while Garcia, Luke and Emily shared a cab toward their own homes. 

Spencer spent a long time being sick in the sink before he finally stood back and JJ handed him a glass of water. He leant against the counter and sipped it slowly. 

Rossi had taken his leave to bed, not much wanting to clean up after Spencer. 

“I’m sorry. You really don’t have to look after me.” He grumbled. 

“But I’m gonna do it anyway.” She smiled at him. “Let me help you upstairs. I think I’ll stay the night too. I don’t feel comfortable leaving you like this.” 

She thought he might argue but he honestly didn’t have the strength to. Instead he heaved a sigh and nodded. 

He finished the water and JJ aided him to one of Rossi’s guest rooms with an arm around his waist. He flopped to the bed fully dressed and on top of the covers. 

He was asleep within seconds. 

JJ quietly retreated from the room and made her way to the other guest bedroom whilst sending Will a text to let him know she wouldn’t be home. 

She got into bed, her heart aching for her best friend. She’d never seen him like this before, not even in the aftermath of Maeve’s affair. 

She’d always known it would come bubbling to the surface one day, pain needed to be felt one way or another. But now he’d unlocked that particular box she feared he may never come back from it. 

The beast had been unleashed and if Spencer didn’t find a healthy way to cope with his demons, she knew it would ultimately be his demise.

***

When Spencer finally surfaced around midday he looked about as bad as JJ expected him to. He still wore yesterday's clothes, now wrinkled from being slept in. 

She’d spent the morning helping Rossi clean his house of the mess from the party and both of them were sipping coffee at the kitchen island when Spencer emerged.

“Morning, how are you feeling?” JJ asked. 

He went straight to the sink, poured a glass of water and downed it in one before he could speak. 

“Like I drank an entire brewery, screamed at my ex-wife and destroyed my relationship.” He croaked. “Pretty impressive for one night.” 

“I know this isn’t what you’re gonna want to hear but you’ve been bottling up your feelings for Maeve for over a year, it was bound to come out.” Rossi shrugged. 

Spencer grumbled a little, padding to the chair on the other side of the counter and slumping into it. 

“You know I sometimes still picture her at the house.” He sighed deeply. “Like I close my eyes and I can sense her you know? Hear her in the kitchen when I come home from work, hear her reading to the girls, taking a shower or whatever. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night because I swear I can smell her shampoo on the pillow.” 

JJ reached across the counter and placed her hand on top of his as his eyes glazed over with tears. She didn’t talk and so he continued. 

“I did love her, I still do. I don’t want to be with her anymore, not after what she did. But I miss her. I miss the life we used to have. But it makes me feel so stupid admitting as much when she made me feel like our life together meant nothing.” He dislodged his hand from under JJ’s and raked his fingers through his knotted hair. “I really messed up with Y/N. There’s no coming back from this.” 

“You’ll figure it out. You’re a genius after all.” She smiled softly at him. “You ok to drive home?” 

“Yeah I’ll be fine. Thanks for letting me throw the party here Dave and for letting me crash.” 

“No problem, kid. Get home safe.” 

JJ and Spencer got to their feet and said their goodbyes to Rossi. They headed to their cars but before they went their separate ways he threw his arms around her. 

He held her for a long few minutes, trying to communicate without the use of words just how much her friendship meant to him. 

Eventually he let go and they got into their respective cars. 

Spencer drove out and collected Taco from the kennel before making the pilgrimage out to his home in the suburbs. 

Once he got home he forced himself to shower and change even though his head was pounding from last night's alcohol. Something had to give. He couldn’t keep living like this. 

His alcohol use was becoming unhealthy and it was a slippery slope into addiction, as he knew all too well. 

After he was dressed he collected every single bottle of alcohol in his house and without a second thought he poured it all down the drain. Out of sight, out of mind. 

He fed Taco and let him play in the yard while he sat in his office with a large mug of coffee. He switched on his computer and started Googling realtors in the area. 

He knew he’d never be able to move on whilst living in this house. He didn’t want to go far, didn’t want to pull his girls out of their school and away from their friends but he couldn’t stay in this place any longer. 

He sent off some emails enquiring about having his home valued and specifications of what he was looking for in a new house. 

He knew he needed to go out but he was purposefully putting it off, finding anything to distract himself from what he needed to do. 

He even sat and watched Taco roam the yard for at least half an hour, just to avoid the inevitable. 

But he needed to do this. He needed to face this. 

Eventually, several hours after he arrived home, he forced his feet in his shoes and grabbed his car keys. Hopefully Taco wouldn’t cause too much of a nuisance while he was gone. 

He jumped in his car and started his journey into DC, knowing full well that nothing he could say would make this better. 

It was time to face the music. 

@andiebeaword @dreatine @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @people-whatabunchofbastards @justreadingficsdontmindme @spencer-reid-wonderland @thebloomingeagle @foxy-eva @kbakery @simxican @aysixdy @givemeth @loonalockley @shamelessfangirl-3 @redbulldinner @derekm24 @pinkiceee-prose @werewolfbansheelove @mindbelova @angelicasworld

[pulsdmedia]

The Week Ahead 4/16-4/22

After a hot, hot weekend, we’re feeling like summer is already in full swing, and we’re still in spring! It’s proving to be a good, sunshine-filled sign for fabulous times ahead, so plan accordingly...

A 4 Course Chef’s Tasting Astrology Dinner With Cocktails & Goodie Bag

Out-of-this-world flavors, delectable drinks, and cosmic vibes will be aplenty at the ultra-chic Walker Hotel Greenwich Village, whose Chef’s Tasting Astrology Dinner is set to wow your taste buds. Begin your night of transportive gourmet curiosity with time in the presence of a tarot card reader and incense burning in the gorgeous alcove at Walker Hotel, then making your way over to Society Cafe where Executive Chef Nicholas McCann will walk you through a Taurus-themed 4 course feast. More an immersive experience, Chef McCann will be on deck to present his creations, meet & greet with attendees, and explain the inspiration for dishes like the New Harvest comprised of tuna tartare, pomegranate, green strawberry, and nori tuile, as well as the Spring Offerings - think tender grilled beef cheek, smoked new potato, asparagus, ramps, and rosemary. While you dine, sip on a Raging Bull Cocktail (scotch, lemon, mint, pomegranate), wrapping up with a sweet dessert, a fully-stocked goodie bag, and a fabulous excuse to celebrate & revel in Taurus season...

Hill House Home & Lele Sadoughi Sale

Join 260 Sample Sale at their NoMad location to shop amazing deals on two great brands! Enjoy deep discounts on various sizes and colors of Hill House Home's signature Nap Dress and super sweet hair accessories from Lele Sadoughi to complete your look!

$49 Table For Two To A Night Of Cocktails & Burlesque At A Speakeasy

If you've ever fancied yourself over the top show or subscribe to the belief that diamonds really are a girl's best friend, you'll adore Jewel Theif’s sparkling speakeasy, awash in emerald, gold, topaz, & ruby hues. An exotic hidden den where international thieves unwind amongst the lush and opulent treasures they skillfully coveted, Jewel Thief will tap into sin & spectacle as daring, ultra-talented burlesque performers work the stage and room for you to enjoy. While your jaw-drops, quench your thirst with glasses of divine wine, or a signature cocktail, namely the Harry's Diamonds with Tanqueray Seville, bergamot, and grapefruit, best enjoyed alongside a plate of Hamachi Crudo (fresh yellowtail, citrus, jalapeño, EVOO, sea salt, radish). After work or as the sexiest date night idea, immerse yourself in this under-the-radar hideaway - and leave your inhibitions at the door...

A Discussion With Al Pacino

In a rare appearance on the 92NY stage, hear Al Pacino discuss the personal history behind his craft — ranging from his early theater work to his breakout roles in The Godfather, Serpico, and Dog Day Afternoon to his magnetic recent appearances in The Irishman and his new Amazon series Hunters. Don’t miss this American icon reflecting on why he has remained a towering presence in American film and theater for over half a century.

$19 Ticket To Whitmans Flight Club: Beers, Burgers & More At Hudson Yards

Wake up your Wednesday with an indulgent serving of craft beers, drool-worthy burgers, and 3 hours of great times at Whitmans Hudson Yards, whose beloved Flight Club returns again, this time showcasing tasty beers from EBBS Brewing Co. Straight out of Williamsburg, EBBS Brewing Co. is pulling out their favorite brews for you to savor with your pals. You'll tipple from a flight of 3 of their most fabulous beers - something worth cheers-ing for! Once you've worked your way through the flight, enjoy a full pint of your favorite as you prepare for your succulent nosh! As you delight in the effervescence of these marvelous brews, you'll get lost in even more flavorful bliss as you bite into the most flavorful, succulent burger - comprised of a beef short rib blend patty, seared onion, lettuce, tomato, new pickles, and special sauce on a potato bun. Come thirsty, hungry, and ready for all the flavors in store...

Fashion Culture Talk On Christian Dior

Dior’s official biography reveals the secretive and surprising man who revolutionized fashion. The book offers new insight on his spirituality and relationships, as well as a contemporary perspective on his legacy. Marie-France Pochna is an expert on fashion and trends in the luxury market, a professor, and a TV producer. Hear all she has to offer and then get the booked signed!

[pedrito-friskito]

the way we were / the way we are - chapter 13 - when the night is over

summary: you and Steve return to New York, and clues start to unearth themselves.

warnings: canon-typical violence, tony goes into dad-mode, mentions of age of ultron

a/n: longest chapter thus far for this fic, decently steve/tony-indulgent, can’t stop won’t stop

| series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 |

A few days later, you and Steve drive back to New York. He’s completely healed, and completely engrossed in the Winter Soldier file. Upon further inspection, you discover Nat had translated most of the Russian, but you couldn’t bring yourself to read the details of Bucky’s seventy years of torture. Steve tells you the more harmless bits, which are few and far between.

“Two dozen missions in fifty years,” Steve muses while you’re driving. It sets your teeth on edge, and you nearly slam on the brakes when you realize.

“How long?”

Steve glances over at you, brow crinkling. “Fifty. I just said that.”

You tighten your grip on the steering wheel. “We were in the ice for seventy. Seventy years ago, Bucky fell from the train. Seventy. The missions span fifty. That means…” You trail off. You can’t say it.

“It took twenty years to break him.”

It’s a miracle the steering wheel doesn’t snap in half beneath your hands. It’s a good thing it doesn’t though, Tony’s already mad enough.

Steve offers to drive part of the way, but you won’t let him. You mutter something about him needing to rest, which he waves off, but really, you just want to keep driving. You want to have something to focus on. If you were left to your own devices, you’d read every paper in that file. And you don’t want to. You don’t want to know what he went through. You don’t want to know the horrors he endured while you slept soundly in the ice, dreaming what your life together might have been. You can’t. Not yet. It hurts too much.

So you just keep driving.

It’s late afternoon by the time you reach the Tower. Unsurprisingly, Tony is waiting for you in the garage, pacing back and forth so quickly you’re surprised there’s not an imprint in the concrete floor. Steve gets out of the car first, and Tony claps him on the shoulder as he walks past.

You get out, pushing the car door shut behind you, and when you turn back, Tony is in front of you. The anger is clear on his face, but it startles you when instead of yelling, he throws his arms around you, crushing you to his chest.

“I thought you were gonna yell at me,” you say. Your voice is muffled by Tony’s shoulder, and you press your palms against his back, squeezing him.

“I’m going to, the moment we get upstairs,” he mumbles. “Just needed to hug you first. Okay?”

You nod. “Okay.”

It’s a quick elevator ride up to the residence, and Steve disappears in the direction of his room the moment you step off. You and Tony head towards the kitchen. You make a snack – peanut butter and apple slices have become your Tower staple, and Tony always has a jar of the good stuff on hand – and Tony pours himself a healthy glass of scotch.

You’re standing at the counter, knife in hand, when he finally starts.

“So, you gonna tell me what that was?” His voice is already climbing. “You steal a car, take off, disappear for a few days.” He lifts a shoulder, making a less-than-impressed face at you. “You might have bullied Jarvis into keeping quiet, but clearly forgot who runs his programming. I had him track you, Y/N. I knew where you were going the minute you left, but honestly, you went back. To D.C., after Steve specifically told you not too. After I came and scooped your ass out of there. You just run right back into the fire. What gives?”

The knife clatters onto the countertop, and both your hands clench into fists. Your nails dig into your palms. “You don’t get to ask me about this, Tony,” you shoot back. “You can yell at me all you want, but you don’t get to ask. I’m sorry, for stealing your car, I am, and I’m sorry if I worried you. But I won’t explain this. Not now.”

He sips the scotch. “I thought things were different between us, Y/N,” he says, and his voice reminds you of your father, the few times he’d give you the ‘I’m very disappointed in you’ tone. “I thought you didn’t like secrets.”

“I am a secret!” Now you’re the one yelling. “I’m one of the biggest secrets known to man right now! Except now, all the info S.H.I.E.L.D. had on me is plastered all over the internet. And it’s too much. It’s all too goddamned much.”

You push both hands through your hair, tugging at your roots. The anger had been building, the whole drive back from Washington. You were mad. Mad at Steve for taking so long to allow you to help. Mad at Tony for coddling you. Mad at HYDRA for torturing the only man you’d ever loved.

You were mad.

“Y/N,” Tony starts, but his mouth snaps shut when your head drops, a low sob falling from your lips.

“I can’t tell you, all right?” you say, barely lifting your head. “I can’t tell you, because if I start talking, I won’t stop, and then I’m gonna start crying, and if I start crying, I won’t stop. I can’t tell you, and I need that to be enough. For now.” You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face.

Tony is silent for a minute, and then he slides the glass of scotch across the counter to you. “I heard Steve gave you the green light.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “Welcome to the team.”

You toss back what’s left in the glass, make a face at the taste. “You’re not gonna make me wear some stupid outfit, are you?”

“Haven’t quite decided yet,” he says, lifting a shoulder. “Depends how dirty the inside of my car is.”

“I’ll clean it.”

“No, you won’t.”

You smirk. “No, I won’t.”

You slide the glass back across the counter, and Tony refills it. “So what happens next? You gonna stay here, help me with all those upgrades I mentioned?”

“Eventually,” you reply, nodding and taking a bite of one of the apple slices. “I’ve got a mission of my own, it would seem.”

“Oh, really?” Tony says, but throws his hands up when you shoot him a look. “So it’s all connected. Got it. Not asking.”

“Thank you,” you reply, biting another apple slice. “I’ll stay here, while I’m in the city. If you’ll have me.”

Tony scoffs. “I didn’t design your room for nothing, Y/N. It’s here when you need it. So am I.” He reaches over and steals one of your apple slices. He yelps when you smack his hand away. “Hey! That’s your you-worried-your-very-good-friend-Tony-and-you’re-very-sorry-about-it tax. Now go get some sleep; I could fly to Amsterdam for a week with the bags under your eyes.”

“Nice,” you retort, pursing your lips. “That’s really nice.”

“It’s really true,” Tony says simply, lifting a shoulder. He rounds the counter, puts a hand on your shoulder. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thank you,” you reply, and then he’s gone.

+

It takes a very long time for you to bring yourself to read the file. A very long time.

You don’t want to, but the curiosity get to you. You want to know, but you don’t. But, no matter what you choose, it still happened.

“We can’t know what could have been,” Steve had sad. “We just have to deal with what is.”

You quickly learn that it’s a very good thing Armin Zola is dead. And Alexander Pierce. And Brock Rumlow. You would have had a lengthy kill list, Game of Thrones style.

Tony doesn’t pry, but offers to digitize the files, adding a retinal lock so it’s literally for your eyes only. You take him up on his offer, but it makes you wary of the tablet. There’s too many secrets. So many secrets.

Steve does some digging, Nat helps when she can, Sam drives up from Washington every few weekends to compare notes. It’s easy enough to find more information, now that all of S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRAs intel is out there for public consumption. There are lists of safe houses, maps of underground pathways, locations of weapons caches the world over.

You take the photo of Bucky from the folder, the one of him in his army uniform, and keep it on your bedside table. You sleep a little better, but as time passes, as you study the files more and more, putting together the timeline, the nightmares come back.

The screaming. Always the screaming, but now there’s more. The files are detailed, and those details

Steve’s room is across the hall from yours, and there’s more than a few nights that you wake with a start, your throat raw, and he opens your door a second later, concern dripping from his features. It turns into a routine, after some time. You wake up, Steve walks in, and always without a word, he crosses to your bed, gathers you into his arms, and rubs circles into your back until you fall asleep again. Most nights, he stays, and you wake up sprawled on his chest, blankets tangled around your legs.

You try to thank him a few times, but he waves you off. “If it helps, I’m happy. It worries me though.”

“You don’t have to worry,” you tell him.

“Part of my job,” he says with a wink.

You busy yourself with Tony when you can. You help with a few upgrades for the team; namely electromagnets for Steve so he can summon the shield when it’s just out of reach, and a revamped version of Sam’s Falcon suit, despite his protests that he’s “notan Avenger, I’m just here to help find the creepy metal dude.”

“Sam, he’s been brainwashed.”

“He ripped the door off my car, Y/N. With his creepy metal arm.”

“Point taken.”

Most of the leads you unearth wind up cold. It chips away at you a little more every time, and a very rude voice in the back of your head points out that, Y/N, maybe he doesn’t want to be found. But you can’t bring yourself to drop it. And Steve isn’t ready to give up either.

However, both he and Tony get pulled in when they find a lead on Loki’s sceptre. The Tower is suddenly bustling with Avengers, but right when you’re getting ready to suit up, Sam calls with a lead in Vancouver. Tony doesn’t question you beyond asking where you’re going, hugs you goodbye, and tells you to enjoy Canada.

The lead ends up cold, just like the others. The safe house is empty, looks like it hasn’t been lived in for ages, not a thing out of place. No signs of life. It feels like a punch to the stomach. Sam is at least a little sympathetic, despite his obvious distrust of Bucky. “We’ll find him, Y/N. He’s just a few steps ahead of us; we’ll catch up.”

You just nod. Sam steps outside, leaving you alone in the safe house. You give the whole place another once over, desperate to find anything you might have missed the first time.

You do.

There’s a bookshelf in the house’s small bedroom, lined with some titles you recognize, others you don’t. An entire shelf is filled with titles that prick at your memory; Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights, Frankenstein, The Great Gatsby, Tender is the Night. All the shelves are packed to burst, clearly the result of bored agents cooped up in the safe house for long periods of time.

On the third shelf, just below your eye level, a book is missing. There’s a mark in the dust lining the shelves, showing exactly where it had been moved from.

Your brow furrows, and without another through, your slip your hand into the gap left by the missing book. Your fingers touch metal, and your hand closes around something flat, almost rectangular. The metal is cool against your palm. You pull your hand back, and a tiny shriek falls out of you when you realize what’s in your hand.

Dog tags. Bucky’s dog tags.

JAMES B BARNES

32557038 T42 -43B

MRS Y/N BARNES

160 STATE ST

NEW YORK NY

Your fingers trace over the letters again and again.

He was here.

He was leaving you clues. He had to be.

He wanted to be found.

+

He’d felt bad about swiping the tags from the museum. But technically, they were his, so was it still considered stealing?

The safe house in Vancouver had been a last ditch effort. Bucky knew he needed to get out of the country, and for the time being, Canada was the safest bet. Until he could get on a plane across the ocean. Or steal one. Whichever came first.

All his senses are on overdrive, and he hears you and Sam approach. You’re not exactly quiet, but he’s so nervous, he’s pretty sure he could hear your heartbeat if he tried.

He’s standing in the bedroom, ready to make his escape out the open window when he sees the book out of the corner of his eye. A memory flashes. It’s the same version, bound in blue canvas, the title printed in black, a mountain along the top of the spine, a weird shape in the middle.

The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Before he can stop himself – before he can stop him – Bucky pulls the book from the shelf, reaches into his pocket, and stuffs the tags in the space that remains. He slips the book into his go-bag, slings it over his shoulder, and disappears out the window, closing it behind him and heading for the tree line.

He doesn’t know why, but he waits. He watches. Watches you walk into the bedroom, watches your eyes scan the bookshelf, watches you reach into the empty space The Hobbit had left.

He watches you loop the chain over your head, press one of the tags to your lips, and then tuck them inside your shirt. You sink onto the bed then, your head in your hands, and for a minute, he’s worried that you’re crying, and something pangs in his chest. But when you take your hands away, there’s a grin on your face so broad and so happy that Bucky can’t help himself from grinning back.

+

A few days later and you’re back at the Tower, at Tony’s insistence. “You haven’t experienced a Stark party yet,” he tells you. “You’re gonna love it.”

You head up to the lab when you arrive, and find Tony and Bruce inspecting a long, brutal-looking golden sceptre, complete with a large silver blade and a blue stone at its centre. “The sceptre is alien,” Jarvis is telling Tony. “There are elements I can’t quantify.”

“So there are elements that you can.”

“The jewel appears to be a protective housing for something inside. Something powerful.”

Tony cocks his head to the side. “Like a reactor?”

“Like a computer,” Jarvis replies. “I believe I’m deciphering code.”

You cross the lab quickly, and Tony nearly leaps three feet in the air when he sees you. “Jesus, Y/N! When did you and the bird-boy get back?”

Your eyes are glued to the sceptre, and you can’t look away as you approach it, your eyes focusing on the stone. “Just now. What is this thing?”

“You tell me?” Tony asks, nudging you in the side and gesturing toward the thing. “Work your magic, kiddo.”

You do as he says, cocking your head to the side, trying to find the right angle.

It hits you like a truck.

Millions of connections, too many for you to make out. An endless net of positives and negatives, working together, firing simultaneously. It’s beautiful and complicated and terrifying. The stone is…thinking. About…chaos, destruction, devastation.

“Hello,” a deep, metallic voice says.

You reel back, tripping over Tony’s stool and sprawling on the floor. He’s at your side in an instant, dropping to his knees beside you, Bruce appearing on the other side of you. “What? What is it? What did you see?”

You can’t pull your eyes away from the sceptre. “Whatever you do,” you say to Tony, “leave that thing alone. Put it in the ocean. Let Thor take it to another planet. I don’t care what you do with it, but you leave it alone.”

Your tone is as stern as you can make it, and Tony just nods like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You got it, kid.”

The party is a good distraction, and you’re happy to get dressed up and mingle, have a few drinks and gear up for what comes next. Vancouver hadn’t offered any other hints as to where he might be going next, but the tags that sit against your chest are a reminder.

He remembered. You had been right, that day on the riverbank, after he’d dragged Steve from the water.

“You know me. I know you do.”

You didn’t know where to go next, but it was a start. It was something.

So you put on a party dress and go mingle. Nat keeps feeling you glasses of wine older than her, and Tony ropes you into tequila shots at some point, and Maria checks in, asking how you’ve been since she stopped being your handler. She works for Stark Industries now, she says, so hopefully she’ll be seeing a bit more of you.

“And if you need help with anything,” she tells you, and there’s a near conspiratorial glint in her eyes, “let me know.”

You thank her with a grin and clink your glass against hers. “Noted, Agent Hill.”

Her grin matches yours.

Tony introduces you to a few more friends – James Rhodes, who you know from the S.H.I.E.L.D. files and your social media education as War Machine, and Helen Cho, a world-renowned geneticist who half-jokingly asks if she can study your DNA.

You manage to slip away from the conversation when you spot Sam and Steve chatting on the upper level. You head on up, heels clicking against the steps, just catching the end of their conversation.

“You find a place in Brooklyn yet?” Sam asks Steve.

Steve barks a laugh. “I don’t think I can afford a place in Brooklyn.” When you appear at his side, he loops an arm around your neck. Your hand rests on the middle of his back.

“Well, home is home, you know?” Sam says.

You’re nearly bouncing in your shoes, looking between Sam and Steve. “Have you been drinking coffee all night, Y/N? You’re practically vibrating.”

Sam opens his mouth to say something, a dirty glint in his eye, and you reach out and smack his arm hard before he can get a word out. “Hey!”

“Don’t be gross,” you say. “Did you tell him yet?”

“No,” Sam admits, rubbing the spot where you’d smacked him. “Figured you would want to.”

“Tell me what?” Steve asks, looking down at you.

By way of answer, you pull at the chain around your neck, lifting the tags from where they sit beneath the collar of your dress. You cup them in your palm and hold them towards Steve. His eyes are wide as they trace over the letters, then flick back up to your face. “At the safe house?”

You nod. “Tucked between some books. It’s a start.”

Steve hugs you close, nose buried in your hair. “It is.”

The rest of the evening seems to pass you by; you’re too preoccupied with the tags settled against your heart to really notice anything else.

Except one thing.

You’re lounging around the bar with Nat. She’s shaking up some fancy thing she calls a kvasya and keeps feeding you glasses of wine. You catch up, swap stories, and after a while you find yourself talking about Bucky.

“I never pictured him with long hair,” you admit, leaning against the bar.

“And the metal arm didn’t throw you off?” she asks, sliding another drink towards you. “That’s really what’s getting to you, his hair?”

Bruce saunters up to the bar then, and something about the way he greets Nat has you making yourself scarce, joining Maria on one of the couches in the middle of the room. You sit, and watch.

It’s flirty, between Nat and Bruce; anyone with a pulse could see that. They’re like lovesick teenagers, blushing and fumbling over their words. It’s not hard to miss.

What you do notice, however, is Steve, leaning against a pillar, watching the whole scene unfold before him. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his jaw is clenched so hard you’re pretty sure you could cut glass with it.

He’s jealous.

+

You hang around for the rest of the night – only disappearing briefly to deposit a very drunk Sam in one of the guest bedrooms – and when Ultron shows up, you shoot daggers at Tony.

Peace in our time.

“I told you to leave it alone,” you growl.

“I know,” he whispers, pulling you down behind one of the now overturned couches. “You can yell at me some more later, okay?”

You want to punch him, but before you get the chance, there’s a metal hand on the back of your neck, lifting you into the air. You let out a scream as your senses kick into overdrive, but it’s the same as what happened in the lab. Chaos, destruction, devastation. You clutch the sides of your head, trying to push the images out, your legs kicking wildly in the air.

You hear the familiar whistle of Steve’s shield flying through the air, metal connecting with metal. There’s a crackle of electricity, and your body drops into waiting arms. Steve. You’re still conscious, but you can’t open your eyes.

“Barton!” Steve shouts, and you’re being shuffled into someone else’s arms. Clint. “Get her out of here. The residence. Don’t go anywhere near the lab.”

You cling to Clint as he carries you through the now ruined level, heading for the stairs. He makes it up a few flights with you in his arms, but you start to feel stronger the further away you are from wherever…it is. “You can put me down now,” you tell him. He does as you say, carefully, and shoots an arm around your waist when your knees nearly buckle, pulling your arm around his shoulders.

“Easy.”

You make small talk as best as you can as he leads you up the stairs.

“So, how long have you all had to deal with the Steve-Nat-Bruce love triangle?”

Clint just blinks. “What?”

You stifle a giggle. “Never mind.”

Your head pounds with every step, and you nearly cry with relief when you reach your bedroom. Clint hangs around for a minute, gets you a glass of water, and then disappears out the door. You send a message to Steve, tell him you’re okay, and collapse into a dreamless sleep.

You wake sometime later, restless as anything. The Tower is quiet, most of the wreckage cleaned up and security measures doubled while you all get some rest. Your head is still throbbing slightly, but it’s nothing a snack can’t fix, and you pad you way into the residence kitchen, tablet in hand. Maybe some late night reading will help you sleep. Or it’ll make it worse. It’s a toss up, really.

Tony finds you a some time later, head in your hands, neck bent over the tablet. The moment you hear him enter, you click away from the folder you’d been studying – it was one of the newer files you’d acquired, and the details you’re reading feel like ice down your spine – and swipe your hand under your eyes.

“How you feeling, kid?” he asks, walking past you towards the fridge, pulling out one of those mini cartons of orange juice. He tosses one your way, and you catch it easily.

“You realize I’ve got nearly a century on you, Tony. Shouldn’t I be the one calling you kid?”

He just laughs, folding his carton open and taking a sip. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I really need to get in the habit of listening to you, don’t I?” You open your mouth to say something, but he holds up a hand. “We’re handling it, okay? I promise. And after your little…episode downstairs, Steve and I agreed on one thing, and you’re sitting this one out.”

For once, you don’t argue. You’re more than happy to stay away from…that.

Tony juts his chin towards the tablet’s now dark surface. “Care to share what you’re studying so intently at four in the morning?”

You shake your head, brushing your fingers over the glass screen. “You don’t get to ask.”

“But do I get to guess?”

You sigh. “It’s nothing, Tony. Just something I offered to help Steve with.”

“The elusive missing metal man that tossed him into the harbour,” Tony says instantly, and you’re a mix of anger and relief. You didn’t like keeping things from Tony, but if he figured it out, there wasn’t much you could do.

“He pulled him out of the harbour too, just for the record.” You pause, sip your juice. “How do you know about Bucky?”

Tony scoffs, steps towards you and perches on the stool beside the one you’re occupying. “Rogers is a lot of things, but tech savvy s not one of them. Sure, I might have been snooping, but it’s hardly a security breach when you made the security.”

“I’m telling him you said that.”

“That I admitted to snooping?”

You shake your head. “No, that you said he’s not tech savvy. You know Sam bought him an Apple Watch so they could start timing their runs together? Steve can’t shut up about it.” You let out a little laugh, the memory surfacing. On the drive back to New York, after the Triskelion, Steve had excitedly shown you the watch, flipping through all the different faces. He was especially fond of the Toy Story options – the movie had been a favourite for both of you when you’d been in recovery – and Sam had helped him make a custom one that had his shield as the clock face.

“Tell me something, Y/N,” Tony says suddenly, pulling you our of your reverie. “You and Rogers?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and you bark a laugh. “Couples you get frozen in ice for seventy years together, stay together? No?”

You keep laughing, shaking your head. “No, Tony. Steve is my friend, nothing more. My best friend most likely.”

“Ouch,” he says, feigning hurt. “But really, no special men in your life?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Tony Stark, you better not be flirting with me.”

“I would never. You knew my father, therefore you know too much. I was just curious, if Rogers had stolen your heart. The way you two interact, I just figured…” He trails off, lifting a shoulder.

“I was married, actually,” you say after a moment, fingers toying with the edge of your juice carton. “Still am, I guess. Technically. Since we’re both still alive.” You look down at the dark tablet, sip your orange juice.

Tony just stares at you, mouth gaped like a fish. “Wait a second. You and the metal man?”

“He was just Bucky back then. No metal arm, none of it. He was just him, an he was the love of my life.” You recount a little of the story; the bookstore, the wedding, the train. Tony listens intently, sipping his juice and asking the occasional question.

“But he knows, that you’re alive. In this century.”

You nod. “I think so. There was this moment, in D.C., when he looked at me. I saw it in his eyes. He knew me. For a second, and then he was shooting at me. But when I dropped the shield, he took off.”

There are tears in your eyes, and you don’t know if they’re happy or sad. You feel way too much, all at once. You don’t realize that they’re falling down your cheeks until Tony puts an arm around your shoulder, pulls you into his chest. The tears quickly turn into sobs you’ve been holding back for a while now, and your throat burns with them. Tony just runs his hand over your head over and over, shushing you gently until the tears subside.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble out. “I owe you a new shirt.”

He waves you off. “What are dry cleaners for?” He finishes his juice, tosses the empty carton. “I should head to bed. You gonna be okay, kid?”

You nod. “I’ll live.”

“Atta girl,” he whispers, and drops a kiss to the crown of your head before sauntering towards the door. “Oh, and Y/N?”

You turn in your seat to meet his eyes, a twinkle in them that reminds you of Howard. “Yeah?”

“For what it’s worth, I think my old man would be proud of you, choosing to fight for what you love. I know I am.”

You smile. “Aren’t I supposed to be mad at you?”

He gives you one last grin, and then he’s gone, leaving you in the silent kitchen, alone with your thoughts one more.

Not sure what else to do, you click on the tablet and sift through the files once more, eyes nearly glazing over as you read the same information over again. His capture in Azzano, Zola’s torture at the facility in Austria, the fall from the train, the missions and cry.

When you read the end of the report on the Triskelion, however, something clicks.

The light blue cover of a book, steel blue eyes, words printed beneath mountains.

The Hobbit.

Or, as you’d recently discovered it was also known as, There and Back Again.

There, and back again.

There,

and

back

again.

Austria. Where it had all started. Where he’d first been experimented on.

You pull your phone out of your pocket immediately, pulling up Sam’s contact and typing out a message. He won’t answer, still sleeping off the Asgardian whiskey Thor had gotten him to try, but you have to tell him.

When was the last time you were in Europe?

—————

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[hrina]

1923, Pt. II - The Week

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 8.4k REQUESTED: perhaps? idek anymore

hey yall, here’s PART 2 of the historical/groundskeeper!AU :) i really hope u guys like it, i spent the past two weeks trying to make it the best that i could. anywayyyy im sure everyone knows the drill by now: support content creators by reblogging their work and/or offering feedback! happy reading 💚💚💚

warning: parts of this fic will contain mature language and nsfw content. if it makes you uncomfortable, you absolutely do not have to read! take care of urselves <3

PART I: The Day

~*~

    July 7th, 1923

It’s hot.

You set your glass of water back onto the little table to your left. Excess condensation coats your fingertips; you wipe them against your forehead, hoping that it will be enough to cool you down. No such luck—the droplets provide a momentarily chill before sinking into your skin, leaving you feeling just as scorched as before.

You recline against the cushy yellow lounger, closing your eyes and tilting your face up to the sky. The sun beats down against your cheeks. The thin, cottony material of your dress is pasted to your thighs; you flex your legs slightly, hoping that the fabric will unstick.

In the distance, Apollo and Artemis—no longer confined to their pens—roam around the small, girded pasture adjacent to the stables. The fountain in the middle of the back lawn is about one hundred feet away. Skinny streams of water shoot out from the stone hands of a carved angel, spilling picturesquely into the upwelling below.

You crack one eye open slowly, letting your focus drift over to where Harry is crouched on the cobbled staircase of the porch. Sweat glistens on the nape of his neck as he furiously scrubs the steps clean.

Your thoughts retreat to the night before, when he’d kissed the back of your hand whilst standing in that very same spot. As though triggered by the memory, your knuckles begin to tingle.

Harry sits back on his haunches and drags his forearm across his face, wiping away the excess perspiration on his skin. His white shirt is soaked through with moisture. When he lifts his attention from the ground, your gazes lock for a brief moment. Immediately, your open eye snaps shut.

And you can’t be entirely sure, but you think that he may have smiled.

You lay in silence for another five minutes or so, indulging in the occasional sip of water as the heat of the summer envelopes your body. You only sit up when someone clears their throat from behind you, pulling you from your tranquil daze.

“Good afternoon,” Martin says. He’s standing a bit too close for comfort, casting a looming shadow over your torso.

“Hello,” you reply. You try to mask the disappointment that threatens to seep into your tone. A small part of you—a tiny, microscopic part—had been hoping that he was someone else.

“Thought you could use something to drink,” he says, plopping onto the recliner to your right. Your attention falls lower—two glasses are nestled comfortably in his hands. The caramel-coloured liquid inside each cup glints alluringly, sloshing over a trio of ice cubes that have already begun to melt.

“Is that…scotch?” you say, narrowing your eyes slightly.

“Yes,” he says. He extends an arm, offering you one of the glasses. “Fancy a taste?”

“I’ve had it before,” you say smoothly, shaking your head. “Truthfully, it’s not my favourite. Besides—” You gesture to the little table on your left. There’s still a bit of water residing in your cup. “—I already have a drink.”

Martin’s face falls.

“Thank you, though,” you add, not wanting to sound rude. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

That seems to bolster him a bit, you think, because his shoulders straighten as he shoots you a satisfied smile.

You clear your throat, gazing pointedly up at the sky. “Where’s Andrew?”

“Hmm? Oh.” Martin taps one foot against the floor. He’s wearing a pair of shiny black loafers—they’re new, you guess, and extremely expensive. “He’s in the middle of a call. Private business pertaining to Markham Motors, I believe. It doesn’t concern me—not yet, anyway.”

“Not yet,” you echo.

He chuckles, nodding proudly. “Your brother is remarkably ambitious. Once our two companies merge, I reckon that we’ll be unstoppable.”

“How exciting,” you murmur, reaching over for your water. You raise the cup to your mouth, expelling a soft sigh. “You must be thrilled, I’d imagine.”

“All in a day’s work,” he grunts, setting one glass of scotch down onto the ground. He lifts the other to his lips, taking a delicate sip.

You sit there awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. Martin’s eyes roam the wide expanse of your backyard, jumping from the stables to the fountain and back again. He pauses, then, humming pensively when he spots Harry polishing the stairs less than fifteen feet away.

“It’s a bit…unconventional to be dining with the help, is it not?” he asks, cocking one eyebrow nonchalantly.

You stiffen and glance over your shoulder—Harry is on all fours, scowling as he scrubs a particularly stubborn stain from the bottom step. His chestnut hair tumbles onto his forehead, twisted into pretty ringlets. A spark of heat blazes up your spine.

You turn your attention back to Martin, only to find that he’s also watching the other man work. It’s different, however—his look is judgmental, austere. His thin upper lip curls in disdain and his eyebrows cinch together, radiating condescension.  

“We are…” You choose your words carefully. “…a rather unconventional family. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose so,” he acquiesces, tilting his head to the side. “But does it not distress you, somewhat? Inviting them into your home, making yourself and your possessions vulnerable?”

Something gross festers in the pit of your stomach. You bite back the sound of disgust that threatens to spill from your mouth.

“No,” you state curtly. “Not at all.”

Silence falls over the two of you, thick and poignant and tremendously uncomfortable. After a long, tense moment, you sit up, dusting off the skirt of your dress and releasing a faint groan. “I think I’ll be heading in, now.”

“As will I,” Martin replies, jumping to pursue you.

You stand, clutching your glass of water in one hand. He quickly reaches out with extended fingers, trying to take it from you. Though chivalrous, the action is weak, and you both know it.

“Here, let me—”

“No, it’s quite alright—,” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I insist—”

“Mister Russell, really, it’s fine—”

The cup, slick with condensation, slips from your grasp and shatters loudly against the floor. You gasp when a jagged shard slices against your ankle. Pain flares up your shin; abruptly, you fall back onto the lounger. You angle your leg to the side, surveying the damage with wide eyes. The cut is about an inch long; blood drips from the injury, seeping down toward the sole of your bare foot. Bile gathers on your tongue.

“Good God!” Martin exclaims unhelpfully. “You’re bleeding!”

“I can see that,” you snap, bending down and pressing your fingertips against the laceration.

Heavy footsteps approach. When you cast a glance over your shoulder, you find Harry stalking toward you, his eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment.

“What happened?” he asks, but when you hold up one hand, he freezes in his tracks.

“Be careful!” you warn, your voice strained. “There’s glass everywhere.”

“What happened?” he repeats. His gaze lands on Martin, and his nostrils flare unnervingly. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” the other man protests, retreating a few steps away. “It just fell!”

“Go back inside,” Harry commands. “Check all the lavatories—there may be spare bandages in one of the cupboards.”

Martin frowns—you get the feeling that he’s not exactly used to being ordered around. “Now, you listen here—”

“Mister Russell!” you interrupt shrilly, fixing him with a stern glare. “Do as he says. Please.”

Martin closes his mouth and purses his lips, nodding tersely. He nearly trips over himself as he stumbles back into the house.

“He’s useless,” you mutter, bloody fingers slipping against your skin.

Harry doesn’t reply; instead, he situates himself on the opposite edge of the recliner, beckoning you closer with a quick flick of his hand.

“Face this way,” he instructs. “There’s no glass on this side.”

You obey him wordlessly. He gets you settled back into the chair, guiding your right leg over his thigh so that your foot lays comfortably in his lap. With no hesitation whatsoever, he grasps the white fabric covering the jut of his shoulder and gives a mighty tug. The sleeve rips cleanly at the seam. Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head.

“We’ll use this,” Harry says, pulling the material down to his wrist. “Just until he returns with proper bindings.”

“Alright,” you whisper. It takes every ounce of willpower in your body to avoid staring at his naked arm—golden, sweat-slicked skin stretched over smooth, corded muscle. A frighteningly large part of you wants to lean forward and sink your teeth into his bicep. You swiftly curb the urge, swallowing heavily and trying to focus your attention on something—anything­­—else.

“How did this happen?” Harry asks.

He balls the fabric up and dabs cautiously at the blood dripping from your wound.

“He was—well, I don’t even know, really,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “He was trying to be gallant, I suppose.”

“‘Gallant’?” he parrots, gazing down at your leg. “He fancies you, then?”

“Yes.” You pause, rethinking your answer. “No.” You sigh. “Perhaps; I’m not sure.”

He smirks. Despite the pain pulsating up your leg, you wiggle your toes and nudge him with your knee.

“What’s so amusing?” you ask, puzzled.

He simply chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s just that…you’re a bit oblivious, that’s all.”

And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, you balk and say, “I beg your pardon?”

Harry laughs. Gingerly, he wraps his torn sleeve around your ankle, applying a gentle pressure to your skin. You wince, curling your fingers into fists. His hands—though rough and calloused—are surprisingly tender with their movements. He’s slow and practiced, treating you as though you’re made of porcelain. Your heartbeat quickens; you hope that he can’t hear the way it thunders beneath your ribs.

“You’re rather clueless when it comes to gauging a man’s affections for you,” he explains. He makes it sound as though it’s a phenomenon of which you should already be aware.

You narrow your eyes and purse your lips.

“Tread carefully,” you tell him, though you can’t hide the sardonic undertone in your voice. “You’re wading through dangerous waters, here.”

“What I mean to say is—” Harry clears his throat, shrugging coolly. “—since yesterday’s arrival, that fool’s chattering hasn’t ceased. Building oneself up with words…that’s the sign of a boy aiming to impress a girl.”

“You don’t sound too keen on that method,” you note.

He rakes his fingers through his hair. “Excellent observation. I am not.”

“And why is that?” you ask, cocking one eyebrow challengingly. “How exactly would you attempt to make your affections known?”

Harry places one of his palms on the skin just below your knee. You jump at the contact, shocked by his brazen move. Having his hands on your ankle is one thing—but your knee? It’s risky, bold, nearly scandalous…and with the way he’s looking at you, it’s clear that he knows it, too.

“Building oneself up with words is a boy’s game,” he tells you. “But building oneself up with actions…that’s the sign of a man aiming to impress a woman. It may be a bit unconventional, but—” He pins you with a deliberate stare. “I work for a rather unconventional family. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You say nothing. Harry’s green eyes pierce your face, peeling you open layer by layer. You’ve stopped breathing, your chest completely still. Goosebumps erupt across your arms. Instinctively, your concentration falls to his lips: twin pink petals, sinful and alluring and so incredibly—

“I’ve got the bandages!”

And just like that, the spell is broken. You drag your gaze away from the man in front of you, turning to the side and watching as Martin jogs back over with a thick spool of gauze clutched tightly to his chest.

“Here,” he pants. He passes the roll to Harry, who clears his throat loudly and begins to unwind the bindings with swift, proficient fingers.

Martin then fixes his attention on you, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

“Are you alright?” he asks, shooting you an expectant look.

“Fine,” you croak out, though the blood roaring in your ears sincerely begs to differ.

You blink yourself out of your stupor, running your tongue over the roof of your mouth and exhaling shakily. Harry has turned back to your ankle, replacing the makeshift bandages with proper ones. You glance up at Martin and nod your head, praying that he can’t see the flustered agitation brewing in your eyes.

“Yes, Mister Russell, I’m fine. Thank you.”

      July 9th, 1923

The library is your favourite room in the house.

It’s quiet, peaceful, and is accompanied only by the rarest of disturbances. Lydia’s never really enjoyed reading—she can’t sit still long enough to do so. Andrew hasn’t stepped past the threshold in years—he’s been too busy running Markham Motors. So, that just leaves you, along with the freedom to choose from the hundreds of books lining the shelves. You’ve dabbled in fiction and non-fiction alike, soaking up the words from the page just as the ground soaks up rain from a storm.

The library has become your safe haven. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You trod over to your favourite spot to read: a small alcove in the wall, decked out with fluffy cushions and tucked right up against a wide window. It gives you a perfect view of the driveway and the front lawn down below. You’ve spent hours in this little nook, absorbed in novels and poems and biographies. You’ve passed entire nights curled up next to the windowpane, having dozed off in the middle of a story. It’s become a tradition of sorts, despite the dull ache in your neck that always ensues when you stir the next morning.

The book in your hands is heavy as you sink into the mess of pillows. Bright, natural light streams in from the window to your left. You release a soft sigh as your fingers flip to where you’d last left off during your previous visit.

She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me—

You scoff and roll your eyes. You’ve read this story a dozen times; you already know how it ends.

For the next twenty minutes, nothing matters save for the adventures of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. You allow yourself to get lost in the world of Pride and Prejudice, eyes hungrily raking over every printed detail. You’re only pulled out of your reverie when a shrill, jubilant cry pierces through the silence.

Instinctively, your head snaps toward the direction of the noise. Through the spotless windowpane, you spy Harry and Lydia standing on the lawn. Harry is holding a brown hose, angling it downward and watering the grass beneath his feet. Your sister is next to him, babbling and gesturing animatedly with her hands. You smile at the sight.

You slip your thumb between the pages of the book to mark your place. The novel is forgotten as you study the scene playing out below.

Harry is wearing an ashen blue button-up and a pair of black trousers. A thin white undershirt peeks out from beneath his collar. He smirks at something that Lydia says, ducking his head and trying to conceal the fond expression on his face. She throws her hands up in the air and twirls around—when she staggers slightly, Harry holds out his arm. Her fingers dig into his elbow to regain balance, and the two of them dissolve into giggles. Warmth unfurls in your chest.

Harry tilts his head back, surveying the cloudless sky with squinted eyes and a wrinkled nose. His attention turns to the house, then, sweeping absentmindedly over the fair bricks and stone accents.

Suddenly, his gaze darts forward. You freeze when his green irises lock squarely on you.

Hot humiliation creeps up your neck, because of course. Staring at him and remaining undetected is a luxury that few can afford.

Your lips part with a soft gasp, and your shoulders stiffen. The corners of Harry’s mouth curl up slightly—so faint, you think it may just be a figment of your imagination. The gilded copy of Pride and Prejudice rests in your lap, abandoned. It mocks you and your preoccupation—your fascination—with the man on the ground.

Harry shoots you a small, mysterious smile, and lifts his chin. You sit up straight, processing his request.

“I shouldn’t—,” you start to say before remembering that he can’t actually hear you. You clench your jaw and shake your head, hoping that he’ll be able to register the movement through the glass.

But his teasing expression only deepens as he beckons you again. A ragged exhale falls from your lips, and a tepid swell of adrenaline floods your veins. You snap your book shut, tucking it against your chest and pushing yourself away from the window. You swear that your heart skips a beat when your feet hit the floor.

Don’t rush, don’t rush, don’t rush.

It’s hard to maintain a measured pace, especially when such a big part of you just wants to take off and sprint down the spiral staircase. You force yourself to dawdle, to smooth your fingers over the bannister and descend slowly. Your palms are clammy as you make your way across the foyer, eyes glued to the large double doors on the opposite wall.

And then you’re outside, the sun beating down against your face and the breeze blowing gently through your hair. You saunter toward the edge of the large portico, leaning against the stone railing with your novel still clutched tightly to your sternum.

“Dee!”

Lydia whips around, taken aback by the call of her name. Upon recognising you, her features morph into a mask of quizzical mockery.

“Where have you been?” she asks, jogging over.

“I was reading,” you say, shrugging indifferently. After a short moment, you add, “Beth’s looking for you.”

“Me? What for?”

In the periphery of your vision, you spy Harry approaching. Water leaks from the nozzle of the hose; he gathers a few droplets onto his knuckles before smearing them across his sweaty forehead. You bite your tongue to suppress a snort.

“Dinner, I believe,” you lie, turning back to your sister. “It’s your turn to choose, is it not?”

Lydia’s eyes light up. “You’re right! It’s Monday, isn’t it?”

Her feet smack loudly against the cobbled steps as she races toward the door. Before disappearing inside, however, she skids to a stop, spinning around and raising one arm high above her head. “Goodbye, Harry!”

Harry smiles, lifting two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute. “Goodbye, little bug.”

A moment later, she’s gone.

And a moment after that, you find yourself sincerely regretting your decision to send her away. Harry observes you with raised brows and a knowing smirk on his face. You gnaw anxiously on your bottom lip, avoiding his eyes. A long beat of silence ensues.

“Hello,” he finally says.

You exhale quietly, relieved. “Hello.”

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you agree.

You lean against the stone bannister, peering down at him. The breeze picks up, gusting through your thin skirt and blouse. A small part of you notes the theatrical romanticism of it all: his being on the ground, the butterflies flapping around in your stomach—

“Do you always spend the majority of a nice day locked away in the library?” Harry asks. His pretty irises twinkle alluringly when your gazes meet.

“I—no,” you stammer. “I was just…reading.”

“As one does in a room full of books, I’d expect.”

Embarrassment blooms in your chest.

“Yes,” you say softly. “Precisely.”

He grins.

“How is your ankle?” he asks, motioning toward the bottom of your leg.

“Oh.” You look down, flexing your foot. “It’s healing. I should be fully rehabilitated in a few days.”

Harry chuckles, nodding. You purse your lips and try for a smile, but you’re afraid that it resembles more of a grimace.

“What’ve you got, there?” He lifts his chin, gesturing to the novel tucked between your forearm and your chest. You’re grasping it so tightly that you’re surprised the skin of your knuckles hasn’t split.

You clear your throat, revealing the embroidered inscription on the front cover. “Er—Pride and Prejudice. It’s my favourite.”

Harry hums. “Mine, too.”

And though it is extremely impolite, you can’t stop the look of shock that makes its way onto your face.

“You’ve read it?”

He chuckles sheepishly, dropping his chin. “You have bewitched me, body and soul,” he suddenly says, lifting his eyes from the ground and fixing his unwavering gaze on you, “and I love, I love, I love you. I never wish to be parted from you—”

“—from this day on,” you finish, breathless.

He smiles. Zaps of electricity surge down your spine. The two of you are silent, tripping over unspoken murmurs of indulgence. You scrape your tongue over your teeth, clueless.

Harry is the first one to break.

“I should get back to work,” he announces gently. He gestures to the hose hanging limply from his hand and gives a perfunctory shrug.

“Of course.” You nod, inhaling deeply. “I should get back to…”

He smirks when you trail off. “Reading?” he supplies.

“Yes,” you blurt. “Yes. Exactly.” You hesitate, drumming your fingers against the auburn cover of your book. “Good day, Harry.”

“Good day, miss!” he calls as you begin to walk away. You pause and cast a glance over your shoulder, an admonishment dancing on the tip of your tongue.

For the hundredth time, Harry, you mustn’t feel obligated to address me in such a formal—

But then you register the mischief on his face, and the realisation sinks in.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” you ask.

Crinkles dig into the corners of his eyes.

“I’m afraid that I don’t understand,” he says, tilting his head to the side in faux-confusion. You wipe a clammy palm against the waistband of your skirt and bite back a small smile. Harry’s playful expression deepens, poking a cavernous dimple into his left cheek.

“Have a little compassion on my nerves,” you say, pulling another quote from the novel clasped against your body. “You tear them to pieces.”

His lips twitch, impressed and amused.

“What a shame,” he counters, snickering quietly, “for I dearly love to laugh.”

         July 13th, 1923

The past hour of your life has been spent rolling around in bed and resenting your glaring inability to fall asleep. You’re not really sure why you’re still awake after midnight, but you’ve long since given up on trying to solve the mystery that is your body’s biological clock. Smooth satin sheets tickle your bare legs. You groan into your pillow and push yourself up from the mattress, tossing your feet over the edge and shivering softly when they land on the cold hardwood floor.

You wrap yourself up in a thin silk robe; the hem falls only an inch or two above your knees. The rest of the house is silent as you quietly exit your room and pad across the hall. You tiptoe down the spiral staircase; a brief moment later (during which you slip on some comfortable footwear), you’re stepping out into the backyard, greeted by gentle zephyrs and temperate summer air.

As you hop down the porch steps and begin the familiar trek toward the stables, you note the blanket of stars dotting the clear night sky. They twinkle happily, winking at you as though they know something that you don’t.

You shake your head at the thought. They’re stars. Big, flaming balls of gas floating in space, stationed millions of miles away. They know nothing.

Your ears perk up as you approach your destination, struck by the low stream of words carried by the breeze.

“…lilies, and dahlias, too. They tend to bloom during the summer…”

You freeze, feet stalling in the dirt. Leaning in closer, you catch deep murmurs of a faceless voice. The stranger continues to list off different types of flowers; when a soft chuckle laces through the air, your eyes widen in disbelief.

Is that…?

Sure enough, when you creep into the stables, you find Harry standing in front of Artemis’ pen, running his fingers through her shiny mane. His back is to you, shoulder blades flexing beneath the dark button-up adorning his torso. The sleeves reach his biceps, stretching slightly whenever he lifts his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he’s saying as you inch closer, hopelessly engrossed in the pseudo-conversation. “Sugar cubes are a bit of a rarity in my home. I haven’t any others.”

A twig snaps beneath your foot. You wince.

Harry whips around, startled. Upon recognising you, he blows out a heavy breath. Tension leaks from his body, and twin pink spots form on his cheeks. You stare at the blush colouring his face, mesmerized—you’ve never seen him look so dumbfounded.

“Er—,” you say. You raise your hand in an awkward, half-hearted wave. “Hello.”

“Hello,” he replies.

A beat of silence ensues.

“What are you…?” you trail off, trying to keep your voice level. “Were you just—?”

“Yes,” he says quickly. A sheepish chuckle tumbles off his tongue. “I....I understand it, now. Talking to one’s horse is rather soothing.”

“She’s not yours, though.” Your response is blunt, unfeeling.

Harry’s nostrils flare, and his feet scuff against the ground. Now that he’s facing you, you’re able to get a better look at him. A white undershirt peeks out from beneath his button-up, leaving his collarbones exposed. A gold chain glints around his neck, illuminated under the dim light. He’s wearing brown trousers and those same black boots, but you think that he may have polished them, finally, because they’re considerably tidier than before.

“She’s not,” Harry agrees, swallowing nervously. “My sincerest apologies. I can see that I’ve crossed a line—”

You can’t stifle the giggle that bubbles up in your throat. Harry hesitates, fixing you with a bewildered expression. At last, you shoot him a small smile, shaking your head and waving away his regrets.

“I’m only teasing,” you say, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Breathe, Harry.”

He exhales raggedly, ruffling the curls at the back of his head. “Jesus. You frightened me.”

“Good. Perhaps you’ve finally learned your lesson, then.”

“My lesson?” he echoes, cocking his head to the side. “And what exactly would that be?”

“To avoid sneaking up on others at night,” you say. “Especially if they’re in the midst of conversing with their horse. It’s a very private exchange, you know—endless confessions have been made under this roof.”

Harry laughs.

“I think I’ve supplied my fair share of confessions, tonight,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly. “I can leave you to do the same.”

“No,” you blurt out. “Wait.”

He pauses, shocked by your immediate refutation. You purse your lips as hot shame unfurls in your chest.

“I just meant,” you start, hastening to make amends, “you can stay, if you’d like. Besides—” You shrug. “It’s far more pleasant talking to someone who can actually talk back.”

~*~

“Harry. No.”

“Yes.”

“No. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. And I’ll be right next to you. I won’t leave your side.”

You gnaw apprehensively on your bottom lip as he frees Artemis from her pen. She trots out and whinnies softly, tossing her head to the side. He shushes her, dragging a comforting palm over her back. You step closer, mirroring his movements and glaring at him with terse, squinted eyes.

“We’ll go slowly,” he says, fixing you with an earnest look. “A few steps at a time. That doesn’t sound too daunting, does it?”

After a long, overwrought moment, you surrender.

“Very well,” you say. You point at him accusatorily, extending your arm over Artemis’ body. “But as soon as I want to stop, we stop. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Harry leans forward, bumping the pad of your finger with the tip of his nose. The contact makes you gasp. He pauses as well, having realised the implications of the thoughtless action. You swallow heavily; he clears his throat and averts his gaze.

“I’ll get the saddle,” he says.

His heel scrapes loudly against the dry dirt when he turns; you watch as he marches toward the pair of brown saddles hanging on the wooden wall. With a mighty groan, he heaves one from its rusted, metal hook, gathering the leather in his arms before making his way back over to you.

“Thank you,” you murmur shyly.

“You’re very welcome.”

You migrate to the side, petting Artemis’ mane as Harry slips the saddle onto her back. She huffs; you coo at her, holding her face in your hands to keep her calm. Harry spends the next several seconds strapping everything in place. After he’s finished, he gives a gentle tug, ensuring that you won’t slide and fall to the ground once you’re ready to mount.

“All set,” he says, squaring his shoulders.

You glance over at him with wide, frightened eyes. When he meets your gaze, his stoic expression melts into a pool of concern.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says, stepping closer to you.

“I—” Your throat burns. “I haven’t ridden in three years, Harry.”

“I know,” he says solemnly. He offers you his left hand. “Do you trust me?”

Your response is immediate. “I do.”

“Good.” The corners of his lips curl upward. His tone is unreservedly honest when he speaks again. “I won’t let anything happen to you, miss; I swear it.”

You slide your palm against his. A sharp tingle races up your arm, sending your heartbeat into a frenzy. You fight to keep your breathing even as Harry pulls you closer, positioning you in front of him and placing his fingers on your waist.

“Ready?” he murmurs. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear.

You nod.

He grunts as he lifts you. You kick out one leg, slinging it over Artemis’ back and pulling yourself up. Once you’ve settled into a comfortable position, you peer down at him, shoulders taut and ankles locked.

“Breathe,” Harry reminds you. He leads by example, inhaling deeply; you imitate him, trying to ignore the thin sheen of sweat gathered at the nape of your neck.

“What do I do, now?” you ask after a thin stretch of silence.

He chuckles good-naturedly, cocking one eyebrow. “You’ve forgotten?”

“No,” you say indignantly, frowning. “I just—”

You break off when he takes your hands and guides them forward. Your fingers wrap around the reins dangling from Artemis’ neck. You fist the leather firmly, swallowing down the hard lump in your throat. Harry’s nostrils flare as he retracts his arms. You’re fascinated by the way his tongue darts out of his mouth, swiping over his sunburnt lips.

“A few steps at a time,” he says, repeating his former words.

You nod, blowing out a shaky exhale. Gently, you dig your heels into Artemis’ belly and click your teeth. She snorts and takes a step forward; the air is swiftly knocked from your lungs.

“I’m right here,” Harry pipes up. He lays one palm against the back of the saddle, keeping pace. “I won’t let you fall.”

Gradually, you make it out of the stables. The distance can’t be more than fifteen or twenty feet, but it’s a start. You tug softly on the reins, and Artemis stops abruptly. The sudden pause has you lurching forward in your seat. You squeak; quicker than a lightning strike, Harry is there. His hand settles on the small of your back, keeping you steady.

You look down at him, and your gazes lock. Jade eyes gleam beneath the lustrous night sky. His attention falls lower, and only then do you realise that the hem of your robe has ridden up your leg. Most of your thigh is exposed—smooth skin on total display, mere inches from his face. You release an inaudible gasp, shifting your hips to the side so that the silk slips back down.

A muscle in Harry’s jaw twitches enticingly. He removes his touch from your back and turns away.

“Beautiful evening,” he says stiffly, peering up at the stars. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” you whisper. You clear your throat. “I’d like to dismount, now. Would you mind?”

He shakes his head and hums. “Not at all. Hold onto me.”

You place your hands on his shoulders, and he curls his fingertips into your waist. Wordlessly, he lifts you from Artemis’ back. You yelp when your ankle snags on one of the saddle’s leather straps. He stumbles backward, wrapping his arms tightly around your midsection and grunting in surprise. When you eventually regain your footing, your eyes widen at the compromising nature of your position.

Harry is clutching you against his torso, his face buried in your neck. Warm puffs of air leave his lips and coat the column of your throat; the sensation sends shivers down your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades, chest heaving with difficult, onerous breaths.

It’s a stance that should only be shared between lovers, you think. Between a husband and his wife.

Harry is not your husband.

And you are not his wife.

The two of you break apart almost immediately, choking on hasty, half-formed sentences.

“My apologies, miss—”

“No, you needn’t—I should have been more cautious—”

“It’s late; you must be spent—”

“I’m not ready to leave.”

Harry freezes, his jaw agape. Several seconds elapse before he can find it in himself to muster a reply.

“I beg your pardon?” He’s breathless, swept away by your confession.

You shift awkwardly.

“I’m not ready to leave,” you repeat. You clasp your hands behind your back and fix him with an even stare. You hope that he can’t hear the slight quiver at the base of your declaration. “I—I wish to spend more time with you.”

He blinks. “With me?”

You nod. “With you.”

“What…?” He hesitates. “What would you like to do?”

You shrug. “Anything.”

Harry puckers his lips, lost in thought. After a prolonged moment of deliberation, his features light up. “I know a place.”

“‘A place’?” you parrot, brows knitting together.

“A place,” he confirms. “You trust me, do you not?”

“You already know the answer to that question,” you say, scoffing quietly. “I believe I’ve made myself abundantly clear.”

He chuckles. You tug on the sleeves of your robe and grate your slippers into the dirt. Harry watches you with careful eyes.

“Do it now, then,” he says, nodding encouragingly. He holds out his hand once more, beckoning you closer. “Trust me, now.”

You chew on your bottom lip, gracing him with a curt bob of your head. Artemis huffs as you wrap her reins around your wrist and slide your fingers against Harry’s palm. He pats your knuckles gently, guiding them to the crook of his elbow.

“Shall we?” he asks. It’s impossible to read the emotion in his voice.

Your response of endorsement is meek. Gone is the confident woman from a minute ago: the one who stated what she wanted without a second thought. She slips through your grasp easily, disintegrating into a pile of dust and leaving nothing behind.

“We shall,” you choke out.

Harry’s lips twitch with the ghost of a smile, and Artemis’ hooves clunk against the ground as he leads you off into the night.

~*~

“This is so…”

“Nice, isn’t it?”

“‘Nice’?” You spin on your heel slowly, taking in your surroundings. “It’s incredible.”

The water trickling through the creek is crystal clear. A few shiny rocks peek out from the shallow stream, gleaming in the moonlight. You peer up at the stars—hundreds of diamonds, perfectly visible thanks to the large gap of the clearing. Crickets chirp along the edges of the bushes, and yellow-green fireflies ride the breeze.

“How did you find this place?” you breathe.

“It may sound foolish—,” Harry begins. He holds one hand out; you transfer Artemis’ reins into his palm. “—but I can’t remember.”

“Really?” you ask, stunned. You trail after him as he leads your horse to a nearby tree. He loops her leather harnesses around a thick branch, tying a proficient knot and giving it a few experimental tugs. Your gaze remains glued to his hands: the way his fingers work deftly, the way his knuckles flex with each pull—

“Really,” he says. A soft sigh tumbles from his mouth as he steps back. “Come with me.”

You follow him to the middle of the clearing, trying to anticipate his next move. What you don’t expect, however, is for him to drop to his knees. He falls backward, spine meeting the grass with a faint thump. You gasp, staring down at him with wide eyes and parted lips.

“Don’t be afraid,” Harry hums, shooting you a playful smirk. He crosses his arms behind his head—you try to avoid staring at the prominent bulge of his biceps. “The weeds won’t bite.”

“O—Oh,” you stammer, nodding quickly. “Alright, then.”

Daintily, you lower yourself to the ground. He watches you with an amused expression on his face.

“What?” you say, pouting.

“Nothing.” He snickers quietly. You tuck your ankles beneath your thighs as he turns to the side, propping his head up with one hand. “Correct me if I’m wrong, miss, but…I presume that you don’t often make it a point to lay in the grass.”

“That would be an accurate presumption,” you say, laughing softly. Harry smiles.

“You should spend more time outside,” he says absentmindedly. “You’re always cooped up in the house.”

You cock one eyebrow teasingly. “Do you wish to see more of me, Harry?”

“Absolutely not,” he replies, humour evident in his tone. “I am simply trying to instill some sense of adventure into your life.”

The corners of your lips kink upward. In a matter of seconds, however, your delight melts away, replaced by a somberness that you can’t seem to shake.

“I was far more adventurous before the accident,” you murmur, dropping your gaze. You reach out, fiddling with a few blades of grass in an attempt to avoid Harry’s doleful eyes. “Now, I…I’m afraid of everything, it seems.”

Silence hangs in the air between you, filled only by the steady symphony of chirping crickets.

“If I may ask—,” Harry starts, shifting closer. “—what happened?”

You swallow down the lump in your throat. “Artemis shoved me off.”

“She did?”

“It wasn’t her fault!” you say quickly, holding up one hand. “She got spooked, I suppose. And I wasn’t expecting it, so…I fell.”

“What frightened her?” he asks, anxious creases digging into his forehead.

You shrug. “I don’t know. But since then, I’ve been uneasy about riding. If I’m oblivious to what alarmed her the first time, who’s to say that it won’t happen again?”

He nods. “I understand.”

You sigh, plucking a piece of grass from the dirt and twirling it between your fingers. “I wish I could be more like Drew,” you hum distantly. “Someone who throws themselves into their trauma instead of shying away from it.”

Harry’s brows knit together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

You frown. “He—he never told you?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t a clue. What is it exactly that you’re referring—?”

“Our parents,” you say softly.

Harry’s mouth clamps shut. He inhales deeply, gracing you with a curt nod. You take his silence as an invitation to elaborate.

“They perished in a car accident,” you murmur, looking away. “My father was head of Markham Motors, at the time. He had overlooked a flaw in the latest model, and when they finally took the vehicle out for a drive, it—”

You break off, unable to continue.

Harry reaches forward, covering one of your hands with his. A puff of stale air catches in your throat. You glance down at him timidly, hoping that he can’t identify the flustered distress on your face.

“I’m so sorry,” he tells you, squeezing your fingers tenderly. “That must’ve been awful.”

You exhale shakily. “It was.”

For the next few minutes, the two of you say nothing else. Instead, you melt into your surroundings—the grass brushing your legs, the slow trickle of water in the creek, the dim buzz of fireflies drifting in the wind. At the edge of the clearing, Artemis snorts, lowers her head, and begins to graze.

At last, you decide to break through the stillness.

“Enough about my family,” you say. You recoil, subtly pulling your hand away. Harry is far too distracting. You’re afraid that if he touches you one more time, tonight, your poor heart will give out. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he replies. He settles back into his previous position: spine pressed flush against the ground, arms tucked coolly beneath his head.

“How are you?” you say. “How is your sister, in Paris?”

He peers up at you with raised eyebrows, impressed. “You remembered?”

“Is there a particular reason as to why I shouldn’t?”

Harry chuckles. “No, I suppose not.”

“Well, go on, then.” You rest your chin on your palm. “What is she like?”

“You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?”

You scowl. “Harry.”

“Right, right.” He sighs, smiling fondly up at the sky. “She’s…she’s lovely, really. She just got engaged, as a matter of fact. I haven’t met her fiancé, but he’s stellar, based on how she describes him in her letters.”

“That’s wonderful,” you say. Your gaze drifts longingly over the bridge of his nose. “Send her my blessings, will you?”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, mouth twisting in a roguish smirk. “I reckon she’d find that a bit odd—the two of you have never met.”

“Oh.” You purse your lips, bashful. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Harry laughs; you’re captivated by the dimples embossed into his cheeks.

“I’m only joking,” he tells you, waving away your concerns. “She’ll appreciate that very much. I’m sure of it.”

You don’t reply. Silence hangs in the air, thick and heavy, until his next words slice through the tension like a knife.

“She and I used to do this almost every night,” he murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Come outside,” he says, shrugging. “Lay on the ground. Stare up at the stars.” His irises glaze over with a forlorn look. “We always raced to see who could find the greatest number of constellations.”

“Really?” You don’t know why you’re so taken aback by his confession.

He nods. “Really.”

“Have you found any, tonight?”

He smiles. “Why don’t you come down here and see for yourself?”

The soil is surprisingly comfortable. You join him, resting your back against the grass and gazing up at the night sky. It’s an endless tapestry of diamonds—sparkling, infinite, beautiful. Your chest swells with a deep, relaxed breath as it all sinks in.

“Anything?” Harry asks expectantly.

You squint. After a long moment, a dejected sigh falls from your lips. “No. I’m not very good at this.”

He laughs. You watch, enthralled, as he lifts one hand and points to your left, singling out a curved cluster of stars.

“See these ones, over here? Shaped a bit like a hook? That’s Scorpius.”

“‘Scorpius’?”

“It means ‘scorpion’ in Latin,” Harry explains. “Scorpius was sent by the gods to kill Orion. He was then placed in the sky to advise mortals against the perils of vanity and pride.”

Vanity and pride.

Vanity and pride.

You bite your lip and turn to the side, tucking a palm under your cheek. The action draws Harry’s attention; he does a double take, stunned by the sudden, close proximity of your bodies. His mouth quirks up into a coy smile as he mimics your position, brows furrowed in diluted mystification.

“What is it?” he asks.

You shift, swallowing heavily.

“I’m afraid that I’ve been unfair to you,” you say softly, gazing straight into his eyes. “I—I’ve misjudged you terribly, and for that, I must apologise. I was a fool.”

“You needn’t—,” he starts, but you press on.

“You are kind,” you say, voice thick with emotion. “You are intelligent, and clever, and you have more class in a single finger than most men have in their entire bodies.”

“Miss—”

“I was wrong about you, and I regret allowing my biases to blind me in such an atrocious manner. Can you ever forgive—oomph!”

Harry’s kiss is passionate, bruising. You stiffen, muscles locking in astonishment. One of his hands rests on the ground, providing balance; the other is on your arm, calloused thumb stroking your skin through the thin silk of your robe. You’re frozen, unable to react, because his lips are on yours, and he’s touching your body, and you’re nearly certain that you’ve died and entered the afterlife.

When Harry pulls away after a few short seconds, he’s stupidly sheepish. His eyelashes flutter open, and his stare immediately floods with remorse.

“I—forgive me,” he stammers, tripping over the words. “That was deplorable. I should have asked—”

Roughly, you grab his face between your palms. His cheeks are soft and smooth, jawline dotted with the faintest hint of stubble. The two of you exchange a look—electric, charged, thrilling. A single, critical moment ensues, during which a distinct quote emerges from the deep recesses of your mind.

A girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of. 

The words echo in your head as you abandon all semblance of common sense, yanking Harry in by the collar of his shirt and kissing him again.

      July 14th, 1923

“Quickly! We haven’t got all day!”

“Patience!” you call from the top of the stairs. You guide one last strand of hair into place before hurrying down the flight.

Lydia is waiting for you on the main floor. You set your hands on your hips and fix her with a stern glare, huffing at her eagerness. She sticks her tongue out at you. When you open your mouth to admonish her, she whips around and scurries through the large double doors, disappearing into the backyard.

Upon stepping outside, you find Martin and Andrew already sat on the patio. Lydia settles into one of the chairs around the table, smiling brightly and beckoning you over.

“There you are,” Drew says as you approach. “Beth should be out with dinner any minute now.”

“Do you know what she’s prepared?” you ask, tucking yourself into your seat.

Andrew shrugs and emits a noncommittal sound, clueless.

“Very well,” you sigh, casting a shallow glance across the table. “Good evening, Mister Russell,” you say, tipping your chin in Martin’s direction.

“Good evening.” He beams, tugging on the lapels of his yellow blazer. “Haven’t seen you all day—where have you been hiding?”

You cluck your tongue, tugging nervously at the hem of your dress. “I hardly think it fair for a woman to disclose her spaces of refuge.”

“Stop being so cryptic!” Lydia laughs. She turns to Martin, declaring matter-of-factly, “She was locked up in the library. It’s her favourite room in the entire house.”

Martin hums, diverting his gaze back to you. The expression on his face is indecipherable. “You read?”

You nod. “I do.”

A subtle movement in the periphery of your vision catches your attention. You turn your head to the side, and your heart nearly stops when you spot Harry making his way across the lawn. It appears as though he’s done for the evening, hands caked in grime and shirt speckled with dirt. He steps onto the dusty trail leading into the woods, beginning his journey home.

You haven’t spoken to him since last night—since he kissed you, and then you kissed him, and then the two of you kissed each other until you ran out of air to breathe. He led Artemis to the stables and walked you back to the house just as dawn broke, lighting up the sky with faint hues of pink and blue. You remember sharing a final embrace at the base of the steps before bidding him goodbye, flashing a smile and disappearing inside without another word.

“Would you excuse me?” you say, pushing away from the table and scrambling up out of your seat. “I just—I need to ask Harry about the lilies that he planted yesterday—I’ll only be a moment.”

You scamper off without waiting for a response.

“Harry? Harry!”

He pauses at the call of his name, turning around gingerly. When he spies you hurrying over, his eyes immediately drop to the ground.

You stop in front of him, tilting your head to the side. “Hello.”

“Hello, miss.” He doesn’t lift his gaze. The realisation makes you frown.

“How—how are you?” you ask, licking your lips and clasping your hands behind your back.

“I’m well, thank you. And yourself?”

“I—” Your nostrils flare. “I’m alright. I saw you walking home, and I just wanted to—”

“Forgive me.” Harry cuts you off swiftly. He refuses to look at you, still. “I’m weary. It’s been a long day.”

You recoil slightly, stunned by his candour.

“Of course,” you splutter, nodding. “We were both up quite late last night; time evaded us, I suppose—”

“So, you understand,” he says, stepping back. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

You open your mouth to stop him, but your voice betrays you. Your chest grows tight when he lifts two fingers to his temple, offering up a half-hearted salute.

“Harry—”

He finally meets your gaze, and something inside of you breaks. His eyes are dull and gloomy, revealing nothing. You want to rush forward, to take his face in your hands and hold him close. To run your nails through his hair and smother him in a flurry of hard, worried kisses. To ask him why he’s acting this way. He had been so happy last night—what changed?

But the others are watching from the patio, and you’re a goddamned coward, and you can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

“Enjoy your dinner, miss,” Harry says. His tone is emotionless—it makes you want to cry. “Take care.”

~*~

PART III: The Month

if you’re enjoying this series so far, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

[estellaelysian]

It burns (Ethan x MC)

A/N: This is super self indulgent and doesn’t lead anywhere so proceed on your own risk

**********

The alcohol scorched down his throat as he let his mind wander in the memories of the day, which seemed too distant now that it was over. Evening shaded into night beyond the red-brick walls of the bar – which were lined with numerous neon signs, the glow spilling onto nearby tables and people. Ethan chased the shadow of Alishka as his mind jumped from one moment to the next in all those where they had interacted with each other over the day. The image of her deep green eyes, wavy brown hair and full lips remained forever etched into his mind, giving him warmth like an eternal flame would.

It was late when he made it to this bar – Russo and Dale – but it was also when he found Boston the most loveable, shimmering in the glow of night, her streets thrumming with life and beating hearts and cheerfulness. He had taken an unnecessary walk from the hospital to his destination, wanting to feel anonymous in the dull crowd of people who were walking down the street. The permanence of the aged buildings, the restored Victorian row-houses surrounding English-style corners and the glowing yellow street lamps in South End seemed to give somewhat of a reassurance to his bruised and tired soul as he weaved his way among the sea of strangers. Walking wearily past dark shops, while the sky turned to a deep blue-black above him, he tried to find solace in the anonymity.

But now, at long last, when he found himself alone again, the unease returned, stronger than ever. He took a sip of the amber liquid, then another and then a third, but nothing seemed to ease him as he listened to the determined thud of a bass from the neighboring dive-bar. The foolish chatter around him did not drown out the rising voices inside his head – her voice and his, as they had argued in his office long into the afternoon.

That one argument had been enough to disrupt the entire balance he had built with the same woman whom he had disappointed today. But it was a mutual disappointment. She had been irrelevant to.

Shaking his head, he took another sip, letting the alcohol burn down his throat as he stared – quite intently – at the marble counter in front of him. It was amazing really, that the woman from whom he drew his strength could also be one of his greatest weaknesses. That was exactly why he had retired to his old office in the afternoon. He had lost focus, so instead of looking into patient care, he thought drowning himself into paperwork would help.

But indeed, it had not. Did it ever?

His mind, like a blissful dog scampering back to its lamppost, seemed to be stuck at the argument – making assumptions about the way she sounded, acted, spoke – no matter how much he tried to distract himself. Everything blurred around him, as if he had tuned out from his surroundings.

Why, he thought, was it so necessary for her to be insistent about things that did not matter to him? To latch onto one subject and stretch it until his patience snapped?

Or had he been truly unreasonable this time?

Oh dear God…

He swirled the gleaming liquid in its glass slowly before taking another sip, intent on numbing his brain, only that it refused from being so. Over and over again, her voice tortured him from deep inside; calling him out on the stubborn asshole he was before fading, only to return for the millionth time.

But wasn’t that the point of tonight? To get as far away as he could from the hospital, go to a bar in South End, and let the alcohol ease his pain and anxiety.

The door opened and someone stepped in, bringing together a cool Boston breeze and faint traces of wildflowers. Though his senses seemed unnaturally sharpened at this point, his eyes remained glued to his glass. But just a few seconds later, he found the woman right beside him, the scent of wildflowers much more perceptible.

Green flashed in his mind, deep and comforting, as he connected the scent, almost instinctively, to the one person it reminded him of.

Hold yourself, Ramsey.

In his peripheral vision, he saw the woman flag down the bartender and order a rainbow colored cocktail before turning away for a moment or two.

‘Quite the pain-relief, isn’t it?’ she asked in a mellifluous, sweet voice which fell like honey onto his tongue.

He could swear it was Alishka’s voice, but maybe he had dived too deep into the alcohol pain-relief. He had started imagining things.

Sensing that she was probably still expecting an answer, he nodded before looking straight at her.

And almost immediately, thought of Alishka Roy, even though he had put up a boundary between him and those insistent, maddening thoughts.

He didn’t realize it at first, but that smile – he would recognize it anywhere, anytime, no matter how detached he was.

But Alishka?

Nonsense. He was losing his mind.

‘I should’ve guessed my boss would come here after the much-exhausting day he faced at work today. It would’ve atleast saved me the time I spent wandering about.’

He raised his eyes to her face again. This was not an illusion. She was real, he thought, as he glanced at her hot coral lips which now wore an amused smile. He was not dreaming.

But why would she feel the need to wander about for him?

Do you really need an answer for that, dimwit, his mind chided.

‘Ofcourse you’d follow me here too,’ he said bluntly, battling away the sweeter responses, raising the glass to his lips.

‘You are not my boss outside of work, Dr. Ramsey. It is my freewill to do as I want to once I step outside the hospital.’

He looked up at her again, a smirk curling the corners of his lips. ‘Says the woman who bothers me all the same, inside or out.’

She made a dismissive wave, an easy laughter leaving her. ‘You’ve got a horrid sense of humor,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that is why everyone is terrified of you, even now.’

The last two words stung with an unimaginable burn, questioning the character he had spent years to build.

‘What do you mean, “even now”?’ he asked, the words coming out much more defiant than he wanted them to.

She smiled a benevolent smile as the bartender dropped off her cocktail, which smelled strongly of Pernod. Raising the glass up to meet her lips with tantalizing slowness, she said, ‘Even now, when they’ve learned that you can love something, someone more than medicine. Wholeheartedly.’

He choked on his drink involuntarily, but she went on, as if she hadn’t heard him at all. ‘And yet, at the same time, you can manage to be incredibly bitter to that someone.’

She took a long gulp of her cocktail, and again, before he could respond to her grievances, she said, ‘But anyway, I am not here to discuss that.’

Play pretend, he thought.

‘And why exactly, is it that you are here?’

‘Same as you. Pain-relief. My boss can be a real bore sometimes,’ she answered with the faintest traces of a smirk.

Let’s hear it now, shall we. ‘Who is your boss?’ he asked, going along with her little game.

‘Some world class, renowned, grumpy attending diagnostician.’

He liked how she complimented him and got a dig at him in the same sentence.

‘He seems to have a stressful job,’ he said, looking over the glass to her heavenly features, painted in the neon glow of the bar.

‘That he likes to imply. He is good at what he does.’

He nodded, trying to contemplate her answer, thinking that there would be traces of sarcasm in her answer, but found none.

‘Cheers to that,’ he said, clinking her glass with his own, their fingers brushing slightly, setting his body ablaze with the kind of fire that raged through forests. It was the closest they had got to touching that day, morning apart.

He finished the scotch in one long sip under her watchful gaze. Torture or bliss, there was no answer.

Though dulled by the excesses of the alcohol, he felt anger rise inside his body at the men who made glances in her direction, from a distance or even as they passed her. She seemed to draw much more gazes today than she did usually.

What exactly was it? Her rich brown hair, inching down her back, or those emerald eyes that gleamed with cleverness? And why, every time, did his jealousy had him to do things which he shouldn’t have been doing?

He didn’t know.

What he did know, was that he wouldn’t let those men even get near her.

So he raised a hand to her face, smoothing away stray strands of hair and tucking them behind her ear.

If she was surprised, she did not show it, but a lovely blush spread out on her cheeks, spreading down to her graceful neck and uncovered shoulders. She eyed him with a raised eyebrow, and he willfully ignored all the ideas that look gave him. Tonight was different. Even if they left the bar together, they would part ways almost as soon as they were outside, walking down in opposite directions.

Tonight they were fighting, even though it was different.

Even if he had to have his heart tugged and pulled and then torn, tonight was different.

Her emeralds met his sapphires, curious and bewitching.

He wished he could kiss those perfectly painted lips and ruin that makeup.

‘How about we make a deal then,’ she asked, setting down the glass on the paper napkin that was left on the shiny marble counter. ‘Tonight, let’s forget everything. Let’s forget that you are my irritating boss, let’s forget that I am a – what did you call me? – ah, bothersome resident. Let’s forget those men staring down at me from the opposite corner of the bar. Let’s put a pause on this battlefield, even though I am sure I can outwit you in every way, and let’ go home together.’

That was a tempting offer.

The suggestive tone and the desire burning plain in her eyes ignited his need for her.

How could he not resist her, even a single night?

His voice came out dusky when he spoke again. ‘Let’s put them topics to bed, and go fuck on the roof.’

Just to say that we did.

She smiled. ‘I’d rather your body than half of your heart,’ she said, quoting the song back to him, her voice the sweetest he had ever heard it to be.

Ethan blinked. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell her that he was far from fighting or if he wanted to claim those lips, right now, right here.

Then he saw, over her shoulder, a man whisper something to another before looking at her neck. He felt disgusted as his gaze traveled lower and lower. He was suddenly overcome by the desire to punch him in his filthy face, but he kept his expression carefully neutral, not betraying a single of the feelings he was feeling at that exact moment.

‘Let’s go home then,’ he announced, rising at once and reaching for her hand.

He led her outside into the cool crisp Boston night and she only felt justified in flagging down a cab to the way home, though it wasn’t that far away.

They could’ve walked there.

But then he wouldn’t get to do as he willed right in the cab, as he decided he need not waste a single minute of the time he had been gifted, by incidence or co-incidence, all the same. He failed to keep his hands to himself in the darkened cab, momentarily being illuminated by headlights and taillights of the passing traffic, as he crowed her into a corner, evoking soft moans. He watched her, bathed in red light, her sequined top glittering as the light shifted against her profile. Her eyes met his and he lost his sane, his coherent thoughts reducing to a small compass in his brain. Her lips commanded his attention, and he pressed his lips against them, evoking a gentle sigh as their breaths mingled. Her soft fingers grazed his rough beard as her hand rested against his cheek.

The music masked their muffled whispers and moans, but he could feel the drivers eyes, moving with unnecessary regularity, from the road ahead to the rearview mirror.

Even in the elevator, they stumbled, failing from keeping themselves from touching each other. The button to the thirteenth floor was pressed before he felt the soft pressure of her lips against his own. Her tongue was cool and sweet and tasted of Pernod.

‘Alishka…’ he managed to say between the kisses. ‘Why do we fight at all?’

‘Because we are …’ a little giggle. ‘Both … very stubborn …’

A few seconds later they stood at his door, which was unlocked with haste and shut close with a loud bang. The moment they stepped inside, he dipped his head and closed his lips over hers.

‘Nothing makes sense without you…’ he murmured into her ear, proceeding to tug her tight against him.

‘Then accept your defeat …’ she returned immediately, making a quick work of his shirt buttons. ‘But then again, we’ve called a temporary pause on this battlefield, haven’t we.’

Albeit reluctantly, he agreed. ‘We have.’

He led her to the bedroom, helping her out of her clothes before easing her down on the mattress gently, deciding the bitterness and pain had been enough for the day. The night had to be different.

Slow, gentle hands grazed the newly exposed skin with caresses too soft, before he leaned down on her, gazing into her eyes, letting his forehead rest against hers.

‘I love you.’

She giggled again. ‘I love you too.’

**********

Kudos to you guys if you made it out of this chaotic mess my brain put together. I honestly don’t know how this happened, but I guess it’s just me after a full, very real college day with loads of note-taking.

Tagging: @tenaciouslandvoidgiant @choicesaddict5 @schnitzelbutterfingers @starrystarrytrouble

Let me know if you want to be added or removed.

[undeadsnorlax]

Alone at Midnight, Inside My Mind

@badthingshappenbingo

Ao3 Link

Bingo Card

using the prompt in a metaphorical sense, as opposed to the medical aid sense

Prompt: Crutches

Fandom: Yakuza/Ryu Ga Gotoku

Warnings: a lot of alcohol related issues, including addiction and withdrawal, some suicidal thoughts and body image issues, hurt/no comfort. set pre-Yakuza 2.

Wordcount: 5511

2pm. He could tell it was because his downstairs neighbour was home, attending to the array of plant pots she kept littered outside her door, and playing music on the radio that bled through the crack of the open window.

Daigo squinted in the afternoon light that managed to make its way through the blinds, groaning loudly.

“Fucking hell…”

Suppose now was as good a time as any to start the day. Especially when he felt his stomach rumble.

It took some effort to get to his feet, but soon he was dragging himself into the kitchen, yawning loudly. He needed something quick and tasty, now.

The fridge had nothing but convenience store sushi and days old leftover curry. The cupboards were also pretty bare, half a bag of rice and a ramen cup.

Daigo sighed heavily, setting his kettle to boil before grabbing the sushi. He stuffed a piece into his mouth, wrinkling his nose at the taste of stale rice but ate another without any complaint.

Head to the store. Get some more food, he thought, holding the ramen cup in place as he lifted up the kettle.

The water splashed on the counter a little, narrowly missing burning his fingers, making him forcefully slam the kettle back down once the cup was filled.

Daigo gripped the sides of the counter, closing his eyes as he felt a pulse of nausea rush through his body. If he forced the tension against the surface hard enough, he could stop his hands shaking for just a moment.

Eat noodles. Have a shower. Go to the store.

Opening his eyes again, he ate another piece of sushi, absolutely no taste on his tongue as he chewed it into mush, before taking his ramen into the living room.

He slumped down on the couch, turning the TV on and forced the food down him. He still felt nauseous, but he knew he wouldn’t actually vomit. He already had last night. Doubled over in a bush outside the train station and puked his guts out, despite not having much solids in him. Even now his throat felt sore from it. Classy.

He wasn’t even hungry, really. He was eating out of obligation, feeling his stomach gurgle happily at finally being filled with some kind of food.

As he ate, he noticed his cell phone on the table in front of him, discarded amongst the empty bottles and candy wrappers. It was flashing.

Daigo frowned, reaching over and flipping it open.

Three new answer machine messages.

Who the hell had tried calling him?

Message one - 9:25am

“Daigo, it’s your mother. Pick up.”

Message two - 9:43am

“Me again. Please answer your phone.”

Message three - 10:08am

“Daigo...it’s Mom-“

Daigo groaned, snapping his phone shut to end the messages. Nope! He was not dealing with this today.

He discarded the empty ramen cup and chopsticks with the rest of the trash on the table, storming towards the bathroom.

Shower on, clothes off. He used the toilet as the water heated up, catching the reflection of his upper half in the mirror as he finished.

“Hrmph.”

He ran a hand down his front, resting it on the middle of his stomach and huffed again.

His weight had been up and down the last ten years, though it had obviously settled during his stint in prison, with its shit food and no alcohol. Now that he was out, with all the freedom to indulge in every last inch of hedonism he could find though, he had developed a bit of a gut. Just a bump, but it was…noticeable, it was there. It stuck out.

No surprise really. How much did he drink last night again?

Enough I puked in a bush.

Daigo shifted on his feet, standing up a bit straighter and sucking his stomach in. It didn’t make much difference. He suddenly wondered how visible it was under his t-shirt, glad he usually wore a thick coat to hide himself in.

“Great,” he growled, stepping into the shower. Another thing to feel insecure about.

He stood there, forehead pressed against the wall as he let the water run down the Fudo Myoo on his back.

His hand started shaking again.

“Give me a break,” he said, clasping it to his chest, “A few hours, a day.”

He dried himself off, going back to his bedroom for a clean shirt and pair of jeans – both black, of course.

He also grabbed a heavy hoodie to wear to the store, a way to feel a little more comfortable in himself in a public place.

Wallet, keys, phone. Go to store. Buy supplies.

Daigo pulled his hood up as he jogged down the stairs, immediately blocked from leaving by the downstairs neighbour still gardening.

“Lovely afternoon, isn’t it Dojima-san?” Ito cried, beaming at him. She was older, always so chipper. How did she manage?

As much as he wanted to ignore her, Daigo had been raised with far too proper manners. He still remained casual, grunting a little and rubbing the back of his head.

“Yeah, suppose.”

“You came back late again last night,” she added, hands lifting a plant to move to another pot, “Ouma-san went off about it before going to work this morning.”

“Oh, did he now?”

Ouma was the guy around his age in the apartment next door. Always miserable, always bringing a new girl home every weekend that Daigo had to endure hearing fake horribly through his thin bedroom walls.

“I’ll try to be a bit quieter next time, Ito-san,” he mumbled. For her sake, not for that asshole Ouma.

“Or maybe you should stay in once in a while, hm?”

Daigo scowled, jerking his head and storming off toward the store. With any luck the old bag would have gone inside by the time he was back.

As he made his way down the street, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He went to answer but paused, clenching his fingers tight into his palm. Nope. He knew who it was, and what she wanted, and he didn’t care.

His supply run was basic. More noodles, packs of chips and cookies, some onigiri and bentos that could last a few days.

Whilst picking up a few bottles of Staminan and Tauriner, he stared blankly at the alcohol.

His hands still shook. There was such a quick fix to settle that.

He grabbed a six pack of beer and a bottle of scotch and vodka, unable to help a crooked little grin.

The cashier looked at him a little oddly as he set his basket down on the counter. And yeah, he’d admit he looked strange. Sweating and shaky from withdrawal, under his eyes dark and his brow pulled into a near permanent scowl, face otherwise obscured by the shadow of the hood.

“Get me some cigarettes too, huh?” he mumbled, taking out his wallet and avoiding eye contact.

He was a mess.

He stared at the glass case of baked goods, unable to resist the pull from his sweet tooth, and asked for two donuts as well.

He arrived back home rather pleased with his haul. He had enough in him to pack away most of it, before he stared down the booze he bought.

He could...not do this, actually. He could not drink. It was easy, in theory.

He wiped his damp brow, licked his dry lips. His head hurt, despite the slight gloom of the kitchen.

They could sit there as an ultimate temptation. He could ignore them. He could do all manner of things.

But he wanted to drink, that was the issue. That was the whole point. Drinking was the only thing he had that stayed consistent.

He grabbed the scotch and slugged back a long mouthful, feeling everything just melt away. He let out a relieved gasp, the taste strong on his tongue and warming his throat. Felt like a part of him was back. His mind became a little clearer, his mood a little more elevated. He took a shorter swig for luck, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Much better…”

He spent the rest of the afternoon lounging on the sofa, playing video games. There wasn’t much else for him to do during the day.

Evening was his time.

When seven rolled around, Daigo got ready. His jeans and t-shirt were fine already, so all he had to do was put on his usual cross necklace to complete the outfit. He spent a while staring down himself in the mirror as he applied a shaky dash of eyeliner around his lid.

Once upon a time he shied away from doing this publicly, but since leaving jail he stopped caring. Wore eyeliner and straightened his hair. Painted his nails black and picked at the polish when he was anxious. Who gave a shit? Anyone dumb enough to say anything soon regretted it.

Keys, wallet, phone. Same routine. He chose his white puffer jacket to wear instead of his hoodie, enjoying the barrier it gave him from the rest of the world.

One quick metro ride later, he was in Kamurocho, just as the town was coming alive in a burst of neon. Daigo lost himself in the crowds, thinking of which bar to hit up first.

He paused for a moment down Tenkaichi Street, staring at the sign for Serena. Place was closed, and had been for a little under a year now.

He knew what happened last year, of course. Heard about Rina through another barkeep. Not that he’d known her well, or spent much time at Serena, but something in his chest ached hearing she was gone in such circumstances.

He soon forgot about it with another glass.

With a weary huff, he decided the Champion District on the other side of town was the best place to start. The bar he chose was quiet, no other customers, and a barman who knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Perfect.

Instead of conversation, Daigo focused on the soft jazz music playing as he nursed his whiskey. He was into heavier tunes, but he needed a bit more of a buzz before going to his favourite rock bar.

He tapped his nails against the glass, tilting his head. Good idea, actually. They did cheap shots and a big array of imports.

He slammed some cash down on the counter before stumbling into the street, glad to feel the slight evening chill on his cheeks.

Down to Pink Street, and into the rock bar he enjoyed. Already feeling at home with the heavy guitar music blasting over the speakers, most of the other patrons dressed in a similar style to him. He’d missed out on a lot of stuff whilst locked away, the slight sways in fashion that happened in such a short amount of time, but he liked knowing he was still on trend within his scene, mostly.

He sat at the counter, giving a half-grin to the girl working there, and ordered himself five shots of vodka.

His earlier drinks had been a warmup, these were the first leg of the race. The second came in the form of a large scotch, some new brand they’d started selling.

Honestly, the start to a perfect night for him, until he heard a small gasp from behind him.

“Hey! Aniki!”

Daigo’s heart sank at the voice, glancing over his shoulder. Five of the guys he usually hung around with were there – or more accurately, they hung around him.

He rolled his eyes and groaned, turning in his seat and glaring them down. He should never had shown them this place.

“What do you want?” he muttered, already knowing the answer.

“We didn’t know you were out today!” Arita cried, leaning up next to him, with that sycophantic look he always had in his eyes. As if Daigo wasn’t out every night.

“Why don’t you join us aniki?” Kubo asked, which actually translated to wanna pay for all our drinks because we’re cheap scrounging bastards?

Daigo groaned again, knocking back his glass and waving the bartender over again.

“If you quit calling me aniki.”

They didn’t, of course. They gleefully accepted the drinks he bought them with more coos of thank you Dojima-aniki. Daigo rubbed the bridge of his nose and ordered himself two double scotches, slugging them back like they were water.

“I was thinkin’ we could go to Dazzle after this,” Arita said, having not left Daigo’s side. He always babbled and talked too much, like he felt he had to fill every silence with his own voice save people be left alone with their own thoughts.

“Why there?” Daigo asked, thinking of all the things he’d rather do more than go to a hostess club, including and not limited to slamming his face into a lit stovetop and drowning in a hot tub.

“I just think the girls there are really underrated, y’know? I like that they have some slightly older gals, I love a mature lady. How about you?”

Daigo shoved a shard of ice from his glass into his mouth and let it melt on his tongue. “Come on then.”

He was paying for two hours and that was that. At least he could get a bottle for himself and work through that, sitting at the edge whilst the others enjoyed the girls’ company.

Dazzle might have specialised in more mature women, but the decor was a nightmare like every other hostess club. Why’d they always insist on so many sparkles, it gave him a headache.

“Um...are you enjoying yourself?”

Daigo lowered his gaze to look at the girl. ‘Mature’ really meant ‘late twenties’, and she was running on the younger side of that.

“What do you think?” he said coldly, swirling his drink in its glass.

She seemed a little dazed at this, glancing back at her fellow hostesses, but kept going.

“M-my name is Nashi. Yours?”

“Daigo Dojima.”

He clicked his tongue, emptied his glass and went to refill it, his shoulders slouching slightly. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so short, you’re only doing your job.”

“Oh, it’s fine, I’ve had far worse responses.”

Daigo just gritted his teeth. Another reason he hated hostess clubs was he knew how other men treated these girls, saw it himself the times his father brought him along as a teen.

The least he could do was give this lady a nice conversation.

“Well, I’ll try to be a bit better than them,” he said, gesturing with his head towards the others, so loud and obnoxious.

Nashi smiled a little. “They’re not so bad. Your friends are just a bit...out there.”

He scoffed. “They’re not my friends. I don’t really...do friendship anymore.”

“Oh? How come?”

Shit. Of course, when you say something like that, people have questions. Daigo licked his lips in thought, considering how he should phrase this.

“You...don’t recognise my name, do you?”

Nashi blushed a little, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Um, well, you do have a bit of notoriety around town, Dojima-san. I know girls in other clubs, and they always talk about you.”

Daigo did a slight double take at this. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah. You’re a rather…” She gestured at his coat and skinny jeans. “A striking figure, you know. A lot of girls like the edgy emo bad boy look. It’s popular right now.”

“Hm, figures.” A lot of men are also fans…

Daigo sat up a little straighter, gazing Nashi down. “Do you?”

“H-huh?”

“Find me attractive?”

It was a joke, said with a dry smirk, but she flustered, clearly uneasy. Daigo grimaced, sliding up a little closer and putting a hand to her knee.

“Hey, hey. I���m kidding.” He made his smirk a soft smile, broke down the facade for just a moment to put her at ease. “Don’t worry about it.”

Nashi’s eyes went wide, but nodded, brushing down the edges of her dress.

“A-anyway, I...I’ve heard you...were involved with the Tojo Clan. Is that why you don’t ‘do’ friends?”

“Mm. Essentially.”

Daigo gave up on the glass, swigging back from the bottle which got him a funny look from one of the other patrons across the way.

“My only friend murdered my father,” he said, so matter of fact. He hesitated a moment, letting out a short huff. “Well. He went to jail for the crime, at least. He was actually covering for someone else. Either way, I was left without his guidance for ten years, thinking he had betrayed me like that.”

He paused a second, swilling whiskey around his mouth, before continuing.

“I came back to town a few months ago and...he hasn’t bothered trying to find me. Which shows how little he cares.”

“Oh. That sounds...awful, Dojima-san.”

“It sure does, doesn’t it?”

Daigo shrugged, tilting the empty bottle back so he could savour just a few more drops as best he could. “That’s just how my life is now.”

He grumbled a little as he set the bottle down, belching into his cupped hand before draping himself back against the seat.

“Sometimes you gotta deal with the hand you're given,” he added, scratching lazily at his middle, “And unfortunately, I’ve had a poor deck from the start.”

He shut his eyes before letting out a laugh, forced and hollow. “Sorry. I’m not the best at keeping things light.”

How many hostesses had he paid to listen to him whine? Then he thought how they were probably all used to it, which made it even worse.

“Well, given your circumstances…”

Nashi glanced back at her co-workers, the barely hidden looks of disdain towards the rest of the crew and their boorish behaviour.

“I’d much rather talk to you though,” she said, reaching over to grab another one of the bottles along the table, gesturing toward his glass, “You’re nice.”

Daigo swallowed, nodding in approval as she filled it to the brim. His head pounded, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the music or the cravings.

“If you say so.”

The glass was empty in a flash, and filled just as quick.

“You’re good at this,” he purred.

The bottle was empty by the time the waiter came by. Daigo had just enough mental capacity to dig through his pockets and pay, giving Nashi a shaky smile and a pat on the knee.

“Thank you for tonight. You’re great.”

His friends, on the other hand, all started to whine as the waiter began to urge them into finishing their drinks.

“Aw, c’mon aniki, let’s hang around a bit longer!”

“If you want that, pay yourself, ya cheap fucks.”

Daigo stood up, a bit too quickly as he felt the room spin. He stumbled to the side slightly, wincing as he contained a belch that very much tasted of vomit. Nope! No puking tonight. Keep it all inside.

“I’m outta here,” he mumbled, resting a hand on any available solid surface to keep himself steady as he left.

He blanked out the cries of the others as he did. He’d wasted enough time with them tonight, and he was craving something else.

“Burger,” he mumbled, squinting as he glanced up and down the street, “Pffft...that way.”

This was always the worst part of the night. Trying to sober up enough so he could keep going, or at the very least get home in one piece. Stumbling through the streets and trying not to crack his skull open.

It wasn’t just food he craved though. He felt...itchy. That was the only way to really explain it. The desire to go wild, start a scuffle. Really earn that reputation he supposedly had.

To hell with staying in one piece.

But first, Smile Burger.

The fact that the poor worker even understood what he said through his slurred words was impressive and soon he was curled up against the window, feet pulled up on the chair beside him as he made his way through a burger that tasted like the finest wagyu steak right now.

All the while, he kept his eye out.

Yeah, it felt shitty to target people for a fight like this, but he made sure it was a fair fight. Usually a few guys, who looked like they could take a hit as well as throw one, maybe even have a chance if they weren’t facing someone running on adrenaline and too much booze.

He cocked his head as he focused on a table nearby. Four men, mid-twenties, definitely young yakuza from some family. He couldn’t see any lapel pin from where he was sat, but they were perfect.

Childishly, he picked up one of his fries and threw it in their direction. It hit the back of one guy’s head, and he looked around puzzled. Daigo just threw another, chuckling as it hit him again. A bit too obvious, as he was spotted this time.

“What the hell’s wrong with you dude?” one of the four cried.

“I dunno,” Daigo said, stuffing a bunch of fries in his mouth before flinging another their way, “Target practise.”

This one hit a guy in a striking red sports jacket right between the eyes, and Daigo could barely contain the full-on cackle he let out at the expression he pulled. It was almost too easy.

He grinned when one came over and jabbed him in the chest.

“Outside. Now.”

“My pleasure.”

He followed them into a nearby side street, hands in his pockets and head held high. He liked an audience sometimes, but a private fight was fine enough.

The biggest one of them threw the first punch. He was expecting it, crossing his arms over in front of his face to block it, before kicking out at the guy’s ankles.

The whole fight was messy. The little gang clearly had never been in a proper fight, had no form. They kept punching poorly, wincing with any that managed to hit as they stung their knuckles.

Not that Daigo was any better. He was still far too drunk, but that was half the fun. Stumbling about and getting in a rough hit that frightened these kids who’d never experienced this before. He just wanted the thrill, the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Anything to feel something.

Daigo landed a punch on that guy in the sports jacket, right in the middle of his face. It sent him flat on his ass, skidding down the street slightly.

“Come on!” he groaned, “Grab him, idiots! We outnumber him!”

A moment of pause. Daigo tried to catch his breath, but ol’ sports jacket was right. He was outnumbered.

Two of them grabbed his coat and pushed him back against the wall, holding him there. The third punched at his gut, over and over. Daigo gritted his teeth, tensed his stomach for every punch.

He knew he could get out of this, easily. The guys holding him were hardly doing much, weren’t even gripping his actual arms, just the sleeves of his jacket. It wouldn’t take much to duck and slip down, then send them crying home to their mommies.

“Come on!” he hissed, baring his teeth.

But he wanted them to hit him.

“That all you got?”

He wanted them to hurt him.

Sports jacket guy had gotten back on his feet now, face already starting to bruise. His fist met the middle of Daigo’s face hard, harder than they’d been hitting before. It stung, a lot, which is exactly what he wanted.

Not that it solved anything.

It never did.

“Oi!” They all froze, turning toward the entrance of the street. Daigo, semi-dazed, managed to look too, and felt his stomach drop.

Kashiwagi's expression, initially a scowl, changed the moment he saw him, shaking his head and blinking a little. “Daigo?”

He sighed heavily, storming over and waving his hand at the little gang. “Shoo. Don’t let me catch you boys doing shit like this again, you hear?” “Y-yes Patriarch Kashiwagi.”

They scurried off further down the street, leaving Daigo to stand up straighter, rubbing his nose. He groaned a little as he saw the streaks of rusty red on the back of his hand, sniffling heavily. “Great.”

“Daigo…”

Kashiwagi sighed again, rubbing at his temple. “What are you doing?” “I’m just...I’m just out.” Daigo sniffed again, scrunching his nose. “Just finished dinner.”

“You know what I mean…”

Kashiwagi looked around, then grabbed Daigo by the shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s talk in the office.”

Daigo went to argue, but it only took one stern glare, the kind the older man had given him his whole life, for him to clench his jaw and follow.

Kashiwagi led the way toward the Millennium Tower, hand on Daigo’s shoulder the whole way. It felt so patronising, like that time he accidentally broke a window at the Dojima Family offices when he was ten, and Kashiwagi had done the exact same gesture, marching him to his mother.

“Nice upgrade,” he still said, gazing out the wide window of Kashiwagi’s office once they arrived, “From that little place on Tenkaichi.”

“Well, we make do. I’m second in command now.” Kashiwagi set down the plastic convenience store bag he’d been carrying on his desk, letting out a small, bemused exhale of air. “It’s not all bad. Now come on. Why were you fighting?”

Daigo clicked his tongue and shrugged, staring at the blinking lights below them.

“Daigo…” “I just was, okay?”

He gave a dismissive shrug, walking across the floor toward a cabinet, throwing the doors open. Kashiwagi watched him with tired eyes, slumping down in his chair. “I think you’ve had enough to drink tonight.”

“How did you know that’s what I was looking for?”

“Your breath reeks of it, kid. Your whole body does.” He took out a bento and can of coffee from the plastic bag, raising a brow. “And I know what you’re like, especially lately. How’s being a free man by the way? Haven’t seen you since you were released.”

“It sucks ass.”

Daigo slammed the cabinet door shut, opening another and grinning as he saw half a bottle of whiskey there, as well as some crystal glasses. He heard Kashiwagi tut loudly as he slammed both down on top of the cabinet.

“What did you expect?” he scoffed, pouring a very large measure, “Mom told me the news the moment I got out. What Nishikiyama did. That it wasn’t Kiryu. He hasn’t even come to see me, to apologise for it.”

He knocked the glass back, the sensation warm and familiar down his throat. “Hardly feel free. Just not in jail anymore.”

“What happened to the boy I knew?” Kashiwagi asked, walking over and placing a hand on Daigo’s shoulder once more. This time it was gentle, kind, attempting to be comforting. Not Kashiwagi-san, one of his father’s men, but Uncle Osamu, his mother’s best friend.

Daigo scrunched his nose up, taking another slug of whiskey. “You say that like I’ve ever been cheery.”

“Well, okay, you’ve always been a serious young man, but…”

He just shook his head, moving his hand away. He grabbed the whiskey bottle in the process, making Daigo let out a pathetic little whine.

“I’m not going to enable you any more than I have,” he said firmly, before adding, “I mean it though. You don’t need to throw your life away like this.”

Daigo didn’t reply, because he didn’t like the real answer. There wasn’t much of a life to throw away. He was doing everyone a favour with this.

“You bring me up here just to lecture me old man?” he growled, narrowing his eyes.

Still looking for someone to fight. Kashiwagi would wipe the floor with him, he knew that, but he didn’t care. He also knew he wouldn’t get that kind of satisfaction.

Didn’t mean Kashiwagi wasn’t frustrated with his attitude. He closed his eyes, clenching his fists and let out a deep exhale from his nose. “I saw your mother today. She’s been trying to call you all morning.”

“I know.” The empty glass was set down heavily, with a grunt. Daigo dug around for his phone, holding it out so Kashiwagi could see the countless missed calls and texts from her on the home screen. “I know what today is.”

“...and is that why you’re-”

“You know I’m like this anyway.” He stared at the texts, all similar in tone - Daigo, please call me. Daigo, it’s important. Are you okay? He got them most days from his mother. She was trying so hard. He didn’t want her to. He would rather she forget about him. She deserved that much.

Kashiwagi wasn’t looking at him, staring up at the ceiling as he thought of what to say next.

“I understand that...none of us could have predicted the extent of what your father was like.”

Daigo did a double take, noticing Kashiwagi immediately cringe. At least he knew what he said was stupid.

“Sorry, that was-”

“Yeah. It was.” Daigo looked up, head cocked to his shoulder. “Anyone could have guessed, really. We just pretended otherwise, because somehow he seemed to be the only thing keeping the Tojo Clan from completely falling apart.”

He was up in Kashiwagi’s face now, feeling his chest clench tight. He was working himself up over nothing, over that bastard. He hated it, but thinking of what his father did to get himself killed, the kind of man he was, it made his skin crawl.

“He deserves to spend every birthday after what he did having the most miserable time in hell,” he said with a hiss, noticing his voice wobbling, “I know it. You know it. But Mom refuses to let go-”

The slap felt cathartic, for both of them. Daigo shut his eyes and nodded as his cheek stung. He deserved that. He was trying to provoke that kind of reaction and got exactly that.

“I take back what I said. That boy you were is still there. An insolent brat,�� Kashiwagi said, walking back to his desk, “Daigo, one day, you’re going to have to grow up. You can’t keep doing this until you die.”

He threw a semi-sympathetic look over his shoulder, but Daigo mostly felt it was piteous. That’s what he was. A pitiful, useless mess.

“Go home, Daigo. Call your mother. And for everyone’s sake, don’t have anything else to drink tonight.”

Daigo sucked in through his teeth and nodded again as he walked toward the door.

“...good night, Kashiwagi-san.”

No response. Yup. I deserve this.

He made his way home in a daze, everything working in automatic. Kashiwagi’s words kept echoing in his head, over and over.

You can’t keep doing this until you die.

Because that’s what he was trying to do, wasn’t it? Die. Suicide by hedonism. He was born already holding the worst hand life could deal, and he was never going to get anything better. After his father was killed, the one tiny scrap of potential good he could have in his life was gone, even if that prospect was a life of crime.

So why not? Why should he grow up when there was nothing to grow up for?

The moment he was inside his apartment, he slid down the door, staring blankly ahead. He’d needed that talking to, he needed a few really, from people who were currently pretending like he didn’t exist. That’s what he really needed. For Kiryu to talk to him, apologise for ruining his life, try and talk some sense into him. He always knew what to do.

But it was like he didn’t exist. Kiryu didn’t care. Kashiwagi tried to care, but knew he was a lost cause. Who did care?

Daigo opened up his phone again, staring at the missed calls and sighed. That’s who cared. Mom.

He should talk to her. He knew he should. He was an awful son who loved his mother very much, which is why he knew she deserved better. She was trying despite knowing she’d made mistakes, but he just couldn’t let that go.

He hovered on her number, ready to press the button to call...but instead he tossed his phone to land on the couch, walked to the kitchen and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the vodka bottle still on the counter.

He licked his lips, swallowed heavily...but let go, pushing it away.

“You win this time old man,” he grumbled, picking up an energy drink and the donuts he’d bought earlier in the day instead. Kashiwagi could never be allowed to know that though.

He knew this self-control wouldn’t last long. Come morning, he’d be shaking again, a hangover banging in his skull, and he’d be dragging himself towards that bottle like it was the source of life.

The same thing every day.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

He couldn’t have it any other way.

[pedros-mustache-main]

l'oiseau chante

“au where the reader is a singer instead of a painter?” for anon

to close out sd!deaky night(s), here’s 3k words of an au of my own au. i got incredibly carried away but had so much fun writing this.

the duet reader sings is called “duo des fleurs” from the opera, lakmé. i recommend you listen to that as the song is described for the full ~experience~. thanks for indulging me the last few days! much love! xoxo!

suggestive content below (discussions of a sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship & a few suggestive moments/language). please be mindful if under 18!

april, 1985.

“no, really! i’ve got to go!” she’s laughing as she says it, pulling out of his arms to make for the door, but john is quick to catch her waist, spin her on her heels, and press his body flush with hers.

he works his mouth along her jaw and mumbles, “but we’ve only just started having fun.”

he can feel her relax against his ministrations, fight the urge to leave. she wants to stay, he knows that. why wouldn’t she? their arrangement is new and exciting, each moment a new opportunity to discover what makes the other tick. thus far, he knows she likes to dabble in gardening and running. she prefers opal over diamonds and shoes over handbags. she’s as luxurious as she is grounded, but she knows what she wants, and she isn’t afraid to go after it. he likes that assuredness. it’s part of why their arrangement works. she’s not looking for anything other than pampering and a roll in the hay, and he can give that to her in heaps, but not much else. his heart is far too guarded after all these lonely years to really hope in anything more.  

still, she’s a hell of a good romp, and he’d rather spend the evening in with her than attend the blasted party freddie planned for—what was it?—the arrival of spring.

“john, please.” she pushes on his chest with the palms of her hands and lifts her brows. “i’ve got this gig, and if i’m late the conductor will flay me alive. you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

he considers, tilting his head to the side. “i’d rather be the one to flay you but—”

aghast, she hits his chest, though bell-like laughter belies her amusement. “john!”

finally, he releases his hold and moves to hold open the front door. “fine. if you must leave me...” he swings his arm toward the crowded street outside.

she grabs her handbag from the catch-all table beside the door. “i’ll ring you in a few days, alright?” she hesitates on the front stoop, her eyes roaming over his face, lower lip between her teeth. she looks... guilty, and he knows why.

“[y/n], we’ve talked about this. i’m fine with it.” he waves to the street. “go on. you shouldn’t be late.”

the worry on her face eases, and she releases a breath. pressing her lips to her finger tips, she waves, manicured nails wiggling in the air. “thanks, love.” she’s already half-way down the steps and to the curb when she looks over her shoulder and says, “i’ll call you!”

nodding, john waves once more then shuts the door with a gentle shake of his head. 

he has his rules for this set-up. 

his number one requirement? don’t ask about queen. he doesn’t like to talk about it, not with her. that’s too intimate, and their relationship is strictly physical. in the six months they’ve been together, they’ve done little more than fuck and smoke cigarettes afterwards and laugh about inconsequential things. they are not dating, not even friends with benefits. there’s a clear line—almost professional—that neither is willing to cross, and he likes that. she makes him feel good, spoils him with attention and fluttering eyelashes, and he pays her rent and buys her expensive things. there’s no need for her to know about his life outside their moments together, and there’s certainly no need for his life outside their moments together to know about her.

like him, she has her own rules for the set-up.

her number one stipulation? no kissing. when she first laid out her terms and conditions for the arrangement, he hadn’t been expecting that. it struck him as odd originally, but the more he’s gotten to know her, the more is makes sense. she’s a professional through and through, both in her singing career and in her pleasure arrangements. for her, kissing is too intimate like talking about queen is too personal for him.

it works. they work. he’s happy, and he thinks she is too. it’s nice to have someone to spoil, someone to hold. it’s been a long time since anyone ever—

he rids himself of the melancholy and starts up the stairs. no reason to mull over it now, not with her at his relative beck and call. 

the party fred has planned for the evening is scheduled to take place at the ritz hotel. it’s the most unreasonable thing john has ever heard of—a party for the beginning of spring—but it’s freddie’s own money, and john doesn’t have the luxury of not showing up. so, he showers, dresses in a tailored suit and tie, and washes down his dread with a shot of scotch before leaving his darkened flat. 

it’s not that he doesn’t like parties. it’s just that he doesn’t like parties where he hasn’t got anyone to be his buffer, and he hasn’t had a buffer for a very long time. she couldn’t very well be his buffer. people would ask questions—fred would ask questions—and the entire thing would fall apart before it even got started.

no, he’d go to the party alone tonight. maybe he’d call her after or wait until the morning. they could go to that little shop on the corner. he knows she’s been eyeing a pair of earrings and—

“mr. deacon?” he’s pulled from this thoughts by the driver. “we’re here, sir.”

john mumbles his thanks and slides from the car. bright and flashing lightbulbs greet him, and he manages a pinched smile for the photographers. a sigh wells within him, but he pushes it down. it’s going to be a long night.

the ballroom set aside for freddie’s party is magnificent, john will concede that. the whitewashes walls are draped in faux-ivy and fresh flowers. the crystal glasses and china plates on linen-covered tables sparkle beneath the light of the chandelier overhead. a golden statue of a woman, twisting to look over her head at trumpeting cherubs, is ensconced in the wall, but fitting for the evening’s theme. at the far end of the room, a wall of frosted mirrors towers over a small orchestra playing to a lilting, classical tune. 

“oh, deaky, i’m so glad you’re here!” ever the man of the hour, freddie meanders through the tight crowd waiting to be seated at their dinner table to pull on john’s arm. “come on, we’re sat near the orchestra.”

john takes freddie’s offering of a champagne flute. he doesn’t normally like champagne, but he’s desperate for anything to take the edge off his sour mood. he feels stiff in his suit, and aside from fred, he hasn’t seen anyone he knows yet. 

“the place looks—”

“smashing, right?” freddie beams and points to an empty chair at the circular table. john drops beside roger and tries not let the fact that there was only a sole chair saved for him be a bother. it shouldn’t bother him, really. it’s just been him for a long time.

“here.” roger hands john a stiffer drink. “it starts to get fun when you’re a little buzzed.” he slings his arm around dominique’s chair and looks over his shoulder, returning to conversation with his partner and jim.

john remains quiet for some time. freddie is the perfect host, darting from table to table in his white coattails, laughing and smiling and kissing the back of any hand he can grab. he is in his element. roger, too, seems at ease. he likes the lavish lifestyle, and any party that is dripping in jewels and rich wine and expensive food is good enough for roger. even brian, who once was so awkward and gangly, leans back in his seat and chats with someone who looks much smarter than john and much more eloquent than anyone else at the table. 

not for the first time, john shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. he doesn’t have a buffer. he could really use a buffer—or a smoke.

he’s about to excuse himself for a cigarette break when freddie steps to one of the two microphones in front of the orchestra. he taps on it, and a sharp boom followed by a squeak fills the room. john leans back, close as he is to the speaker, and cringes.

“oop, sorry about that, dears. well, don’t you all look marvelous from up here? really, never seen such a group of attractive people.” after a smattering of laughter, freddie continues, “i want to thank you all for coming tonight. i know this isn’t some of your scenes—mostly you, roger.” 

more laughter; john just takes another sip of gin. 

“before dinner is served, i have a little treat. to accompany our lovely orchestra, we have two singers here to bless us with their fabulous voices. please give a warm welcome to iona buckley and [y/n] [y/l/n]. now, i’ll get my fanny off the stage to let them work their magic.”

fred slips the microphone back into its stand and scurries to the table, clapping along with the rest of the audience. well, the rest of the audience save john. his hands are occupied with gripping onto the edge of the table for fear he will fall out of his seat in shock.

trailing behind her duet partner, she takes her place behind the first microphone, the one closest to john. she—his paramour, his lover, his baby. she looks radiant, like one of the roses in the table centerpieces. her red satin gown is simple, the straps thin and back open. he swallows hard as his eyes trail to the necklace resting on her sternum. he bought her that. it was his first gift, and there she is standing not twenty feet from him, wearing it, and not a soul knows how he took her in the shower his afternoon. 

john doesn’t catch her eye before the orchestra begins to play but surely she knows he’s there. is her heart in her throat like his heart is in his? are her palms sweating? he twists to grab his drink, needing something tangible to curl his hand around lest he clench his fist to his chest like a damsel in distress. as his back is turned, she begins to sing.

he’s never heard her sing, and the clear, soprano voice that flows from her throat is not what he expected. when she told him she was a singer, that she regularly sang at different gigs, he assumed she must be one of those bar singers floating from venue to venue. never this, never this. he doesn’t understand a word that she sings, but he thinks she must be singing about love. her face is soft, devoid of any worries or cares. for her, the only thing that seems to exist are the words flowing from her mouth and filling his ears. she sings with ease, even the highest and strongest of notes. like the back of her hand, she follows the melody, the roll of the foreign tongue, and the timing of the conductor’s wand. john doesn’t even realize the song is a duet until she pauses, allows a moment for her partner to shine. in that brief pause, her eyes flick to him, and her smile widens. he loses his breath. then she’s back in the spotlight, easily shining over her partner with the clarity and force of her voice. 

tears prick the corners of john’s eyes, and he bites hard on the end of his tongue. fuck—she could be the ruin of him. he’d let her ruin him too—happily.

the party-goers sit enraptured by the singers, by her. even roger has shut his mouth, his eyes wide with interest. john has to hand it to freddie: he’s outdone himself. the decor and the setting and the song—john can practically feel the warmth of spring curl around his frozen heart, and it’s all because of her and her voice. he could listen to it forever; he could listen to this song forever and nothing else.

but the song winds down, ending on the final note of her just voice echoing in the room. there is a moment of expectant silence. john holds his breath, watches as she turns to hand the conductor something then glance over the crowd, glance at him. he starts the applause first, and he is the last to stop clapping, even after she’s taken her seat across the room.

“fuckin’ hell, they were good!” roger hits his palm against the table as dinner is brought out from the kitchens. he reaches over to squeeze john’s shoulder. “i thought deaky was gonna pass out.” 

freddie practically bounces in his chair with glee. “they’re divine! like angels!”

john nods without realizing he’s doing so. “m’yes, she is.”

“she?” roger laughs, tossing his head back. “got a crush there, john? ‘s okay. i wouldn’t blame you.”

john looks up sharply, but says nothing. maybe he does have a crush, as silly as the term is. he’s not fourteen. he’s nearly thirty-four. but, god, if she doesn’t make him sweat like a fourteen year old boy. god, if just the sight of her and the sound of her voice doesn’t send his blood pumping anywhere but his brain. it takes all his willpower not to stand up from the table, stalk across the room, and drag her into the hall. 

he manages to make light conversation with brian about some business related things throughout dinner. several different times, he feels her eyes on his back, and he’s reminded of what they did on his living room carpet two nights ago. he needs her badly, and he’s starting to worry he’ll need her in more ways than one sooner rather than later.

the orchestra strikes up more classical music as dinner ebbs into dessert, and couples begin to float on the cramped dance floor. john waits, biding his time until everyone is good and distracted before he slips across the room. 

she’s sitting alone, scribbling something down in a small, black notebook. before john can say her name, roger beats him to it, appearing as if from thin air. john clenches his jaw and resists the urge to deck his bandmate. she turns at the sound of her name and meets john’s eyes first. she stands and greets them both, accepting roger’s praise with a modest nod her head. 

“i think someone’s fancies you a little,” roger says, squeezing both of john’s shoulders this time. “never seen him so shocked as when you started to sing.”

john openly glares at roger. he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels then meets her eyes. “you are very talented,” he says.

she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, looks away, as though bashful. “thank you, mr. deacon.”

“john,” he says—and his voice is throaty, deep.

she looks up, smiles, licks her lips.

“well, i can sense sexual tension as good as the rest of ‘em. i’ll leave you to it.” smirking, roger slinks away, surely reveling in the match he thinks he’s made.

john speaks first. “i didn’t realize this was your gig.”

she shrugs. “i didn’t want you to feel obligated to come.”

“i was obligated to come.”

“i didn’t want you coming for me.”

he hesitates. “i meant what i said: you are very talented.”

“thank you.” on a chuckle, she adds, “i’ll warn you next time if i’m to sing at another one of freddie’s parties.”

“after tonight? i’m sure you will sing at them all.”

they stare at one another, eyes searching, hands twitching. it’s all john can do not to grab her wrist and slam his mouth against hers. he wants to taste her, taste the mouth that can cast such a spell over anyone who hears her voice. he wants to claim that mouth as his before everyone, before the world.

but she has her rules, and he respects that.

“come with me,” he says and takes her wrist.

he leads her to a darkened hall near a coat room and, wasting no time, presses her against the wall. he latches his mouth to the exposed skin of her neck, sure that if he doesn’t kiss something—anything—he will go insane. his hands roam her curves, her back, her ass. likewise, she runs her hands along his back, his shoulders, his arms. she’s gasping, even though he is the one kissing and sucking her sweet skin.

“i thought—oh my god, don’t stop—i wasn’t sure if—if you would like seeing me here,” she confesses. her voice is thick, and it drives him wild.

he pulls away long enough to meet her eyes. “everyone is inside the party talking about you,” he says. he presses his palm against the side of her face, runs the pad of his thumb over her lip. “and i’m out here about to fuck you senseless. i’d say i liked seeing you up there.”

she laughs, and the sound is almost as nice as the sound of her singing. winding her arms around his neck, she draws him closer, pressing her hips against his. “why don’t you take me home, then?”

he doesn’t have to be told twice.

later, when she is asleep, naked beneath his sheets, he lights a cigarette. the embers glow in the darkness of his room, and he sighs. this time, he sighs in contentment. he reaches over to rub his hand along her back, feeling the ridges of her spine. she’s good for him, and so long as she’ll have him, he’ll be hers. even if this is all they are—a shag here, a present there—he’ll be happy. just so long as he can worship at her feet.

he’s got it bad. he knows that now. he’s on the verge of losing himself to her, and he doesn’t even mind. it just makes him smile into the night, happy for once not to go to bed alone.

[youarejesting]

BTS365 Prompts.Week 38

[Full Masterlist] [Prompt Masterlist] [Tag yourself here]

Please tag me in your work if you use my prompts. I want to see your work. Ever your Jester. Tell me your birthday and I will tag you on your special day!

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    Sept 17th - 23rd

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Kim Seokjin - Collect

Stamps, figurines, DVD’s, playing cards, and even books. If it could be collected he had it. Seokjin was the collector, and he wanted you. 

Min Yoongi - Rocks

“I will take a scotch on the rocks” he said sitting at the bar

“Mister why do you want your drink with rocks?” he turned to see a small child sitting on the bar colouring in, and he did a double take. 

“Uh rocks means ice usually, what are you doing in here?”

“Mama couldn’t find a babysitter again” the small boy said “Do you like colouring in?”

“Sure” He said lying through his teeth, he hadn’t coloured in since he was a child and he didn’t ever plan to colour in until a few pages were thrust upon him.

“Would you like to colour in with me sir?” The boys smiled holding up two pages.

“I have two really cool pages left, the Wizard and the Werewolf” Yoongi looked at the pictures and thought they did look pretty complicated for a childrens colour in. He took the Werewolf and a few colours and got to work, by the end of it he moved a barstool closer so the two could share more colours and they started talking. Suga didn’t realize he was talking about himself and his day, when a beautiful bartender stepped over.

“Hey my boy can I get you anything?” she asked, assessing the situation and smiling gently at Yoongi.

“Can I have a Juice mama?”

“How many have you had tonight?”

“One” he said and she nodded.

“One last one, and you have another hour and a half and then it is your bedtime, you know the rules bed by eight.” She looked to Yoongi, “can I get you another drink?”

And Yoongi felt he wasn’t stressed anymore he had talked it out with the young boy and coloured his problems away. “Ah a Juice as well please”

“Two juices and I might bring over some cookies to share okay.” She walked off, going to get some tall glasses and a plastic tumblr.

“Mister you are nice, and I think you did the right thing even though your boss is upset, it is better that you feel good in your heart and get yelled at, then to feel icky because you made the old woman pay double.”

“That’s what I think too. Thanks little man you really made me feel better”  He sighed the two coloured and worked together talking about different and better things.

“Alright mister, you know what time it is” His mother said 

“But mama I am almost finished with the wizards coat and then I am done” The boy pleaded “Please mama Five more minutes, I will get it done I swear.”

“Five more minutes, Please” Yoongi added with a gummy smile “We are almost finished” 

“Alright five more minutes and that is it,” She sighed “You are lucky you are both cute”

Jung Hoseok - Hat

In the dance team Neuron, there were many great dancers, one of them wore a bucket hat and a mask that kept his face from the public, it helped him feel like no one was watching. He was known infamously to never show his face and he preferred it that way. One day he was packing up after a gig when he was packing up some speakers into a van when he started to get really dizzy. You walked over noticing Hoseok stumble a few times he was your favourite member. You thought he was mysterious and a really expert dancer. 

You offered him help and before he could answer he and the speaker began falling. You caught the two but crumbled under the weight of a full grown man and a decent size speaker. Gently moving the equipment out of his hands you lifted him as best you could and got him to the dance teams van. You laid him down and took off his hat and wet a small towel and draped it over his forehead and eyes and you unzipped his hoodie and took off the mask. You fanned him as the crew walked over concerned.

“He passed out, I brought him to your van and I covered his face with the towel, I thought it would be disrespectful to look” You whispered, it wasn’t long before Hoseok stirred the crew finally finished packing up all there things and a few had bored some cold drinks as it was an incredibly hot day.

“What happened?” Hoseok sat up the wet towel falling from his face and you covered your eyes. “You passed out, I didn’t look but I took off your hat and mask and put a wet towel on your head.”

“You can look, it’s not a big secret friend” He chuckled as you peeked out through your fingers with his permission.

Kim Namjoon - Country

Namjoon loved plants, hiking and nature. So it wasn’t a hard decision to leave Seoul and start a little Farm, he wasn’t very good at farming, he was awfully clumsy but, it seemed the next door neighbour Taehyung came to his rescue. Teaching him all the tricks of the trade and how to drive a tractor. 

Park Jimin - Pirate @jellycake2109

There were Pirates who were ruthless killers and pirates who were cunning thieves, but there was one pirate unlike any other. The nicest Pirate of them all. He didn’t have to resort to petty theft as everyone he met was willing to give him anything he desired. The only crime he could be convicted of was breaking hearts. Of course, he could be scary. There was something about the way this sassy Pirate would turn cold when he was wronged and nobody wanted to be on the receiving end of his glare or the pointy end of his sword.

So why was he so angry? Why was he stomping through the town on a mission to find you and drag you back to his ship? What could you have possibly done?

You made him fall in love with you.

Kim Taehyung - Rice

Dinner was Taehyung’s favourite meal, it was a time to connect with family and friends and to enjoy delicious foods after a long day. He was always in charge of something easy as the boys didn’t want to overwhelm him but today he was given the duty of making and serving the rice. He measured and washed the rice hoping there was enough for everyone, he carried it to the rice cooker and put it inside pressed all the buttons he was told to by his hyung’s Yoongi and Seokjin who diligently encouraged the young boy.

And then he sat waiting like a little golden retriever for his owner to come home, he sat and watched the machine occasionally biting his thumb nail nervously. He wanted to help. And when the machine pinged he opened the lid and saw the perfectly cooked fluffy rice sitting inside the machine. He grinned “Hyung, I did it!”

His two hyungs stepped over and gave him a barrage of compliments. “Wah look at how fluffy it is Taehyung, you will have to cook the rice more often.” Seokjin patted his head before returning to the stove.

Jeon Jungkook -  Gymnastics

“We rented out the Gymnasium for you, no one can come in except there is a young lady if it is alright with you who is training this evening with a floor routine. She has a competition in about two weeks and she really needs to use the time she has if it isn’t too much trouble to share.

“No that is alright, thank you so much for even letting me use the gym in the first place” Jungkook blushed, he too had a competition in two weeks he was on the uneven bars and he was working hard to perfect his routine. He hadn’t really had time for girls usually spending time training. He didn’t think much on it, until he heard the heavy gym door squeak open and click shut.

There you were a beautiful young woman dressed in some track pants and a hoodie, you gave him a shy smile and the two of you continued working on your routines hyper aware of one another. You both took a break drinking water and he asked you a question. Nothing important, just small talk and soon the two of you had sat down reluctant to return to your practice and instead indulging in each other's company. 

“Do you ever find it just a bit stuffy,” You sighed “Like you want to just eat a hamburger or go to the movies and hang out with friends instead of just training every afternoon”

“I think about it sometimes, hell I wish I could kiss a girl once just to know what it is like?” He laughed and you leaned over pressing your lips, stifling the sound of his chuckles and watching his neck and ears go pink.

[clairebeauchampfan]

AChristmas Story: The Three Wise Guys, by Damon Runyon

The Three Wise Guys

One cold winter afternoon I am standing at the bar in Good Time Charley's little drum in West Forty-ninth Street, partaking of a mixture of rock candy and rye whisky, and this is a most surprising thing for me to be doing, as I am by no means a rum-pot, and very seldom indulge in alcoholic beverages in any way, shape, manner, or form.

But when I step into Good Time Charley's on the afternoon in question, I am feeling as if maybe I have a touch of grippe coming on, and Good Time Charley tells me that there is nothing in this world as good for a touch of grippe as rock candy and rye whisky, as it assassinates the germs at once.

It seems that Good Time Charley always keeps a stock of rock candy and rye whisky on hand for touches of the grippe, and he gives me a few doses immediately, and in fact Charley takes a few doses with me, as he says there is no telling but what I am scattering germs of my touch of the grippe all around the joint, and he must safeguard his health. We are both commencing to feel much better when the door opens, and who comes in but a guy by the name of Blondy Swanson.

This Blondy Swanson is a big, six-foot-two guy, with straw-coloured hair, and pink cheeks, and he is originally out of Harlem, and it is well known to one and all that in his day he is the largest puller on the Atlantic seaboard. In fact, for upwards of ten years, Blondy is bringing wet goods into New York from Canada, and one place and another, and in all this time he never gets a fall, which is considered a phenomenal record for an operator as extensive as Blondy.

Well, Blondy steps up alongside me at the bar, and I ask him if he cares to have a few doses of rock candy and rye whisky with me and Good Time Charley, and Blondy says he will consider it a privilege and a pleasure, because, he says, he always has something of a sweet tooth. So we have these few doses, and I say to Blondy Swanson that I hope and trust that business is thriving with him.

'I have no business,' Blondy Swanson says, 'I retire from business.'

Well, if J. Pierpont Morgan, or John D. Rockefeller, or Henry Ford step up and tell me they retire from business, I will not be more astonished than I am by this statement from Blondy Swanson, and in fact not as much. I consider Blondy's statement the most important commercial announcement I hear in many years, and naturally I ask him why he makes such a decision, and what is to become of thousands of citizens who are dependent on him for merchandise.

'Well,' Blondy says, 'I retire from business because I am one hundred per cent American citizen. In fact,' he says, 'I am a patriot. I serve my country in the late war. I am cited at Chateau Thierry. I always vote the straight Democratic ticket, except,' he says, 'when we figure it better to elect some Republican. I always stand up when the band plays the Star Spangled Banner. One year I even pay an income tax,' Blondy says.

And of course I know that many of these things are true, although I remember hearing rumours that if the draft officer is along half an hour later than he is, he will not see Blondy for heel dust, and that what Blondy is cited for at Chateau-Thierry is for not robbing the dead.

But of course I do not speak of these matters to Blondy Swanson, because Blondy is not such a guy as will care to listen to rumours, and may become indignant, and when Blondy is indignant he is very difficult to get along with.

'Now,' Blondy says, 'I am a bootie for a long time, and supply very fine merchandise to my trade, as everybody knows, and it is a respectable business, because one and all in this country are in favour of it, except the prohibitionists. But,' he says, 'I can see into the future, and I can see that one of these days they are going to repeal the prohibition law, and then it will be most unpatriotic to be bringing in wet goods from foreign parts in competition with home industry. So I retire,' Blondy says.

'Well, Blondy,' I say, 'your sentiments certainly do you credit, and if we have more citizens as high-minded as you are, this will be a better country.'

'Furthermore,' Blondy says, 'there is no money in booting any more. All the booties in this country are broke. I am broke myself,' he says. 'I just lose the last piece of property I own in the world, which is the twenty-five-G home I build in Atlantic City, figuring to spend the rest of my days there with Miss Clarabelle Cobb, before she takes a runout powder on me. Well,' Blondy says, 'if I only listen to Miss Clarabelle Cobb, I will now be an honest clerk in a gents' furnishing store, with maybe a cute little apartment up around One Hundred and Tenth Street, and children running all around and about.'

And with this, Blondy sighs heavily, and I sigh with him, because the romance of Blondy Swanson and Miss Clarabelle Cobb is well known to one and all on Broadway.

It goes back a matter of anyway six years when Blondy Swanson is making money so fast he can scarcely stop to count it, and at this time Miss Clarabelle Cobb is the most beautiful doll in this town, and many citizens almost lose their minds just gazing at her when she is a member of Mr. Georgie White's 'Scandals,' including Blondy Swanson.

In fact, after Blondy Swanson sees Miss Clarabelle Cobb in just one performance of Mr. Georgie White's 'Scandals,' he is never quite the same guy again. He goes to a lot of bother meeting up with Miss Clarabelle Cobb, and then he takes to hanging out around Mr. Georgie White's stage door, and sending Miss Clarabelle Cobb ten-pound boxes of candy, and floral horseshoes, and wreaths, and also packages of trinkets, including such articles as diamond bracelets, and brooches, and vanity cases, for there is no denying that Blondy is a fast guy with a dollar.

But it seems that Miss Clarabelle Cobb will not accept any of these offerings, except the candy and the flowers, and she goes so far as to return a sable coat that Blondy sends her one very cold day, and she is openly criticised for this action by some of the other dolls in Mr. Georgie White's 'Scandals,' for they say that after all there is a limit even to eccentricity.

But Miss Clarabelle Cobb states that she is not accepting valuable offerings from any guy, and especially a guy who is engaged in trafficking in the demon rum, because she says that his money is nothing but blood money that comes from breaking the law of the land, although, as a matter of fact, this is a dead wrong rap against Blondy Swanson, as he never handles a drop of rum in his life, but only Scotch, and furthermore he keeps himself pretty well straightened out with the law.

The idea is, Miss Clarabelle Cobb comes of very religious people back in Akron, Ohio, and she is taught from childhood that rum is a terrible thing, and personally I think it is myself, except in cocktails, and furthermore, the last thing her mamma tells her when she leaves for New York is to beware of any guys who come around offering her diamond bracelets and fur coats, because her mamma says such guys are undoubtedly snakes in the grass, and probably on the make.

But while she will not accept his offerings, Miss Clarabelle Cobb does not object to going out with Blondy Swanson now and then, and putting on the chicken Mexicaine, and the lobster Newburg, and other items of this nature, and any time you put a good-looking young guy and a beautiful doll together over the chicken Mexicaine and the lobster Newburg often enough, you are apt to have a case of love on your hands.

And this is what happens to Blondy Swanson and Miss Clarabelle Cobb, and in fact they become in love more than somewhat, and Blondy Swanson is wishing to marry Miss Clarabelle Cobb, but one night over a batch of lobster Newburg, she says to him like this:

'Blondy,' she says, 'I love you, and,' she says, 'I will marry you in a minute if you get out of trafficking in rum. I will marry you if you are out of the rum business, and do not have a dime, but I will never marry you as long as you are dealing in rum, no matter if you have a hundred million.'

Well, Blondy says he will get out of the racket at once, and he keeps saying this every now and then for a year or so, and the chances are that several times he means it, but when a guy is in this business in those days as strong as Blondy Swanson it is not so easy for him to get out, even if he wishes to do so. And then one day Miss Clarabelle Cobb has a talk with Blondy, and says to him as follows:

'Blondy,' she says, 'I still love you, but you care more for your business than you do for me. So I am going back to Ohio,' she says. 'I am sick and tired of Broadway, anyhow. Some day when you are really through with the terrible traffic you are now engaged in, come to me.'

And with this, Miss Clarabelle Cobb takes plenty of outdoors on Blondy Swanson, and is seen no more in these parts. At first Blondy thinks she is only trying to put a little pressure on him, and will be back, but as the weeks become months, and the months finally count up into years, Blondy can see that she is by no means clowning with him. Furthermore, he never hears from her, and all he knows is she is back in Akron, Ohio.

Well, Blondy is always promising himself that he will soon pack in on hauling wet goods, and go look up Miss Clarabelle Cobb and marry her, but he keeps putting it off, and putting it off, until finally one day he hears that Miss Clarabelle Cobb marries some legitimate guy in Akron, and this is a terrible blow to Blondy, indeed, and from this day he never looks at another doll again, or anyway not much.

Naturally, I express my deep sympathy to Blondy about being broke, and I also mention that my heart bleeds for him in his loss of Miss Clarabelle Cobb, and we have a few doses of rock candy and rye whisky on both propositions, and by this time Good Time Charley runs out of rock candy, and anyway it is a lot of bother for him to be mixing it up with the rye whisky, so we have the rye whisky without the rock candy, and personally I do not notice much difference.

Well, while we are standing there at the bar having our rye whisky without the rock candy, who comes in but an old guy by the name of The Dutchman, who is known to one and all as a most illegal character in every respect. In fact, The Dutchman has no standing whatever in the community, and I am somewhat surprised to see him appear in Good Time Charley's, because The Dutchman is generally a lammie from some place, and the gendarmes everywhere are always anxious to have a chat with him. The last I hear of The Dutchman he is in college somewhere out West for highway robbery, although afterwards he tells me it is a case of mistaken identity. It seems he mistakes a copper in plain clothes for a grocery-man.

The Dutchman is an old-fashioned-looking guy of maybe fifty-odd, and he has grey hair, and a stubby grey beard, and he is short, and thickset, and always good-natured, even when there is no call for it, and to look at him you will think there is no more harm in him than there is in a preacher, and maybe not as much.

As The Dutchman comes in, he takes a peek all around and about as if he is looking for somebody in particular, and when he sees Blondy Swanson he moves up alongside Blondy and begins whispering to Blondy until Blondy pulls away and tells him to speak freely.

Now The Dutchman has a very interesting story, and it goes like this: It seems that about eight or nine months back The Dutchman is mobbed up with a party of three very classy heavy guys who make quite a good thing of going around knocking off safes in small-town jugs, and post offices, and stores in small towns, and taking the money, or whatever else is valuable in these safes. This is once quite a popular custom in this country, although it dies out to some extent of late years because they improve the brand of safes so much it is a lot of bother knocking them off, but it comes back during the depression when there is no other way of making money, until it is a very prosperous business again. And of course this is very nice for old-time heavy guys, such as The Dutchman, because it gives them something to do in their old age.

Anyway, it seems that this party The Dutchman is with goes over into Pennsylvania one night on a tip from a friend and knocks off a safe in a factory office, and gets a pay roll amounting to maybe fifty G's. But it seems that while they are making their getaway in an automobile, the gendarmes take out after them, and there is a chase, during which there is considerable blasting back and forth.

Well, finally in this blasting, the three guys with The Dutchman get cooled off, and The Dutchman also gets shot up quite some, and he abandons the automobile out on an open road, taking the money, which is in a grip sack, with him, and he somehow manages to escape the gendarmes by going across country, and hiding here and there.

But The Dutchman gets pretty well petered out, what with his wounds, and trying to lug the grip sack, and one night he comes to an old deserted barn, and he decides to stash the grip sack in this barn, because there is no chance he can keep lugging it around much longer. So he takes up a few boards in the floor of the barn, and digs a nice hole in the ground underneath and plants the grip sack there, figuring to come back some day and pick it up.

Well, The Dutchman gets over into New Jersey one way and another, and lays up in a town by the name of New Brunswick until his wounds are healed, which requires considerable time as The Dutchman cannot take it nowadays as good as he can when he is younger.

Furthermore, even after The Dutchman recovers and gets to thinking of going after the stashed grip sack, he finds he is about half out of confidence, which is what happens to all guys when they commence getting old, and he figures that it may be a good idea to declare somebody else in to help him, and the first guy he thinks of is Blondy Swanson, because he knows Blondy Swanson is a very able citizen in every respect.

'Now, Blondy,' The Dutchman says, 'if you like my proposition, I am willing to cut you in for fifty per cent, and fifty per cent of fifty G's is by no means pretzels in these times.'

'Well, Dutchman,' Blondy says, 'I will gladly assist you in this enterprise on the terms you state. It appeals to me as a legitimate proposition, because there is no doubt this dough is coming to you, and from now on I am strictly legit. But in the meantime, let us have some more rock candy and rye whisky, without the rock candy, while we discuss the matter further.'

But it seems that The Dutchman does not care for rock candy and rye whisky, even without the rock candy, so Blondy Swanson and me and Good Time Charley continue taking our doses, and Blondy keeps getting more enthusiastic about The Dutchman's proposition until finally I become enthusiastic myself, and I say I think I will go along as it is an opportunity to see new sections of the country, while Good Time Charley states that it will always be the great regret of his life that his business keeps him from going, but that he will provide us with an ample store of rock candy and rye whisky, without the rock candy, in case we run into any touches of the grippe.

Well, anyway, this is how I come to be riding around in an old can belonging to The Dutchman on a very cold Christmas Eve with The Dutchman and Blondy Swanson, although none of us happen to think of it being Christmas Eve until we notice that there seems to be holly wreaths in windows here and there as we go bouncing along the roads, and finally we pass a little church that is all lit up, and somebody opens the door as we are passing, and we see a big Christmas tree inside the church, and it is a very pleasant sight, indeed, and in fact it makes me a little homesick, although of course the chances are I will not be seeing any Christmas trees even if I am home.

We leave Good Time Charley's along mid-afternoon, with The Dutchman driving this old can of his, and all I seem to remember about the trip is going through a lot of little towns so fast they seem strung together, because most of the time I am dozing in the back seat.

Blondy Swanson is riding in the front seat with The Dutchman and Blondy also cops a little snooze now and then as we are going along, but whenever he happens to wake up he pokes me awake, too, so we can take a dose of rock candy and rye whisky, without the rock candy. So in many respects it is quite an enjoyable journey.

I recollect the little church because we pass it right after we go busting through a pretty fair-sized town, and I hear The Dutchman say the old barn is now only a short distance away, and by this time it is dark, and colder than a deputy sheriff's heart, and there is snow on the ground, although it is clear overhead, and I am wishing I am back in Mindy's restaurant wrapping myself around a nice T-bone steak, when I hear Blondy Swanson ask The Dutchman if he is sure he knows where he is going, as this seems to be an untravelled road, and The Dutchman states as follows:

'Why,' he says, 'I know I am on the right road. I am following the big star you see up ahead of us, because I remember seeing this star always in front of me when I am going along the road before.'

So we keep following the star, but it turns out that it is not a star at all, but a light shining from the window of a ramshackle old frame building pretty well off to one side of the road and on a rise of ground, and when The Dutchman sees this light, he is greatly nonplussed, indeed, and speaks as follows:

'Well,' he says, 'this looks very much like my barn, but my barn does not call for a light in it. Let us investigate this matter before we go any farther.'

So The Dutchman gets out of the old can, and slips up to one side of the building and peeks through the window, and then he comes back and motions for Blondy and me to also take a peek through this window, which is nothing but a square hole cut in the side of the building with wooden bars across it, but no windowpanes, and what we behold inside by the dim light of a lantern hung on a nail on a post is really most surprising.

There is no doubt whatever that we are looking at the inside of a very old barn, for there are several stalls for horses, or maybe cows, here and there, but somebody seems to be living in the barn, as we can see a table, and a couple of chairs, and a tin stove, in which there is a little fire, and on the floor in one corner is what seems to be a sort of a bed.

Furthermore, there seems to be somebody lying on the bed and making quite a fuss in the way of groaning and crying and carrying on generally in a loud tone of voice, and there is no doubt that it is the voice of a doll, and anybody can tell that this doll is in some distress.

Well, here is a situation, indeed, and we move away from the barn to talk it over.

The Dutchman is greatly discouraged, because he gets to thinking that if this doll is living in the barn for any length of time, his plant may be discovered. He is willing to go away and wait a while, but Blondy Swanson seems to be doing quite some thinking, and finally Blondy says like this:

'Why,' Blondy says, 'the doll in this barn seems to be sick, and only a bounder and a cad will walk away from a sick doll, especially,' Blondy says, 'a sick doll who is a total stranger to him. In fact, it will take a very large heel to do such a thing. The idea is for us to go inside and see if we can do anything for this sick doll,' Blondy says.

Well, I say to Blondy Swanson that the chances are the doll's ever-loving husband, or somebody, is in town, or maybe over to the nearest neighbours digging up assistance, and will be back in a jiffy, and that this is no place for us to be found.

'No,' Blondy says, 'it cannot be as you state. The snow on the ground is anyway a day old. There are no tracks around the door of this old joint, going or coming, and it is a cinch if anybody knows there is a sick doll here, they will have plenty of time to get help before this. I am going inside and look things over,' Blondy says.

Naturally, The Dutchman and I go too, because we do not wish to be left alone outside, and it is no trouble whatever to get into the barn, as the door is unlocked, and all we have to do is walk in. And when we walk in with Blondy Swanson leading the way, the doll on the bed on the floor half-raises up to look at us, and although the light of the lantern is none too good, anybody can see that this doll is nobody but Miss Clarabelle Cobb, although personally I see some changes in her since she is in Mr. Georgie White's 'Scandals.'

She stays half-raised up on the bed looking at Blondy Swanson for as long as you can count ten, if you count fast, then she falls back and starts crying and carrying on again, and at this The Dutchman kneels down on the floor beside her to find out what is eating her.

All of a sudden The Dutchman jumps up and speaks to us as follows:

'Why,' he says, 'this is quite a delicate situation, to be sure. In fact,' he says, 'I must request you guys to step outside. What we really need for this case is a doctor, but it is too late to send for one. However, I will endeavour to do the best I can under the circumstances.'

Then The Dutchman starts taking off his overcoat, and Blondy Swanson stands looking at him with such a strange expression on his kisser that The Dutchman laughs out loud, and says like this: 'Do not worry about anything, Blondy,' The Dutchman says. 'I am maybe a little out of practice since my old lady put her checks back in the rack, but she leaves eight kids alive and kicking, and I bring them all in except one, because we are seldom able to afford a croaker.'

So Blondy Swanson and I step out of the barn and after a while The Dutchman calls us and we go back into the barn to find he has a big fire going in the stove, and the place nice and warm.

Miss Clarabelle Cobb is now all quieted down, and is covered with The Dutchman's overcoat, and as we come in The Dutchman tiptoes over to her and pulls back the coat and what do we see but a baby with a noggin no bigger than a crab apple and a face as wrinkled as some old pappy guy's, and The Dutchman states that it is a boy, and a very healthy one, at that.

'Furthermore,' The Dutchman says, 'the mamma is doing as well as can be expected. She is as strong a doll as ever I see,' he says, 'and all we have to do now is send out a croaker when we go through town just to make sure there are no complications. But,' The Dutchman says, 'I guarantee the croaker will not have much to do.'

Well, the old Dutchman is as proud of this baby as if it is his own, and I do not wish to hurt his feelings, so I say the baby is a darberoo, and a great credit to him in every respect, and also to Miss Clarabelle Cobb, while Blondy Swanson just stands there looking at it as if he never sees a baby before in his life, and is greatly astonished.

It seems that Miss Clarabelle Cobb is a very strong doll, just as The Dutchman states, and in about an hour she shows signs of being wide awake, and Blondy Swanson sits down on the floor beside her, and she talks to him quite a while in a low voice, and while they are talking The Dutchman pulls up the floor in another corner of the barn, and digs around underneath a few minutes, and finally comes up with a grip sack covered with dirt, and he opens this grip sack and shows me it is filled with lovely, large coarse banknotes.

Later Blondy Swanson tells The Dutchman and me the story of Miss Clarabelle Cobb, and parts of this story are rather sad. It seems that after Miss Clarabelle Cobb goes back to her old home in Akron, Ohio, she winds up marrying a young guy by the name of Joseph Hatcher, who is a book-keeper by trade, and has a pretty good job in Akron, so Miss Clarabelle Cobb and this Joseph Hatcher are as happy as anything together for quite a spell.

Then about a year before the night I am telling about Joseph Hatcher is sent by his firm to these parts where we find Miss Clarabelle Cobb, to do the book-keeping in a factory there, and one night a few months afterwards, when Joseph Hatcher is staying after hours in the factory office working on his books, a mob of wrong gees breaks into the joint, and sticks him up, and blows open the safe, taking away a large sum of money and leaving Joseph Hatcher tied up like a turkey.

When Joseph Hatcher is discovered in this predicament the next morning, what happens but the gendarmes put the sleeve on him, and place him in the pokey, saying the chances are Joseph Hatcher is in and in with the safe-blowers, and that he tips them off the dough is in the safe, and it seems that the guy who is especially fond of this idea is a guy by the name of Ambersham, who is manager of the factory, and a very hard-hearted guy, at that.

And now, although this is eight or nine months back, there is Joseph Hatcher still in the pokey awaiting trial, and it is seven to five anywhere in town that the judge throws the book at him when he finally goes to bat, because it seems from what Miss Clarabelle Cobb tells Blondy Swanson that nearly everybody figures Joseph Hatcher is guilty.

But of course Miss Clarabelle Cobb does not put in with popular opinion about her ever-loving Joe, and she spends the next few months trying to spring him from the pokey, but she has no potatoes, and no way of getting any potatoes, so things go from bad to worse with Miss Clarabelle Cobb.

Finally, she finds herself with no place to live in town, and she happens to run into this old barn, which is on an abandoned property owned by a doctor in town by the name of Kelton, and it seems that he is a kind-hearted guy, and he gives her permission to use it any way she wishes. So Miss Clarabelle moves into the barn, and the chances are there is many a time when she wishes she is back in Mr. Georgie White's 'Scandals.'

Now The Dutchman listens to this story with great interest, especially the part about Joseph Hatcher being left tied up in the factory office, and finally The Dutchman states as follows:

'Why, my goodness,' The Dutchman says, 'there is no doubt but what this is the very same young guy we are compelled to truss up the night we get this grip sack. As I recollect it, he wishes to battle for his employer's dough, and I personally tap him over the coco with a blackjack.

'But,' he says, 'he is by no means the guy who tips us off about the dough being there. As I remember it now, it is nobody but the guy whose name you mention in Miss Clarabelle Cobb's story. It is this guy Ambersham, the manager of the joint, and come to think of it, he is supposed to get his bit of this dough for his trouble, and it is only fair that I carry out this agreement as the executor of the estate of my late comrades, although,' The Dutchman says, 'I do not approve of his conduct towards this Joseph Hatcher. But,' he says, 'the first thing for us to do is to get a doctor out here to Miss Clarabelle Cobb, and I judge the doctor for us to get is this Doc Kelton she speaks of.'

So The Dutchman takes the grip sack and we get into the old can and head back the way we come, although before we go I see Blondy Swanson bend down over Miss Clarabelle Cobb, and while I do not wish this to go any farther, I will take a paralysed oath I see him plant a small kiss on the baby's noggin, and I hear Miss Clarabelle Cobb speak as follows:

'I will name him for you, Blondy,' she says. 'By the way, Blondy, what is your right name?'

'Olaf,' Blondy says.

It is now along in the early morning and not many citizens are stirring as we go through town again, with Blondy in the front seat again holding the grip sack on his lap so The Dutchman can drive, but finally we find a guy in an all-night lunch counter who knows where Doc Kelton lives, and this guy stands on the running-board of the old can and guides us to a house in a side street, and after pounding on the door quite a spell, we roust the Doc out and Blondy goes inside to talk with him.

He is in there quite a spell, but when he comes out he says everything is okay, and that Doc Kelton will go at once to look after Miss Clarabelle Cobb, and take her to a hospital, and Blondy states that he leaves a couple of C's with the Doc to make sure Miss Clarabelle Cobb gets the best of care.

'Well,' The Dutchman says, 'we can afford a couple of C's out of what we have in this grip sack, but,' he says, 'I am still wondering if it is not my duty to look up this Ambersham, and give him his bit.'

'Dutchman,' Blondy says, 'I fear I have some bad news for you. The grip sack is gone. This Doc Kelton strikes me as a right guy in every respect, especially,' Blondy says, 'as he states to me that he always half-suspects there is a wrong rap in on Miss Clarabelle Cobb's ever-loving Joe, and that if it is not for this guy Ambersham agitating all the time other citizens may suspect the same thing, and it will not be so tough for Joe.

'So,' Blondy says, 'I tell Doc Kelton the whole story, about Ambersham and all, and I take the liberty of leaving the grip sack with him to be returned to the rightful owners, and Doc Kelton says if he does not have Miss Clarabelle Cobb's Joe out of the sneezer, and this Ambersham on the run out of town in twenty-four hours, I can call him a liar. But,' Blondy says, 'let us now proceed on our way, because I only have Doc Kelton's word that he will give us twelve hours' leeway before he does anything except attend to Miss Clarabelle Cobb, as I figure you need this much time to get out of sight, Dutchman.'

Well, The Dutchman does not say anything about all this news for a while, and seems to be thinking the situation over, and while he is thinking he is giving his old can a little more gas than he intends, and she is fairly popping along what seems to be the main drag of the town when a gendarme on a motor-cycle comes up alongside us, and motions The Dutchman to pull over to the kerb.

He is a nice-looking young gendarme, but he seems somewhat hostile as he gets off his motor-cycle, and walks up to us very slow, and asks us where the fire is.

Naturally, we do not say anything in reply, which is the only thing to say to a gendarme under these circumstances, so he speaks as follows:

'What are you guys carrying in this old skillet, anyway?' he says. 'Stand up, and let me look you guys over.'

And then as we stand up, he peeks into the front and back of the car, and under our feet, and all he finds is a bottle which once holds some of Good Time Charley's rock candy and rye whisky without the rock candy, but which is now very empty, and he holds this bottle up, and sniffs at the nozzle, and asks what is formerly in this bottle, and I tell him the truth when I tell him it is once full of medicine, and The Dutchman and Blondy Swanson nod their heads in support of my statement. But the gendarme takes another sniff, and then he says like this:

'Oh,' he says, very sarcastic, 'wise guys, eh? Three wise guys, eh? Trying to kid somebody, eh? Medicine, eh?' he says. 'Well, if it is not Christmas Day I will take you in and hold you just on suspicion. But I will be Santa Claus to you, and let you go ahead, wise guys.'

And then after we get a few blocks away, The Dutchman speaks as follows: 'Yes,' he says, 'that is what we are, to be sure. We are wise guys. If we are not wise guys, we will still have the grip sack in this car for the copper to find. And if the copper finds the grip sack, he will wish to take us to the jail house for investigation, and if he wishes to take us there I fear he will not be alive at this time, and we will be in plenty of heat around and about, and personally,' The Dutchman says, 'I am sick and tired of heat.'

And with this The Dutchman puts a large Betsy back in a holster under his left arm, and turns on the gas, and as the old can begins leaving the lights of the town behind, I ask Blondy if he happens to notice the name of this town.

'Yes,' Blondy says, 'I notice it on a signboard we just pass. It is Bethlehem, Pa.'

[eyes0ny0u]

Pastel Mafia

@quagmireisadora finished Chapter 2 - FINALLY! TT ^ TT

CHAPTER 1: A ROUGH DAY

CHAPTER 2: WHEN THE GOING GETS ROUGH

Kibum sighed as he entered his apartment. Leaning against the door as he took off his shoes. He glanced at the microwave clock he could see from where he stood: 2:18 am. He's got maybe three hours before he has to get up for his part-time job at Albert's, a fancy bakery in the upper east side, at the opposite end of town. He would love nothing better than to sleep in tomorrow, but Albert's paid the best out of all his part-time jobs, and he got tips. 

Right now, he needed all the tips and extra hours he can get. His last roommate had bailed on him, leaving him with an entire two-bedroom apartment to pay. He had begged his landlord to let him pay for his half of the apartment and will get him the rest later.

Kibum remembered the call from St. John's collection department, he still owed them a portion of last month's installment. His fist clenched at the embarrassment of admitting to a total stranger he didn't even have five dollars to his name. His last one disappeared when he lost his wallet.

Kibum trudged to the tiny kitchen and pulled out the leftover Chinese from his bag, thankful that the shift manager had let him take home whatever portions were left. He popped the take out carton into the microwave and looked around his apartment, with its peeling paint and cold air - he had barely turned on the heater since winter began. He was sleeping with thick clothes on, the thermostat just above '5' at the dial. 

Kibum's eyes landed on the syllabus stuck to the fridge. The tears exhaustion couldn't squeeze from him poured at the thought that he will have to stop school. 

 God, he was tired. 

 So tired - but life didn't care. 

 Kibum wiped his cheeks. Squaring his shoulders as he pulled the warmed up Chinese and dug in. No use in indulging his tears. He didn't have enough food to drown his feelings.

  - O -  

 "Carlos Amarillo at 57, was confirmed to have passed away by his son, Gian Amarillo today. No details were given to what caused the business tycoon's sudden death. Amarillo, who was the head of the Amarillo Group conglomerate, was a noted businessman and humanitarian in the area -," Jinki tuned out the late night news, lips tightening at the praises. 

 "What a bunch of hypocrites," Taemin sneered at the TV. "Not a month ago, they wanted Amarillo's head for Hawthorne Bridge!"

 "Had they pushed a little further, they would've found proof of involvement," Minho interjected. 

 "They would have gotten paid off or threatened," Jinki said, reviewing the report on the shipment of electronics that arrived yesterday. "Or found their contact dead."

 "True," Minho agreed, swirling the scotch he had been nursing since the news started. "What do you think Junior will do?"

 Jinki leaned back, loosening his tie. He'd never worked with Gian before. All he knew about the new head of the Amarillo was that he was in the business, and he was ambitious.

 "I heard Gian was banished from the main family for running that side deal with Salazar," Jinki said, referring to a semi-prominent Mexican cartel. "So, I'm not sure if he's going to declare war or be open for business."

 "My money is on declaring war," Taemin said, slurping an oyster. "If he wants to gain the respect of his father's men, he'll be doing just that. I mean, you did when you took over the business."

 "Yeah, but Gian has a hater with his father's numero uno," Minho said, leaning over Taemin's oyster bucket to reach for the charcuterie board. "Rumor has it Vincenzo Benotti might be the old Amarillo's love child."

 "Really?" Jinki asked Minho. "I've never heard of this."

 "I'm not surprised," Minho shrugged before popping a cracker piled with pate and cheese into his mouth. "It's parlour game rumours; some drunken Amarillo lackey may have blabbed over drinks or said out of spite. You know how it is."

 Jinki turned to his computer and pulled up the file on Carlos Amarillo. Under the 'Known Associates' directory, was a picture of Vincenzo. The man had black hair and brown eyes. Just like Amarillo Sr. Being Italian that didn't mean anything. But something about the slant of the man's jaw reminded Jinki of Carlos. 

 "Minho, investigate Vincenzo," Jinki ordered. "I want to know everything. What town his ancestors were from to the brand of their favourite red wine."

 Jinki wasn't sure if he was seeing things, but it was worth investigating. Lovechild or not, Vincenzo might be vying for the top seat. Gian Amarillo could need some help with ensuring his position in the organization. His deal with Carlos Amarillo may not be as dead as he thought it was. On life support, but it looked like it could be revived. 

 He just needed to convince either Vincenzo or Gian that he would make a good ally despite the little fiasco last week. What're a few bullets between business partners? In their world, it was practically considered a nicety. 

 "By the way," Jinki suddenly remembered his pet project. "What do we have on the guy who saved my ass last week?"

- O -

 Albert's was, as usual, teeming with yuppies, grabbing their trendy breakfast before heading off to work. Kibum rang up orders as fast as he could, but his mind still on the unpaid bills he needed to take care of. Kibum glanced down the line, trying to determine how much longer the rush was going to last. With detachment, he noted the quality of apparel Albert's clientele sported and envied the financial security, all of them exuded. 

 "A croissant and a large of your medium roast, please," a woman with flawless makeup and Gucci bag said, barely looking him in the face as she pulled out a Valentino wallet. Kibum punched the order in; $15.08 for Anna. A breakfast for Anna was Kibum's meal budget for 3-days, courtesy of his employee rate at the Dong Fan Chinese restaurant.

 "An espresso please and the fruit and protein box," man in gleaming Rolex and Balenciaga briefcase ordered. His suit was probably Italian, ranging around $5,000.00 to $8,000.00, depending on the make—the leather briefcase around $2,000.00. The Rolex was at least $3,000.00. The guy's entire ensemble would have more than paid off his grandmother's hospital bill. 

 Sir, would you mind pawning me your Rolex so that I can get the hospital off my back? Kibum silently asked the yuppie who didn't bother leaving a tip. 

 "The yogurt parfait and medium-light roast, please," a red-head regular asked. The diamond engagement ring on her finger was so big; it was at least 2 carats with a platinum band encrusted with tiny diamonds. Kibum's entire year of schooling was sitting on that woman's ring finger. 

 Would you mind lending me your ring so I can enroll? Kibum asked the woman in his head as he flashed his practiced smile when she dropped a toonie in the tip jar. I would like to make more of my life than bussing tables and waiting on people. Please. 

 The next customer was dressed in a simple navy blue pinstripe suit. One could say the man didn't belong in the "fashionable" line. Working at Albert's for the past three years had taught Kibum how to size people at a glance. Gauging where they belong in the socio-economic ladder had become his weird expertise. Though the outfit was simple, borderline plain, the perfect fit of the shoulders and elegant drop of the knife-edge crease of the pants said tailored. The understated silver - most likely platinum - watch and leather loafers screamed old money.  

 "The blueberry muffin and a tall medium roast, please," the man said, handing Kibum a fifty dollar bill. 

 Kibum barely stopped an eye-roll. C'mon, dude, it's barely 8 am. Have a little sense, and don't drop a bill so large so early in the morning. "Sir, do you have a smaller bill?"

 "No change?" the man asked an eyebrow raised. 

 "Unfortunately," Kibum said with a fake apologetic smile. 

 "Keep the change then."

 "Sir, your total is $12.30," Kibum exclaimed. 

 "I don't have a smaller bill," the man said as he placed the bill on the counter and walked away.

 "Sir -," Kibum called out, but the next customer stepped in front of him. 

 Kibum punched the payment on auto-pilot and dropped the change in the tip jar, almost feeling nauseous. That was hella over the top, and somehow assholish in its extravagance. But he was thankful for the extra cash he was going to get. 

 After his shift at Albert's, Kibum rushed to the bus stop for his afternoon shift at Dong Fan. The bus was pulling away from the curb when he arrived. Kibum gritted his teeth against the frustration surging through him. He was going to be late for his shift and that meant income loss. 

 Kibum took a deep breath to stifle the string of curses rising from his chest. He took out his phone to call the restaurant but noticed he had an email from St. John's. He was tempted to ignore it but tapped on the icon anyways. 

 Kibum blinked at the message. He scrolled up again to check the sender. Yeah, there it was, St. Johns Hospital. But something was wrong because the email contained a receipt for the amount he owed the hospital.

 Confused, Kibum clicked on the phone number in the signature, brow furrowing as the call went through. After being transferred to accounting he asked about the status of his account. 

 "Your account is up to date."

 "Excuse me?"

 "Your balance was paid for in full yesterday."

 "By whom?" Kibum asked still in disbelief, afraid to believe. "I didn't make the payment," Kibum said. "No one else would make the payment."

 "Payment came in electronically from Jjinggu LLC," the agent answered. "It could be one of those angel-sponsors."

 "What's an angel-sponsor?"

 "They're anonymous individuals or organizations who will settle random accounts as part of their charity work."

 "And you don't know their names at all?"

 "No, I'm sorry. Payors are not required to identify themselves."

 "Ok... but you're sure, they made the payment against my account?"

 "Yes, sir," Kibum heard the operator's smile. "I'm one hundred percent sure, Mr. Kim." 

 "OK," Kibum whispered. "Thanks."

 "Was there anything else I can help you with?"

 "No, that's it."

 Kibum disconnected the call, reeling from the relief. Tears pricked his eyes as the weight of the debt lifted off of his chest. Kibum cupped his hands over his phone, holding it against his forehead. 

 "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you," Kibum chanted in whispers, collapsing on the bus stop bench, trying to contain the tremors running through his body. Glad for a very long time he was alone. 

[oddsnendsfanfics]

Unraveling at the Seams Pt 2

Genre: Fan Fiction Pairing: Alex Høgh Andersen/OFC, Henry Cavill/OFC Warnings: Language, Sexual Innuendo, Possible NSFW Rating: M Length: Multi Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.  

A/N: Well this is going over better than I thought it would. For that, I thank you all :)

thank you @flowers-in-your-hayr for the header :D

Catch Up Here 

“Momma,” The voice stirred through the sea air, rolling in off the Channel like a faint whisper. Nell scrunched her nose, her toes in the cool sand,  surrounded by the tiny grains. “Momma.”

This time of year the bay was beautiful, she remembered her first time seeing it, France to the East and England slightly to the North West. It had to be one of the most beautiful places Nell had ever...

“Momma!” The voice raised, accompanied by a violent shaking. “Mum! Mum!”

“Wha---” Nell groaned trying to roll away from the brutal wake up. Ivan could have at least waited until her alarm went off to wake her. “Ivan, stop.” she held her arm over her face, trying to block out the sunlight from the bay window.

“I need a new bag.” Ivan halted the attack on his sleeping mother. His dark curls a mess of bedhead, his blue eyes bright.

“Why? What happened to the one that you have?” Nell tried to find the time. Blindly grabbing for her phone, she gave in to defeat. Her alarm was due in five minutes, though there was no chance in getting those last five minutes of sleep. Her hair in it's own state of bedhead, she sat up and stretched her arms.

“I can't use it.” Ivan shrugged, standing beside her bed with the blue and red bag in his hand. He'd managed to get dressed, at least. Nell grunted, unable to form any more words at the current second. How she wanted to be back on that peaceful and quiet bay. “Momma.”

“What ever is the problem, my dearest boy?” She was awake now.

“I need another bag.” Ivan huffed. How many times did he have to tell his mother this? She was hopeless before he first cup of coffee. “I don't like this one, anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because nobody at school likes Superman any more. It would be so uncool to have it.” Ivan's eyes were wide and his voice serious. Nell chuckled, kids.

“Then go to your cupboard and get your old one, for today.”

“Okay, but we need to get rid of this. I can't be seen wearing this, ever!”

“Tell your father, he's the one who gave it to you.” Nell scratched the back of her head. Ivan dropped the bag and dashed down the hall. It was too early and Nell was too tired to remind him not to tear his room apart looking for something else.

Finally, the Superman drama causing book bag was replaced with one from the previous year. Nell assumed that since Superman was out, it would be cooler for her son to roll up to his class toting an old Peppa Pig bag. She would never understand kids and their crazes.

Breakfast. Check. Thanks to the blueberry muffins made by Bridie.

Lunches. Check. Shepherd's Pie, apple slices, a granola bar, and orange juice box for both of them.

Work bag. Gym bag. Keys. Coffee. Ivan.

And Nell was out the door.

Mornings like this were hectic to say the least, but they were Nell's favourite. Going into work later was always a bonus, though the real treat was getting to spend the early morning with Ivan. Nobody else there to interrupt them or tell them what or how to do things. It was the best part of the week, aside from Sunday, when Nell had the full day off and they indulged themselves in a late breakfast and an afternoon full of never leaving the couch.

At work Alex hadn't intended to wait for Nell, his schedule had been pushed back, which meant he had a little more time to hang out in the studio. It wasn't as if he had planned to be lingering when she walked into the department.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Alex greeted her before she could register what was going on.

“Uh, yeah. Hi.” Nell gave him a curt nod. “Rayna, can you help me unload those costumes we packed yesterday? I think there are one or two that need to be restitched.”

“Finished, sweets.” Rayna replied with a knowing smile and a wink.

The young actor had been following Nell around for too long, it was about time he got his due. At the very least, Rayna could help him get in a proper conversation with her colleague. It was less than a minute to her break, handing Alex a box of pins, Rayna instructed him to wait for Nell.

Settling into work, Nell ditched her bags and grabbed the folder she needed to begin mapping out the next round of costumes. Damn Rayna. Nell heard her tell Alex that she was leaving. Smooth on her friend's part. Taking her sweet time, Nell moved at a glacial pace. Small talk and nosy people were two things she wanted to avoid at all costs.

“Nell?” Alex poked his head around the door. “Ray said...”

“I heard.”

“Oh. Do you need any help?” He leaned against the door frame, his smile doing the best to charm the designer. His hair twisted into a bun, waiting for his hair and make up call, to transform him into whatever version of Ivar that they wished to create today.

“No thanks.” Nell shook her head. “You don't have to stand here, you know. I'm sure you have better things to do.”

Resting against the door, as if holding it upright, Alex's nose crinkled. “I am waiting for the call, I really don't have anything else to do.”

“Huh.”

On a typical day Alex would be nowhere to be found, while waiting for a set call. Like the other actors sleeping, reading, or generally goofing off was how he tended to spend his time. As of late he was choosing to spend more and more time in the costume department.

He watched Nell move around, gathering this piece or that, piling them up on a table at the end of the room. Whether she was conscious of it or not, her hips swayed to the music in her head, while she began to work. Her full attention set on the task at hand, she did an excellent job at ignoring Alex.  

The drawings on the paper before her had Nell's full attention, it was one of the bigger pieces, taking weeks to create and it still had fine details to be finished. It would be worn in the second half of the season, the actress it had been made for would look even better than Nell had imagined when this piece had begun. Her nimble fingers worked over a piece of costume, checking the stitching inch by inch. Alex had never sat and watched all the detail going into the clothing he wore day after day, while in character.

Such effort and care.

Nell could feel the steel blue eyes following her around the room.

He was tenacious, to say the least. There weren't many men his age who would stand that quiet and patiently. As awkward as Nell should find this, having Alex watching her felt familiar in a way. His presence reminded her of another time in her life, when another young actor had worked this hard to gain her attention.

This time she was going to be smart. Humor Alex with some chatting, rewarding him with a smile,  and nothing more. No longer was Nell going to swayed by gorgeous blue eyes and a flashy smile.

Alex was never quiet this long, strangely Nell liked him this way. His chatter was too much sometimes, despite him meaning well by it. She knew that he assumed she hated him. Yes, he annoyed her, never intentionally. What annoyed her was what he reminded her of, not him directly.

Shifting to prevent his leg from going to sleep, Alex stayed quiet and watched. He'd never noticed that Nell moved with absolute grace or that she had a small tattoo behind her left ear. At that he began to feel a tiny bit creepy.

“I may go get a drink, would you like anything? Coffee?”

“Uh,” Nell glanced up, catching Alex's eye. He was rather cute, standing there in half in his costume, looking like a lost puppy. “Scotch?” Nell's laugh was easy.

“I don't have any of that here, otherwise I would gladly share.” Alex winked. He liked her laugh. Was it too bold to tell her that?

“Unfortunate for us.” Nell joked. “Since there is no scotch, I'll take a coffee. Please. Black one sugar.”

Mock saluting, Alex grinned widely. “One coffee, black, one sugar on the way.”

Hearing that Alex and Nell had some easy interaction would surely please Rayna all while fueling her imagination.

She had told Nell more than once to enjoy the attention. He was young, handsome, generous, and could still be taught a thing or two where it would count. Each time, Nell would laugh trying to escape the conversation. Alex would soon move on, the second he found someone else to fawn over. He was young and handsome, women his age would eat that up in a second.

A handsome, sweet nature, generous actor was a recipe for disaster. Nell learned that first hand and would not, under any circumstances, go back there. She had been down that path and while it had left her with Ivan, she wasn't up for a second round.

“Coffee.” Alex held out the cup. “And!” he held out a package of chocolate chip cookies, tearing open the top he offered the first choice of the two cookies to Nell. “I grabbed these right before Marco, lucky score.”

“Well now I feel bad, poor Marco. What is he going to do?” Nell bit into the cookie.

Snickering, Alex shrugged. His friend would get over it.

“Don't you hate days like this?” Nell wondered out loud. “The slow days where nothing is happening, I hate waiting.”

“It's not my favourite, it's part of the job I guess.” Alex replied sipping his coffee and taking a bite of his cookie. “I'm not patient.”

“Neither am I,” Nell admitted. “Though being a mom has helped that.”

Alex swallowed his cookie and took another sip of coffee. After yesterday, he didn't want to step on any toes by discussing Nell's son.

“I don't...I don't know if I could do that.” Alex gently moved the conversation along. “Parenting must be a tough job. I can barely look after myself, it's why Marco lives with me.”

“I felt that way, at first. Especially after...”

“Right,” Alex wiped the crumbs of the cookie off of him. Sheepishly grinning at Nell. “I have to go find out what is going on for my shoot. If you're around later, how about we get together for another coffee?”

Saving her from going down a road that seemed rather personal for work, Alex crinkled the cookie package in his hand.

“Hmm,” Nell wrinkled her nose. “Not going to happen, sorry. Ivan will be here after school and I am off early.”

“Maybe tomorrow? Or Monday?” Alex was wishful that she would take his offer. He felt as though Nell had chatted with him to be polite or because she was bored, whatever he would take this as a personal win. If he had balls, he'd ask her for coffee over their days off.

“We'll see.” Nell smiled softly, her eyes creasing gently in the corner. She had stunning eyes.

“Until then, enjoy your shitty coffee. And good luck with all this work.” Alex waved backing out of the door.

He had accomplished a nearly impossible task today and it left him feeling invincible.

Lost in her work, time began to slip away. Deep in her element, Nell hadn't bothered to look at a clock since Alex had left. She knew it would soon be time for Ivan to come, a excitement began to bubble. Her son loved hanging out at work with his mother, his mood would change the older her got. Until then, Nell would take full advantage of the time he wanted to spend around his mother. Even if he did it because of how cool  it was to see people battling one another with swords?

“Nell, visitor.” One of the ladies who worked as a various runner knocked on the door. Nell's head jerked up, a smile on her face.

“Thank you,” Nell dropped everything she was doing to meet Bridie and collect Ivan.  Thanking their nanny and waving her off, the duo headed back inside. The afternoon warmth was welcomed on the other hand, the air conditioning was nicer.

“How was school?” Nell ruffled Ivan's hair and hugged him to her side.

“Long.” Ivan rolled his eyes, leaning into his mother. “Can I play with your phone?”

“Slow down, wild boy.” Nell eased. “You can, but if there is any school work it has to be done first. Go on, I will clear a space for you.”

“No school work.” Ivan beamed proudly. “I got a gold star today and don't have any.”

“Such a smart boy.” Nell held open the door for her son to pass through. “Give me a second, I will get you a spot to hang out and play games.”

“Okay.”

Ivan's quest for a game to play was sidetracked, when he stepped inside to find the familiar man hanging out, waiting like every one else seemed to be today. Bouncing the rest of the way across the room, Ivan greeted his friend. Calling to his mother. “Mum, I don't need to play a game right now.”

“Ivan!” Jordan cheered, his laugh coming in a growl. “How've ya been, buddy?”

Jordan and his girlfriend lived in the townhouse across the courtyard from Nell and Ivan. Having met Jordan at work with his mother; Ivan would sometimes join the actor in games of basketball on the small court behind their complex. On Saturdays, providing there was nothing else going on, Jordan would invite Nell and Ivan over to watch whatever football match was on. Jordan and Ivan would sit in front of the tv yelling and cheering, while Nell and Sophie ignored the chaos and spent time gossiping about this and that.

“Good, I guess. Ms. Inglewood has been giving a lot of homework.” The seven year old groaned, flopping down on the chair next to the actor. “Mountains of it!” His eyes were wide. “But not today.”

“Ah, all part of the school game, little man.” Jordan clasped a hand over the boy's small shoulder. “Tell me what you've been learning about.”

Nell snickered, pulling a rack of pants from the large cupboard behind the chairs, Ivan had been complaining for the last two weeks about this very subject. Jordan had opened a can of worms.

“Vikings.” Ivan replied in discontent.

“Well, look at that!” Jordan's enthusiasm was about to be squashed. He nudged the boy in the arm, smiling. “You must be at the top of the class, then?”

“No.” Ivan mumbled, folding his arms across his chest. “Ms. Inglewood has it all wrong and when I tell her that, she gets mad at me.”

“What do you mean?”

“She knows nothing about Vikings! It's all big and hairy men, wearing hats with horns, and how they were big bullies.” Ivan huffed, turning in his seat, he grasped the armrest, leaning over into Jordan's face. “She's crazy and not a very good teacher!”

“Hmm,” Jordan pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “Do you tell her that she's wrong, often?”

“Every day!” Ivan nodded firmly. He'd sat back a few inches, giving Jordan room to turn and face him.

“Maybe that's why she's always mad?”

“But she's wrong!” Ivan argued. “Wrongggg, Jordan, wrong!”

“So, the next time she is wrong, try being nice. Rise your hand and politely explain how what she is saying, isn't true.” Jordan offered the solution.

“Ugh.” Ivan sat back on his chair. “She won't listen to me, but...” He smirked. “She might listen to an adult.”

Nell listened to the conversation, no matter what Jordan said Ivan would try his best to get his own way. The little boy had a charming smile and those dazzling blue eyes, it was difficult for adults to deny him. A charm his father had as well. If he grew up to be like his father, the world was going to need some help handling them both.

“Buddy, I'm not sure that I'm the right guy to talk to your class. I don't now much about Vikings, I just pretend to be one.” Jordan shrugged, standing to finish putting on his costume. He had spent enough time with the boy to know how to deflect that charm. “Why don't you see if your mum can't help you find someone else?”

“But you're my best friend. And adult girls like you.” Ivan continued to argue. The various people in the room getting a chuckle, as the little boy tried his best to convince the actor. “Please.”

“Okay, Ivan, enough.” Nell cut in, running her hand through his hair. “Jordan has to get to work. We can discuss this later, let him go.”

“Mummm.” Ivan whined, ducking away from her. “I need someone to talk to Ms. Inglewood. Otherwise, she's going to produce a bunch of morons.”

“Ivan! Language!” Nell scolded her son. “Lets give this a rest, why don't you go see what they're doing in make up? I'll be right over with the rest of today's costumes.”

“Fine.” Ivan grumbled, sliding out of the chair. “But someone needs to talk to this woman. Where's Mr. Peter? He knows a lot about Vikings right?”

“Go and leave him alone, too!”

@funmadnessandbadassvikings​ , @kawennote09​, @smutgoblin​ , @nickysurfer28​ , @peaceisadirtyword​, @igetcarriedawaywithyou​ , @lif3snotouttogetyou​, @akamaiden​ @angelaiswriting​, @neeadinghugs​, @thoughtsmeander2tumblingblindly​, @ilvebeenabad​ , @naaladareia​, @imgoldielikehawn​ @tephi101​, @sdcyumyum​ @unacceptabletatertots​, @sparklemichele​ , @titty-teetee​ , @smolasianwinterbean​ , @capitanostella​ , @captstefanbrandt​ @bloodyivar​  , @normanallthewayforever​  , @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme​ , @imyourliquor-youremypoison​ , @nikky-the-writer​  , @seremedyxiii​ , @laketaj24​ , @deleteidentity​ , @tornupandbored​ , @hoeghfabulous​ , @ateliefloresdaprimavera​  , @mydarlingwhim​ , @kenzieam​ , @jar-of-love​ ,  @angelswannawearmyredshooz​ , @manuugxlvis​  , @lost-in-my-thoughs , @ivars-snowflake​ , @lisinfleur​ , @fumblingthroughchaos​ @pebblesz892 , @nelson-and-murdock​ , @nothingeverdies, @bluearchersstuff  @itsspecial-itsnotforeveryone, @ivarlothbroks, @badassbaker  @cris101071 @fucktrucks @ohjules @mrsadrianraines  @angelic-kisses13 @marthasantos95 @atlanticowe @hows-my-hair @omgshuddupmeg @moviegirl50 @havenoffandoms @gearhead66 @happydaysandersen @rekdreams-fandom @lovemylife2618 @supernaturalvikingwhore @heavenly1927 @zoe-rachel-crisp @blogandreea11 @shileen91 @geekandbooknerd @mzliterarydreamer @youbloodymadgenius @ainatirb-j @carlya65​

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[brookelynnsanders]

Practice Challenge 1 - Prompt 1

A/N a very big thank you to my amazing beta @freykitten for fixing my mess. Love you lots! Also thank you to @dawningofdrag for being my personal cheerleader! Hope you guys enjoy

In the Dream Girls and Pageant's flat the weekly post-lecture drinking session has just got started. An array of different whiskies, canned cocktails and wine litters the second hand dining table where Brooke’s Bachelor thesis has laid not five minutes earlier. A’keria pours herself and Brooke the second glass of scotch for the day - the first one was for calming their nerves while finishing up the last touches on their theses. Meanwhile, Nina helps Vanessa transform her favorite homemade dish, puerto rican pasteles de carne, into a vegan version - which seems to take longer than expected. Not really a surprise when considering the fact Vanessa’s abuelita had never used any proper measurements and just went with her gut. And if Brooke isn’t mistaken, she can hear Vanessa argue from the kitchen that the recipe just flows through her Latin blood, and therefore she needs no “motherfucking measurements”. The blonde can only chuckle and slightly shake her head before taking another sip from her drink. 

“Kiki, have you seen Silky?” Brooke asks out loud, surprised by how relatively quiet the shared household is. The only noises to be heard coming from the kitchen, and, for once, they don’t even include wild chatter or singing.

“If I remember correctly, she wandered off to buy some pastries, but who knows where Big Silk actually is,” A’keria answers without even taking her eyes off her phone for a second. Her manicured fingers swiping left and right across the screen. 

“Are you on tinder again?” A teasing smile present on her lips.

“You fucking know I am.” The snip of her fingers highlights her cocky attitude, knowing damn well most mean swoon over her. Fall for her feisty but wise dementor within seconds.

“Have you matched with- ” The blond starts, before getting cut off mid sentence.

“Guys, girls, and nonbinary pals - I have humongous news!” Silky bursts through the entrance, adding an extra door slam for the shock value. Three pairs of blown wide pupils stare at her - not necessarily in shock, rather in anticipation.

“Spit it out!” Vanessa shouts as Nina popps her head through the doorframe as well. Intrigued by the ongoing comotion - not even bothering about getting the sauce stains off her cheek.

“The application letters for Prince Arin Schreave’s Selection just arrived.”

For a second the world stands still. Everyone, including Brooke, holds their breath. The calm before the storm.

This sentence alone is enough for hell to break loose in the tiny college apartment. Vanessa and A’keria flock around Silky like pigeons waiting for seed to be tossed at them. Vanjie, the shortest of the trio, bounces like a ball around the other two, making up a song with random Spanish words and screeching at the top of her lungs, while A’keria and Silky argue about who would be a better queen. Nina simply settles by Brooke’s side with a small cuckle, brushing her blonde fringe out of the way. Both only roll their eyes, having forgotten about the Selection since the day it has been announced. There've been way more important things on Brooke’s mind - like how many additional hours she needs to spend in the lab to gain extra credit.

"How can someone be so excited about being objectified by the entire nation," Brooke mumbles to herself - very unimpressed by the whole ordeal, not really understanding the hype around the upcoming Selection. How come that her 20 something year old friends turned into 12 year old teenage girls dreaming about life as a royal within seconds? 

Hormones - I guess.

"Because this ass deserves to be objectified," Silky whoops, putting on an entire twerking show in the living room with Vanjie and A’keria hyping her up and joining the jelly shaking. Usually Brooke finds her friends intoxicating goofiness amusing without any alcohol in her system. Apparently, today is not the day. So she falls back into her seat, taking a heavy swing of her liquor and watches her friends chatter about the possibility of an average looking rich boy falling for one of them. 

An hour passes and the giggly girls still haven't calmed down, and since nearly everyone abandoned the food immediately - it’s between Brooke and Silky to finish the puerto rican delicacy. Tipsy Brooke doesn't mind that now even Nina joined the hype, seemingly having forgotten about her current boyfriend. The blonde keeps herself busy with alternating between online shopping for new pointe shoes and new plants she can add to her steadily growing collection. Not an ideal Friday afternoon, but at least this time around A’keria didn’t forget to buy vegan pork. 

A glance to her clock tells her that her favorite trashy TV show starts soon. A silent prayer escapes her lips in hopes that this will spark a different conversation among the girls.

However, her prayer stayed unheard.

Another glass of liquor in, she starts to enjoy the laughter and excitement laying heavy in the air - drowning out the TV. The beaming smiles of her friends slowly melt her cold exterior, making her forget why she is so bitter in the first place. A fuzzy feeling spreads in her chest at the mention of sparkly ball gowns and which jewels would best suit Silky’s and A’keria’s darker complexion. Glue stains might now cover the table surface, but all Brooke can focus on is the twinkle in her friends' eyes. Especially Vanessa’s golden orbs seem to gleam like amber in the late afternoon sun. Brooke can perfectly imagine the same expression on a much younger version of the Latina - sparkling child’s eyes opening neatly wrapped presents on her 6th birthday.

A cashmere-like grin settles on Vanessa’s lips once she catches the blonde stare, adding a wink for good measure.

Ohh no

“Brookey, why don’t you wanna join us and fill out your applic-, aple-, whatever - your letter?” Gold orbs now work their best puppy look, while Vanessa attempts to milk every cute asset she posses, which leaves her with plenty of choice. Her head now rests on her palms propped up on the table, indulging the other woman in a silent staring contest.

“Vanjie, you know how I think about the Selection,” Brooke adds once she's glanced away. Her words merely louder than a whisper, accentuating her naturally husky voice.

“Prince Arin has two sisters,” Nina promptly slides into the conversation. The sly smirk on her face resembles a cat waiting for its prey. 

“Yes, I know, Nina, but what does this have to do with me?” Blonde bushy brows are raised high, while her nervous fingertips play with the golden cross around her neck.

“Quit this shit, B! We all know you like girls,” A’keria shouts from across the room, head buried in the wine cabinet. 

Wait what? Brooke feels her mouth fall agape before shooting back, “I’m not gay!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Nina retorts, which the blond pretends to overhear and checks the time on her phone again. An hour left before she has to catch her train.

“Well if you don’t wanna fill it out, me and Vanjie will have some fun.”

An eye roll from the blonde’s side is enough to make it clear that she couldn’t care less. Brooke Lynn takes a last swing to empty her glass, before grabbing the rest of the dishes littering the tiny table and bringing them to the kitchen. Instead of resorting to her usual weed abuse, she decides to clean the kitchen instead - hoping to take her mind off certain things. But with each scrubbed plate and cooking utensil the itch in her chest doesn’t seem to go away. What she would give for just a tiny puff- No, Brooke, you are going home tonight. Her shoulders slouch as she scolds herself, nearly missing the commotion going in in the living room. Nearly.

“I swear Brooke will end you if you note down ‘hiding in the closet’ for her special skills.”

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“Too bad I am not deaf, Silky babe.” 

The stern look on the blonde’s face is enough for Vanessa to hide behind A’keria, yet unable to suppress the cackle bubbling up in her throat. However, Silky hasn’t got the memo, and attempts to pick a fight with Brooke. Nina frees the application from A’keria’s grasp and silently finishes filling in the last details needed to complete the form. A tap on Brooke’s shoulder is enough to break the two brawlers apart. The tick paper with carefully placed gold details is placed in Brooke Lynn’s hands who doesn’t look too amused. She slams the neatly filled form onto the table, adding wrinkles to the thoughtfully crafted application. 

“Do me favour and just let me be,” Brooke continues with a deep sight, before leaving the common area to retreat to her room, tired of her friends for once. A glance at the clock hanging above her king sized bed tells her she needs to hurry up if she still wants to catch the last train going home, so she grabs her tiny suitcase from her bedroom, slips on a pair of vans, and grabs and olive toned coat. 

“Brooke?”

“What?” The annoyance in the blonde’s voice only increases as the blood in her veins starts to simmer. Her fingertips already rest against the cold metal of the doorknob. 

“Can you come over for a sec?”

Reluctantly, she turns around and struts towards the direction of the voice. Vanessa is seated alone on the living room floor, everyone else already getting ready for their evening plans - whatever they may be.

“You aren’t mad are you? We were just playing.” The brunette clearly looking worried - probably pondering whether or not she had overstepped a line.

“I know, Nessa, I know. It’s just a touchy subject. You know my parents-”

“I know, B,” Vanessa whispers, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. She signs grabby hands at Brooke, silently asking for a hug. 

With a loving eye roll, the other woman let’s go off the suitcase handle and envelops the shorter girl in a tight embrace. She sighs deeply as she inhales Nessa’s strawberry scented shampoo, taking a moment to just breathe.

But she can’t stay.

“I gotta go now, V. I don’t wanna miss my train again,” Brooke mumbles into the brunette’s wavy hair. But she holds on a tad bit longer, closing her eyes for just a second.

Vanessa buries her head a bit deeper into Brooke’s embrace cautiously slipping a sheet of paper into the olive coat pocket before letting go.

The blonde gives the smaller woman one last smile, before grabbing her suitcase and walking through the door. 

“Have fun in Dakota!” are the last words Brooke hears before leaving her flat behind. 

Once her feet collide with the gum littered pavement, she picks up her pace and barely makes it to the platform on time. With a little huff, she slides into an empty cabin, throwing her suitcase on the opposite seat and catches her breath. The train isn’t near its full speed yet when Brooke already opens the window, grabbing the cigarette pack from her coat, unable to resist the urge in her chest, needing to fix her itch. So she lights her last cigarette inside the vehicle in a desperate need for a calm moment in this chaotic week. Praying she will somehow survive the weekend at her parents' place without her bong. 

But honestly - how bad could it be?

[an-otome-cally-correct]

The Taste of Living

Yes, hello. So have you heard of that new game Cybird dropped about vampires? Yes? Good, because I am not done with my Synesthesia AU just yet, and I like wringing my brain for every single word I can use to replace the word ‘bitter.’ Think of this as me celebrating IkeVamp ENG release. I hope everyone has fun with the game~!  If you wanna read more of my stuff, then check here.

The impulse to run her fingers over every surface she could was stronger in her than most, but when every bit of pressure and friction against her skin sparked bursts of flavor across her tongue, she couldn’t keep herself from reaching out for the newest thing that caught her eye.

Granted, not everything she got her hands on left a good impression, yet the thrill of discovering how something unfamiliar would tickle her taste buds made it nigh impossible to keep her hands to herself. She had, however, come into contact with something that disappointed her, and it was people, of all things. They were always either roasted peanuts or sweetened milk or some combination between the two, but they were never anything more. So when someone, somehow, didn’t figure into that range- 

That day at the Louvre, that one touch - that was all it took to draw her in.

His eyes might have been glistening honey, and his voice might have been molten chocolate, but neither of those could compare to his touch. While everyone else fell somewhere between peanuts and milk, the Count of St. Germain was fine wine and rich mascarpone - sharp, indulgent, intoxicating. 

Had it been a brief encounter, she would have brushed it off, would have chalked it up to her mind playing tricks on her, but… The then-stranger had hovered and lingered, and with his fingers gently tracing the edges of her ear, there was no mistaking the tingle of alcohol on her tongue that left her craving for more.

From there, she had ended up stumbling into a different time, a different world, and although every person she touched still tasted of peanuts or milk, she had come to know that past all the smoked paprika of leather and the mellow cream of cotton, the cherry sweetness of satin and the fairy floss tickle of silk - for whatever reason - the residents of the Mansion were a different story.

With his hand reaching out for hers from the very beginning, the taste that spread throughout her mouth when she had grabbed Napoleon’s hand for the very first time hardly matched his commanding presence. She expected strong liquors or bitter herbs, sharp cheeses or intense spices, something that would match the powerful figure history had made him to be, but instead... what lingered on her tongue was buttery macadamia and vanilla chiffon with a sprinkling of nutmeg.

His impressive reputation demanded respect, but the delicate taste he left in her mouth hinted at something more comfortable, modest, simple, and for quite some time, it had left her perplexed. However, with each subtle smile she caught sitting on his lips, with each gentle offer of his hand to her, she found herself unable to resist stretching out a hand of her own and welcoming the pleasant flavors that accompanied his touch.

It had been difficult to distinguish Leonardo’s taste behind all the layers of delectable fabric he draped himself in, and all the stacks of rosemary that were the books he surrounded himself with - in the library, in his room, in just about any place he felt comfortable. But when her fingers finally brushed against his as they both reached for a fallen textbook-

Leonardo was whiskey flames and roasted walnut bits, with dark chocolate chips melting smooth along her tongue. Warm and decadent, and just the right amount of sweetness that she would never get tired off.

Mozart wasn't one for physical contact, and while he avoided her touch, her mind couldn’t help but wonder. Maybe he was white chocolate and black currant, with just a splash of scotch - just like the keys and woodwork of his piano. Or maybe he was like the cherries and cream, wrapped in cotton candy, that made his clothes. 

Her imagination worked to discern what kind of flavours a person like him would have, only to be surprised when a sparkling lemonade fizzed on her tongue and an icy mint danced on her lips - all while he pulled her close to avoid an unceremonious fall. She was met by concern masked with a scowl and a snide remark, and she couldn't help but think to herself that he was a lot more refreshing than expected.

She shouldn't have been surprised to taste coffee when Arthur had poked her cheek, retaliation for having taken a peek at his unfinished manuscript - or so he said. His touch was not too different from a shot of dark caffeine in the morning, with barely enough sugar to make the bitterness tolerable. 

His brand of coffee never failed to wake her spirit at any moment of the day, but once the initial shock passed, an intense and dizzying butterscotch would flood her mouth. She'd often find herself reaching for a glass of water to wash out the overwhelming saccharinity, but she found that letting go, just to take his bare hand in hers again, worked just as well.

Often, she wondered if Isaac would be annoyed, should he ever find out what she tasted every time they touched. Putting aside the complications of having to explain her crossed senses, a certain pair of authors had gone out of their way, proving time and time again, his disdain for a certain fruit, but there was no mistaking the familiar sweetness that tickled her senses.

Apples, with a generous dusting of cinnamon sugar, and a splash of bourbon, dousing everything in an unexpected heat. His touch, as clumsy and hesitant and timid as they often were, brought about a sense of warm nostalgia that never failed to make her smile. A look of flushed confusion would settle on his features whenever he caught her grinning, and knowing the secret that she kept behind sealed lips, she could only smile wider.

While it had come as a surprise when she realized that the residents of the mansion weren’t the same peanuts and milk she had long grown tired of, finding out just how different the van Gogh siblings were came as a similar shock - both in terms of personality and taste. 

When she had anticipated marshmallows, and vanilla, and all the innocent delights she could enjoy with childish glee, Vincent was toasted almonds and bittersweet marmalade. When she had anticipated espresso and absinthe and all the treats she could only barely stomach, Theo was meringue cookies and caramel peaches.

Vincent’s gentle nature was a welcome change of pace in a mansion filled with peculiar personalities, but whenever his skin met hers, it was no less of an experience than the others. It was citrus sparks and almond smoke with him, overwhelming her palate with a tingling mix of sweet, sour, bitter and salt. Whether it was the accidental brush of fingers or the occasional tug on her wrist, the slightest touch brought a tangy brightness that always cut through anything and everything unsavory - taste, sight, sound and all. 

On the other hand- From light to rich to tart, Theo was layer upon layer of utterly delightful  sugary goodness. His words could be bitter and burnt, and his gaze could be cold and sharp, but he had never held her in any way that would harm her. As rough and as callous and as blunt as he could be, the flavors that bloomed in her mouth each time he pulled her to his side by the hand was just innocent saccharine bliss.

Both time and space had separated her from the life she used to know, but still, she found a piece of home in the strange world she found herself in. A gentle swipe of Dazai’s finger against her cheek brought back the familiar taste of daifuku and matcha, tugging on her heartstrings and pulling out fond memories from the fog of her mind.

It reminded her of bright spring mornings under cherry blossoms in full bloom, and of warm summer evenings amidst the festival lights and music. It reminded her of crisp autumn afternoons outside as a rain of fiery leaves fell around her, and of calm winter nights inside as a year ended and another year began. That first time he touched her, she realized that those halcyon days may have passed, but never truly gone.

Jean wasn’t one to seek the company of others - much like a certain good friend of his - and it was almost as if he purposefully made himself scarce around her for one reason or the other. Nonetheless, under the same roof, it was inevitable for their paths to cross over and over again… just as it was inevitable for someone to fall ill after a reckless run through an unforgiving storm. 

As seldom as it was, vampires did get sick, and he had no choice but to yield to her care and attention once he had succumbed to fever. She had paused when she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, experiencing flavors she hadn’t expected - the subtle prickle of black pepper, the fresh tang of plum and the gentle sweep of thyme. Her hand had lingered against his skin far longer than necessary, and when she finally regained the sense to let the man rest, she could only hope that one day, under more favorable conditions, he would let her stay by his side once more.

When she had first arrived at the mansion, she assumed she had already met all the vampires she could possibly meet in a lifetime, only to be proven wrong when she was introduced to the Bard of Avon himself - William Shakespeare. From the way he effortlessly weaved words together into poetry, to the way he disarmed her with just one look, it was just one thing after the other with him. Oh, but it was his touch, his touch - and the taste that flooded her mouth - was what overwhelmed her. 

He was sage, and basil, and star anise. Bitter, and sweet, and strange. Disconcerting, and intriguing, and soothing. His touch was gentle, and yet firm, and she wasn't quite sure whether or not to let go, wasn't quite sure which of his mismatched eyes she should dare look into, wasn't quite sure what to make of the man that stood before her, equally flustered and afraid of what she might find. 

Although she knew the residents of the mansion were peculiar, she had always thought that Sebastian was ordinary. As a fellow human from the same era as her, she had assumed that he was the same as her, the same as the humans who walked the streets of 19th Century France, the same as the humans who walked the streets of 21st Century France- the same peanuts and milk she had come to dread. But he wasn't. 

A sudden flick on her forehead for a mistake she had made, and the taste of Earl Grey and Key lime seeped all throughout her mouth. It had caught her by surprise, and she had reacted far more intensely than Sebastian had expected, causing him to worry and gently press his bare fingers against her forehead to soothe the irritated skin, but that only made the flavors that settled on her tongue all the more undeniable, all the more enjoyable. 

Maybe it was because they were brought together by the Count. Maybe it was because they found themselves in a strange point in the universe. Maybe it was because they chose to live their life anew. 

Whatever the reason, she hardly cared. Her days had long gone gray and dreary, but with the people she had come to know after stepping through that door in the Louvre, as unconventional as they were, her days had once again become brilliant and beautiful and fun. 

After so long, she once again could taste what it means to be alive.