#save me london rich

[can-a-tuna-fish]

I made the mistake of drawing him one time and now he’s my favorite character what happened

[fans4wga]

"The studios thought they could handle a strike. They might end up sparking a revolution"

by Mary McNamara

"If you want to start a revolution, tell your workers you’d rather see them lose their homes than offer them fair wages. Then lecture them about how their “unrealistic” demands are “disruptive” to the industry, not to mention disturbing your revels at Versailles, er, Sun Valley.

Honestly, watching the studios turn one strike into two makes you wonder whether any of their executives have ever seen a movie or watched a television show. Scenes of rich overlords sipping Champagne and acting irritated while the crowd howls for bread rarely end well for the Champagne sippers.

This spring, it sometimes seemed like the Hollywood studios represented by the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers were actively itching for a writers’ strike. Speculations about why, exactly, ran the gamut: Perhaps it would save a little money in the short run and show the Writers Guild of America (perceived as cocky after its recent ability to force agents out of the packaging business) who’s boss.

More obviously, it might secure the least costly compromise on issues like residuals payments and transparency about viewership.

But the 20,000 members of the WGA are not the only people who, having had their lives and livelihoods upended by the streaming model, want fair pay and assurances about the use of artificial intelligence, among other sticking points. The 160,000 members of the Screen Actors Guild-American Federation of Television and Radio Artists share many of the writers’ concerns. And recent unforced errors by studio executives, named and anonymous, have suddenly transformed a fight the studios were spoiling for into a public relations war they cannot win.

Even as SAG-AFTRA representatives were seeing a majority of their demands rejected despite a nearly unanimous strike vote, a Deadline story quoted unnamed executives detailing a strategy to bleed striking writers until they come crawling back.

Days later, when an actors’ strike seemed imminent, Disney Chief Executive Bob Iger took time away from the Sun Valley Conference in Idaho not to offer compromise but to lecture. He told CNBC’s David Faber that the unions’ refusal to help out the studios by taking a lesser deal is “very disturbing to me.”

“There’s a level of expectation that they have that is just not realistic,” Iger said. “And they are adding to the set of the challenges that this business is already facing that is, quite frankly, very disruptive.”

If Iger thought his attempt to exec-splain the situation would make actors think twice about walking out, he was very much mistaken. Instead, he handed SAG-AFTRA President Fran Drescher the perfect opportunity for the kind of speech usually shouted atop the barricades.

“We are the victims here,” she said Thursday, marking the start of the actors’ strike. “We are being victimized by a very greedy entity. I am shocked by the way the people that we have been in business with are treating us. I cannot believe it, quite frankly: How far apart we are on so many things. How they plead poverty, that they’re losing money left and right, when giving hundreds of millions of dollars to their CEOs. It is disgusting. Shame on them. They stand on the wrong side of history at this very moment.”

Cue the cascading strings of “Les Mis,” bolstered by images of the most famous people on the planet walking out in solidarity: the cast of “Oppenheimer” leaving the film’s London premiere; the writers and cast of “The X-Files” reuniting on the picket line.

A few days later, Barry Diller, chairman and senior executive of IAC and Expedia Group and a former Hollywood studio chief, suggested that studio executives and top-earning actors take a 25% pay cut to bring a quick end to the strikes and help prevent “the collapse of the entire industry.”

When Diller is telling executives to take a pay cut to avoid destroying their industry, it is no longer a strike, or even two strikes. It is a last-ditch attempt to prevent le déluge.

Yes, during the 2007-08 writers’ strike, picketers yelled noncomplimentary things at executives as they entered their respective lots. (“What you earnin’, Chernin?” was popular at Fox, where Peter Chernin was chairman and chief executive.) But that was before social media made everything more immediate, incendiary and personal. (Even if they have never seen a movie or TV show, one would think that people heading up media companies would understand how media actually work.)

Even at the most heated moments of the last writers’ strike, executives like Chernin and Iger were seen as people who could be reasoned with — in part because most of the executives were running studios, not conglomerations, but mostly because the pay gap between executives and workers, in Hollywood and across the country, had not yet widened to the reprehensible chasm it has since.

Now, the massive eight- and nine-figure salaries of studio heads alongside photos of pitiably small residual checks are paraded across legacy and social media like historical illustrations of monarchs growing fat as their people starve. Proof that, no matter how loudly the studios claim otherwise, there is plenty of money to go around.

Topping that list is Warner Bros. Discovery Chief Executive Davd Zaslav. Having re-named HBO Max just Max and made cuts to the beloved Turner Classic Movies, among other unpopular moves, Zaslav has become a symbol of the cold-hearted, highly compensated executive that the writers and actors are railing against.

The ferocious criticism of individual executives’ salaries has placed Hollywood’s labor conflict at the center of the conversation about growing wealth disparities in the U.S., which stokes, if not causes, much of this country’s political divisions. It also strengthens the solidarity among the WGA and SAG-AFTRA and with other groups, from hotel workers to UPS employees, in the midst of disputes during what’s been called a “hot labor summer.”

Unfortunately, the heightened antagonism between studio executives and union members also appears to leave little room for the kind of one-on-one negotiation that helped end the 2007-08 writers’ strike. Iger’s provocative statement, and the backlash it provoked, would seem to eliminate him as a potential elder statesman who could work with both sides to help broker a deal.

Absent Diller and his “cut your damn salaries” plan, there are few Hollywood figures with the kind of experience, reputation and relationships to fill the vacuum.

At this point, the only real solution has been offered by actor Mark Ruffalo, who recently suggested that workers seize the means of production by getting back into the indie business, which is difficult to imagine and not much help for those working in television.

It’s the AMPTP that needs to heed Iger’s admonishment. At a time when the entertainment industry is going through so much disruption, two strikes is the last thing anyone needs, especially when the solution is so simple. If the studios don’t want a full-blown revolution on their hands, they’d be smart to give members of the WGA and SAG-AFTRA contracts they can live with."

[yunhoszn]

save a horse, ride a cowboy

PAIRING jeong yunho x f!reader

WORD COUNT 12.25k

GENRES fluff﹒angst﹒smut

WARNINGS 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, reader is a city girl but i tried not using too many gendered terms, cowboy!yunho RAHHHHH, mentions of food, reader has a boyfriend for most of the fic (an oc) but there’s no real infidelity, reader embarrasses themselves on what i’d say is a few occasions too many, yunho is down bad, masturbation (m! and brief f! receiving), lowkey voyeurism, a really bad dad joke, horse riding scene bc i feel that’s pivotal for a cowboy fic, lots and lots of kissing, marking, teasing, vaginal fingering x2, oral sex (f! receiving) x2, multiple orgasms, very slight edging, praise, pet names (baby, babe, and princess oops), unprotected sex (BE SAFE PLS I BEG), cowgirl position, pull out method, missionary position, creampie lol, ending is cute but also kinda up for interpretation? i guess <3

SUMMARY when your grandparents decided to retire and take a summer’s long vacation in celebration, they leave their house in your care. at least you don’t have to worry about feeding the farm animals. but you do have to worry about the tall, handsome cowboy who does.

MORE AND SHE’S DONE oh my god, this fic actually pulled so much out of me i think i was the one seeing stars by the end.. 😭 but i’m so proud of it and the goals i tried meeting while writing. first of all the length??? insane for me. i can hardly get myself to write anything longer thank 5k 😞 THATS ENOUGH ABOUT ME THO,,, this fic was heavily inspired by the django performance if u couldn’t tell by the banner ���� and i’d first like to thank the academy aka @kimsohn for encouraging me to write this and fueling my delusions ilysm maya <3 i’d also like to give a huge thank u to @bro-atz TYSM FOR BETAING AND HELPING WITH SCENES BRO ur my life saver fr <3 PLS PLS PLS REBLOG IF U ENJOYED!!

Growing up, you weren’t the biggest fan of trips to your grandparents’ farm in the rural countryside. 

You were born in a big city, full of all the glitz and glam. There were bright lights that lit the skyline at night, distracting from the stars that illuminated above. The wide open space was blocked by high towers and large skyscrapers. You were accustomed to the sound of bustling pedestrians and the obnoxious honking of cars in the streets. There was seldom an evening of complete silence. 

Everything was so tightly packed together, within walking distance if you didn’t feel like hopping in a car for a fifteen minute drive. You appreciated the insanity of the train station in the mornings before school, the metro so busy with students and working class individuals. You came into contact with numerous strangers throughout your day to day life. 

However, every summer until you were a senior in high school was a different story. 

Your parents wanted to keep you humble, you supposed, shipping you off to your grandparents’ for three months. Living in the city kept people too sheltered, too primped and polished for the real world. They wanted you to have that exposure, to experience what it was like to live without the fanciness of urbanization. The nine months out of the year that you spent in the city stunted that exposure, though.

When you’d arrive at their farm, luggage stacked like you were taking a trip to London or Paris, you felt like a glorified version of Regina George. Maybe Blair Waldorf. Elle Woods? You weren’t even rich like that. Your parents were nice, middle class people. There was just something about cow manure and the fear of stepping on a freshly laid egg that made it difficult to adjust to the setting.

It was most likely your stubbornness throughout your childhood that held you back even as you got older and more educated. You thought after graduating high school, the three-months-long “retreat” would come to an end. You’d only need to visit when necessary, maybe a week max. And that was true to an extent. During your university years, you only visited the farm around once a year. You were too consumed with school to even go home sometimes. 

And then your grandparents decided to retire. 

Their farm had supplied the town over with produce and other home-grown items for as long as you could remember. But they were getting older and no one in the family was willing to inherit the farm or its responsibilities. In celebration of their retirement, they planned a grand vacation to visit multiple countries. Their itinerary spanned an entire summer, just like your trips to the farm when you were younger.

Because you were the only one familiar enough with the area, they enlisted you to housesit while they were gone. You tried to get out of it, but they didn’t trust anyone else as much as you, despite your convictions about country life. So you reluctantly agreed, packing up your things to prepare for another grueling summer at the farm one last time. 

But there was a bit of a setback.

”What do you mean someone’s living in the farmhouse behind their house?” You shriek into the receiver, holding your phone between your shoulder and ear as you zip up your final bag. Your mom sighs on the other end.

”Your grandma just only now told me, apparently it slipped her mind,” you can hear the sympathy in her tone. “He’s this boy who grew up in the town and he’s gonna take over the farm for them on the condition that they still live on the property. She said he shouldn’t get in your way and he’s expecting your presence. You’ll only see him if you ever actually go out to the farm and when he brings groceries to the house.”

”Great. Another thing I didn’t sign up for.” You mutter, giving your bedroom a once over to make sure you’re not forgetting anything. “Is there anything else I should know before I get there, like a secret pet or maybe a family living in the attic?”

”Watch the attitude, Y/N,” she warns, and you shut up immediately. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal. You’re a grown adult and you’d rather spend your summer going out with your friends, but you already told your grandparents you would do this for them. It’ll be over before you know it.”

You sigh, nodding even though she can’t see it. At least you didn’t have to worry about caring for their farm animals. It was time to think of this as a staycation rather than torture. Sure, your friends were going to be living it up in the Bahamas for a week and your boyfriend was going to be here while you were surrounded by nothing but flat landscape for acres. 

Perhaps it was good for you that there would be someone else on the property. You might’ve started to feel scared being alone in the middle of nowhere for so long. Though, your boyfriend probably won’t be the biggest fan of you staying within the vicinity of another man for three months. You’d just deal with that later. 

The drive to your grandparents’ farm is actually more peaceful than anything else. Driving for long periods of time wasn’t your favorite thing to do, but doing it by yourself with nothing but your music filling your ears was a sort of therapy. It allowed you to come to terms with your fate for the summer and what it could entail, even if it wasn’t exactly what you had in mind. 

Seeing the lush greenery for miles upon miles as you neared their home evoked a sense of tranquility within you. If you kept a positive outlook on your situation, you would make it through these next few months unscathed and your sanity still intact. Maybe you despised the wide open space for years when you were a kid, but now that you’re an adult, you think you could learn to appreciate it and its beauty. 

As long as the guy living in the farmhouse didn’t bother you like your grandmother said, everything would be—

Oh. 

You pull up in front of the house, already thrown for a loop by the tall, very handsome stranger walking his dog back from the mailbox. His dark hair obscured his eyes, a bandana tied around his neck to match with the one hanging off the Border Collie’s collar. The two turn around at the sound of your engine, stopping in their tracks once you’ve parked. 

He brings a hand up to shield the sun from his eyes, watching cautiously as you park slowly. You don’t know why you’re so anxious, it’s not like you’ll be interacting with him much during your stay anyways. There’s something about his slender figure and the fact that he was so clearly dedicated to what he does upon first glance that it makes you feel shy. You suck in a sharp breath before deciding to exit your vehicle, wiping clammy palms on your denim shorts. You’re starting to regret not dressing a little cuter, a little more presentable. 

His features soften upon recognizing you, the pretty granddaughter that your grandparents showed him prior to leaving for their trip. The hand sheltering his face falls to his side and he gives you a warm smile, somehow warmer and brighter than the sweltering summer sun. You’d always been told not to talk to strangers, to keep your distance for your own safety, but you can’t help mirroring his expression with a small wave. 

“H-Hi,” your voice wobbles and you kind of want to die just a bit. “I’m Y/N. My grandparents mentioned you lived in the farmhouse out back, but didn’t give me a name or face to expect.”

He extends his arm out and you shake his hand, albeit slightly nervously. His eyes squint when he glances between you and his dog. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Y/N. I’m Yunho, and this is Yeoreum.”

The name is fitting for the red and white colored Border Collie, her tongue sticking out as she stares up at you with big eyes that almost resemble her owner’s. You bend down to pet her, patting the soft tufts of fur on her head and appreciating her licks of excitement. Yunho laughs, whistling to catch her attention. 

“Yunho and Yeoreum,” you repeat, a tiny grin on your face. “Befitting. Does she come with the property?”

“Unfortunately, no. She’s spoken for,” he teases, a pout on his features. “But she can visit whenever you’d like. Jokes aside, did you need any help moving stuff into the house?”

”That would be great, actually!” You scratch the back of your neck, lips pursing. Yunho waits for you to unlock the trunk of your car and places Yeoreum’s leash in your possession, making quick work transporting your bags inside. What was just supposed to be some light assistance, has evidently become him doing everything on his own while you stand and look pretty with his dog.

You didn’t bring too much with you since you didn’t have plans to leave while you were housesitting and your grandparents weren’t so old fashioned that they didn’t have a washing machine. Still, you felt useless allowing this stranger you’d just met to do all this manual labor on your behalf.

”Does he always do this?” You murmur to the Border Collie, falling to a seat on the lowest front porch step. She doesn’t give you a response (not that you expected her to), but pants happily in lieu of one, craning her head so you can scratch the spot behind her ear. 

“You’re a guest, it’s just good hospitality for me to help.” Yunho says as he comes out of the house, stationing himself in front of you with his hands on his hips, thumbs in his belt loops. 

“There’s a difference between helping and doing the work yourself. You’re just being modest,” you push yourself up to hand him Yeoreum’s leash. “But thank you anyway, that was really nice. I’m so tired from driving up here, so I think I would’ve collapsed doing all that back and forth.”

”You should go rest,” he glances at the house behind you. “There’s a whole three months of farm life ahead of you, so don’t wear your pretty little self out just yet.”

Yunho salutes to you and takes his leave, walking around your grandparents’ house toward what you assume is the farmhouse. Your eyes are wide and your cheeks feel hot, and you’re well aware that it’s not because of the summer heat. Your fingers clutch at the material of your t-shirt and you shake it to fan yourself. 

It seemed like you were in for a bumpy ride these next few months. But like you reiterated prior to arriving, everything would be just fine so long as you and farm boy went your separate routes and lived your separate lives. 

Yeah. Things would be alright. You hope. 

It’s a week into your stay on your grandparents’ farm when you bump into Yunho again. 

You’re toweling your neck after getting out of the shower, heading into the kitchen to make yourself another bowl of cereal for breakfast. So far the only downside has been your inability to cook a decent meal. Takeout or your boyfriend sleeping over were usually your saving grace, but without having either of those options, you’ve stuck to microwaveable things.

The sight of Yunho unloading groceries onto the counter has you squealing and nearly jumping out of your own skin. He flinches at your volume, knocking over the bag of rice resting against the vase in the center. Thankfully it was still sealed shut, if not there would’ve been a mess of rice grains all over the island counter. His clumsiness has you slapping a palm over your mouth to silence your giggles, not wanting to embarrass him.

”Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you…” You apologize sheepishly, folding your towel over your arm and placing it on a barstool nearby. 

“N-No, you’re fine! I shouldn’t have just let myself in, it’s kinda just a habit. You deserve your privacy without having to worry about whether or not I’m gonna barge in unannounced.” He dismisses your apology with a wave of his hand. “I’ll just put these up for you and then I’ll be on my way.”

”Can I help?” You waddle over to him, fingers laced behind your back. “I’d feel bad watching you put my groceries away for me after going out and getting them.”

Yunho gestures for you to occupy the space beside him with a small smile that takes solace at the corner of his mouth. The two of you do everything in complete silence, still not entirely used to each other’s presence because of the lack of crossing paths. As you’re finishing up, you start grabbing the items you need for your cereal. He raises an eyebrow at you.

”You don’t want something a little more filling?” He suddenly questions, jutting his chin at your bowl.

”I would love that if I knew how to cook,” you laugh. “Ironic isn’t it? The granddaughter of two farmers can’t cook to save their life.”

Yunho shakes his head with a chuckle, ruffling his hair. “Well, I don’t have to feed the horses for another hour if you’d like for me to whip up something better than a bowl of cereal.” 

“Really?” Your eyebrows furrow. Despite growing up with the mindset that you were above the farm life your grandparents tried to impose on you, you hated feeling like you were coming across as entitled. You didn’t want Yunho to think you were lazy or that you were too good. “You don’t have to do that. I can survive on instant ramen and cereal, I swear.”

”Y/N,” he says your name with a certain authority to it, and you’ve never loved the sound of your name coming out of someone else’s mouth so much before. “I want to. I’m not the world’s greatest chef or anything, but I have a couple tricks up my sleeve.”

”Okay, then,” you nod, taking a seat at the island. You watch in awe as he dances around the kitchen and prepares something for you. It’s weird, not in the sense that you feel awkward around this complete stranger, but because you feel the opposite. You feel comfortable around him, like you’ve known him for a while. It’s almost like Yunho has been a casual part of your life for much longer than a week. He’s easy to get along with, easy to mold into what you’re used to.

And that’s weird because you have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who cooks dinner for you most nights, but somehow has never made you feel this taken care of. It throws you off. That should definitely not be the case. How is this man doing this in one week and your boyfriend couldn’t in two years? 

The guilt settles in the pit of your stomach quickly. Sure, your boyfriend might’ve had a habit of forgetting important dates and didn’t give you half as much attention as he should’ve, but did that warrant the emotions brewing in your chest? Could that excuse this notion that maybe it was time to finally call it quits?

You zone out as Yunho finishes cooking your breakfast, too inside of your head to even fawn over the doting and slight coddling he was doing. Maybe you need to have a long conversation with Seojun about your relationship and where you want it to go. Perhaps it was a nice idea to invite him out to visit the farm, it could do you both some good. 

“Ta-da!” Yunho holds out a plate to you, the sparkle in his eyes effectively pushing out any thoughts of your boyfriend and the shame that was picking at you. You can’t help but reciprocate his expression when you see how delicious the food looks.

He’d made you omurice, the ketchup on top in cute squiggly lines to form whiskers and a little dog face. You accept the plate gratifyingly, your fingers brushing as you do so. He smiles shyly, eyeing you carefully while you take the first bite. You don’t remember the last time you had a home cooked breakfast, accustomed to the occasional muffin at the coffee shop near your house.

”’Not the world’s greatest chef’ my ass,” you grumble, pouting at his humbleness and his inability to be bad at anything. “I might just ask you to have breakfast with me every morning if you can chef it up this well.”

That melodic laugh of his rings in your ears, his elbows resting on the island and his chin in his palms. “I’m sure Yeoreum would appreciate a companion who isn’t me.”

“How long have you had her?” You ask, shoveling more omurice into your mouth. If you weren’t so hungry and so appeased by how delicious it was, you’d feel bad for ruining his hard work. The ketchup no longer looked like a dog, but rather a splatter of red all over your plate. 

“Almost four years now. I had her for a year before I met your grandparents. She adores them, so it’s no surprise that she likes you too.” He has this fond gaze in his eyes as he talks about his beloved Border Collie and it makes your heart ache. 

The fact that he has such a good relationship with your grandparents seals the deal for you. Well, it would seal the deal if you were single. Yunho is like the ideal man that every parent would want their daughter to bring home. He knows how to cook, knows how to clean. He’s adept around the house, skilled in yard work and other random jobs like fixing leaky pipes and installing new appliances. He’s gentle, but doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty. 

Your parents would never meet him, though. After the summer was over, you’d be back in Seoul and he would still be here, a distant memory. You forcibly laugh away the thought, excusing it as your response to his words and continuing the conversation about his dog. 

Perhaps this stay would be harder to get through than you thought. 

As the weeks pass you by, you find yourself becoming more and more infatuated with Jeong Yunho.

Cooking breakfast for you in the morning has become a regular thing. Monitoring him at the stove with sleepy eyes and a mug of fresh coffee in your hands has ingrained itself into your routine. Yeoreum called the spot beneath your stool her own now, laying there as her owner made your food. You think the transition from seeing him as just this comforting presence, this kind individual, to wanting something more was almost too smooth.

Especially right now as you sit on the back porch sipping on some lemonade, admiring the cowboy as he transfers bales of hay from the bed of his pickup truck to the pigpen and the cattle pen. He pauses in between trips, stripping off his flannel and tying it around his waist. He lifts the hem of the white tank top he’s wearing and uses it to wipe sweat from his forehead, revealing the toned abdomen he had been hiding from you up until now. 

You feel like you’re going insane, trying to pretend like you’re reading your book as you not so subtly gawk at his muscles straining with each bale he lifts. It’s crazy really, the effect he has on you doing his fucking job. You’ve made it a habit to sit out here and stare at him under the guise of various other things. Aside from being borderline obsessive, it’s horrible because you’re still very much in a relationship.

Most people would feel a hell of a lot worse than you do, like their entire world was crumbling between their fingertips just for finding someone else attractive. But for some reason, as time has continued to roll on, that guilt— that self-preservation— has faded. You’re dipping into another emotion that you’re too scared to explore. 

Yunho takes a break from his labor to guzzle down a bottle of water, his chest heaving up and down from exertion. Had you been paying attention to anything other than the view of the handsome man, you would’ve noticed the glass sliding out of your grasp, the condensation becoming far too dense to keep a solid grip on the cup. In the midst of drooling over him, your lemonade falls to the ground with a loud clanging noise.

Your reflexes are only swift enough to save your book, but the drink spills everywhere else and you wince at how embarrassing the situation is. You hurry inside to grab a towel before he can see the mortification enveloping your features. He seemed like the observant type, like one scan of your face could tell him everything he needs to know without a single word exchanged. Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter, blowing a raspberry while you attempt to regulate your blood pressure.

Through the window above the kitchen sink, you make out a confused Yunho, brows furrowed as he looks in the direction of the house. He worried over you entirely too much, particularly when you take into account the fact that all you did was think about him in manners not necessarily safe for work. Maybe you were just delirious. That was the only logical explanation for why you’re spiraling.

The high temperatures of the summer coupled with your surroundings are contributing to your change in behavior. Yes. That made sense. You weren’t crazy.

With a bit more reprieve, you’re able to grab a tea towel and head back outside to clean up your mess. (Not unaccompanied by a couple glances in Yunho’s direction, but that’s fine. Perfectly healthy even. It’s normal to check up on a friend. At least, that’s what you tell yourself, but who’s holding you accountable?)

“You know you’ve been making me breakfast every morning without asking for anything in return,” you speak up one morning, chin resting on the island. “Is there anything I can do to repay you?” 

Yunho purses his lips as he hands you your plate. “Nah, I like cooking for you.”

You try to ignore the way that has your heart fluttering in your chest, try to ignore the warmth blooming beneath your skin. Your eyes glance down at your food to avoid eye contact, bringing your chopsticks up to your lips. “Okay, well I wanna do something for you.”

Despite mumbling the words, he hears you anyway and smiles to himself as he takes a sip from his mug. He rolls up the sleeves of his denim button up, reaching down to scratch behind Yeoreum’s ear, the area that you’ve learned is her favorite. She pants joyfully, jumping on his leg excitedly. He looks between the two of you.

”Missy here needs a bath,” he says, cooing at her. “I was gonna give her one later, after I cleaned out the stables, but if you don’t mind doing it.”

”I’d do just about anything for that precious girl,” you nod enthusiastically. “Consider it done.”

This is how you end up out back, dog shampoo in one hand and the water hose in the other. 

Yeoreum’s signature bandana and collar lay on one of the rocking chairs on the porch, the dog looking so different without her accessories as you prepare to bathe her. You wet her fur generously, squeezing enough shampoo into your palm to lather it on. Compared to your childhood pets, she’s pretty well behaved.

She’s probably one of the only dogs who’s ever actually enjoyed taking a bath, sitting still for you while you scrub and rinse and repeat. You take your time with cleaning her, wanting to make sure you do your best as a thank you for every plate Yunho has ever made you. Usually, this isn’t something you would jump at the opportunity to do. Somehow, being back at the farm this past month or so has done everything your parents tried to do when you were younger.

It could’ve had to do with the desensitization of being here every summer for so long that it just never stuck when you were grade school age. But now, fully grown and experiencing this all over again on your own, with new faces at your side, it’s like you’re being exposed to something different. You can see why your mom and dad didn’t want the city life to become a dependency. 

You preferred the view of cabs and cafés over cows and chickens in the past, but now you found a sense of familiarity in them. You’d always want to go home as soon as you got here. Unlike other kids, you wanted your summer to be over as quickly as possible. You couldn’t imagine going home after this, though. This unveiled attachment to the farm you detested when you were younger could only be accredited to one person, and it was a little frightening. 

He constantly brought out parts of you that you didn’t know existed. This enigma, the one that emphasized how big of a role he’s fulfilling in the short period of time you’ve been here, drills itself into your brain every day. You knew you had to acknowledge it sooner or later, but it was just less of a hassle to act like it wasn’t screaming at you. Your fear of change was a more pertinent issue to ignore, so you let it consume all else. 

While getting lost in your thoughts, Yeoreum starts shaking and startles you, causing your hold on the hose to loosen, water spraying everywhere. The diversion has you losing your footing and slipping in the mud. You shriek, though it does nothing to block the stream that drenches you, your clothes getting wet. The universe decides it’s not on your side, because you happened to wear a white shirt. Why you chose to do that when you knew you were bathing a dog, you have no clue, but it was a little too late for regrets.

Yeoreum jumps out of the basin you had her in and runs to the farmhouse just as Yunho’s walking out, fresh from the shower. You forgot that he was cleaning the stables at the same time you were giving the Border Collie her bath, but now you’re starting to wish you waited until afterward just in case you needed the assistance. And well, you definitely needed the assistance. 

Plucking the tail end of the mishap, Yunho’s initial reaction is to laugh at your misfortune, but the closer he gets to the scene, the laughter dies out in his throat. Your top is sheer enough that he can map out the outline of your black bra. It leaves very little to the imagination and he thinks he might fall to his knees right here.

Since your grandparents told him that you’d be house sitting while they were away and proudly showcased a photo of you, he’s been enthralled by you. You had the face of an angel, or maybe a really enticing demon, he hasn’t cogitated it much yet. 

He swallows thickly, hoping to keep his composure as he makes his way to you. His hand is a little shaky when it reaches to take the hose from you, squeezing his eyes closed and switching off the water. He stays there for a few seconds to mentally prep himself for an up-close-and-personal look at you, even going as far as holding his breath. 

“Uh— you— um— you should go inside and dry off before you catch a cold,” Yunho keeps his eyes cast downward. He’s grateful that you don’t note how red the tips of his ears are, or how he thinks the sky is suddenly much more interesting than your face.

Your head cocks to the side in confusion. “What do you mean ‘before I catch a cold’? It’s, like, a million degrees out.” 

“The temperature drops at night and the sun’s setting soon. I’ll handle it from here. Yeoreum ran off, so I gotta chase after her anyway and I don’t think you want her to soak you more than she already has.” He’s insistent on shooing you away and getting you inside of the house. You huff.

”Okay… If you say so…” 

Reluctantly, you spin around and traverse back. The draft of the air conditioning has you shivering, rubbing up and down your arms as you enter the bathroom to inspect the damage. Your eyes almost bulge out of their sockets when you finally see yourself. No wonder Yunho was so adamant on staving you off like you were the plague. 

In your defense, you didn’t think the hose won the battle by that much. You assumed you’d just gotten everything above your shoulders wet, but no. You were practically doused head to toe. And the clear display of your brassiere under your clothes was the last thing on your mind.

He was stronger than you. Actually, he was a more respectful person than you. You would’ve gawked at him shamelessly if the roles were reversed. But at least you’re self aware! Right? The first step in recognizing that you have a problem, is admitting that you have a problem. That’s what you think they say in those addiction commercials, but you could be wrong. 

Wow. Now you were comparing him to drugs. Though, you suppose there isn’t that huge of a difference. Both had equal success rates in terms of getting people high and then making it hard to wane off their effects. 

You really had to quit it with the metaphor usage. 

It’s around midnight that night when the lightbulb in the bathroom goes out, halting you from finishing your bedtime routine. 

You’re exhausted to say the least, face damp from washing it and one of those fuzzy hairbands with the animal ears perched on your head. You were ready to crash out, but there were still a couple things you needed to do before that. It was proving to be a little difficult in the pitch black bathroom. The window above the shower was too narrow to provide any sufficient moonlight.

With a low grumble, you shuffle into your slippers and make the short trek from your grandparents’ house to Yunho in the farmhouse. You hug yourself when a strong breeze blows past, your flimsy t-shirt and sleep shorts doing hardly anything to block the cool summer night’s air. 

A piece of you feels a little bad for bothering him so late, but you have no idea how to change a lightbulb. You don’t even know where the lightbulbs are. Besides, you think you’d electrocute yourself if you made an attempt to do it on your own. 

You huff out a sigh and bring your knuckles up to knock at his door, waiting patiently for a response. He’s not asleep, you know this because he’s mentioned that his internal clock doesn’t turn off until two in the morning. Circadian rhythms were an odd concept, so to each their own. 

“Yunho! It’s Y/N! Open up!”

When a few minutes have passed, you try the knob. Maybe it was a bit… too presumptuous of you to enter his home without explicit permission. Yes, you’d known each other for the better part of a month and a half, and yes, you’d gotten very close in that timeframe, but did that constitute your actions?

Whether or not the answer to that question was a yes or a no, you really wish you would’ve just waited outside. As you venture further in search of the cowboy, you stumble upon something you shouldn’t have. 

Standing in the hallway on the other side of his bedroom, the door ajar at least an inch, you catch a glimpse of him on his bed. That white tank top you’re so used to seeing him in is between his teeth, eyebrows knit together in pure pleasure as he fists his cock with a purpose. His nostrils are flared and whiny moans escape from behind the fabric. 

His head falls back every now and then, eyes fluttering shut when he runs his thumb over the slit. He’s so focused that he doesn’t notice you, too entranced with chasing his high. Your lips part as you watch him fuck up into his hand, his shirt slipping from his mouth when he groans out a curse. 

Just as quickly as you become distracted by the sight of Yunho jerking off, you become aware of what you’re doing. You flee the scene before you get yourself caught, exiting the farmhouse as quietly as you can. The lightbulb can wait until morning, it wasn’t that important, honestly. You’re in a daze the entire walk back to your grandparents house, goosebumps littering your arms and the image of him in such an obscene state burned into your brain. 

You fall backwards onto your bed, staring at the ceiling in hopes of willing away the path your mind is beginning to wander towards. All you can think about is the sight of him so desperate for release, large hand wrapped around his dick, abdomen contracting with need. You know you weren’t supposed to see, weren’t supposed to bear witness to something so personal. 

It’s difficult to push out the nasty, inappropriate thoughts clouding your head. His expressions contorted into absolute bliss. His slender fingers could probably do so much more than your own, could probably reach places you’d never even dreamed of. And fuck, his dick, prettier and bigger than any other you’ve ever seen. 

Your chest blushes with heat, an embarrassment washing over you when you realize you’re turned on. You should feel terrible for intruding on Yunho’s privacy like that, especially without him knowing, but all you can do is want him more than you already do. That craving for something deeper, carnal, fans the flame engulfing you, dragging you further into the sick and twisted hell you’ve created for yourself. 

Yunho has been nothing but welcoming, kind and gentle with you, someone he didn’t even know the name of until last month. Someone who’s done everything in their power to repress this lifestyle for so long. And for some reason, it just comes so easily with him. You don’t feel forced to enjoy living on the farm. He makes you laugh and puts a smile on your face effortlessly. He has you wondering if life can actually be this simple. 

But when all is said and done, there will be somebody else waiting for you back home. Somebody who doesn’t know how to whip up omurice with freshly laid eggs. Somebody who isn’t even a dog person, who thinks pets are nuisances. Somebody who doesn’t live in the farmhouse behind your grandparents’. It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

If you touch yourself with tears streaming down your cheeks to the thought of the man who has eyes that resemble the night sky, well that’s between you and whatever higher being exists out there. 

You sit across from Yunho with bated breath, afraid that if you opened your mouth he would know your dirty secret. You avoid his eyes for the same reason, like one good look at you would reveal what you were trying to hide. 

Yunho himself was doing his best to pretend like he hadn’t masturbated to the thought of you last night. He liked to think he was good at keeping his feelings under wraps. It wasn’t like he didn’t know you were in a relationship, he’s heard you on the phone before. He stays silent as he fries rice in a pan and has some bread in the toaster. The only sounds in the kitchen are sizzling and the pants coming from Yeoreum under your stool. 

In the time that you’ve been here, never once has it been awkward between you like this. The conversation usually doesn’t stop flowing, rolling on and on and filtering into things that don’t pertain to the original subject. He rarely has his back to you for too long, turning over his shoulder to shoot you a grin every here and now. 

Both of you go to speak at the same time as a means of salvaging the morning from eternal strain. You stare at each other for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. Truly, you were two birds of a feather, or however that saying goes.

”Sorry, I don’t know why I’m being so quiet today,” Yunho says, though he knows it’s a lie. “I guess I had a long night.”

”Oh, that reminds me,” his mention of the previous night has you recalling the reason you went out to the farmhouse in the first place. “The light in my bathroom went out, do you think you can fix it for me?” 

“Yeah, for sure,” he begins preparing your plate. “Actually, I have this joke about lightbulbs. You wanna hear it?”

Your lips curl into a smile, already attempting to hold back your laughter. With a raised eyebrow, you respond, “What is it?”

”What did the lightbulb say to the light switch?” He asks nonchalantly, taking a bite from his own piece of toast. You’re failing miserably at acting like you don’t think the joke is funny, although he hasn’t even told you the punchline yet.

”I dunno, Yunho, what did the lightbulb say to the light switch?” 

“‘You turn me on.’” 

There’s a pregnant pause as the joke resonates and you can’t stop yourself from cackling at how stupid it is. He joins in, but mostly because your laughter is contagious. His chest swells with pride at his successful landing, feeling like he’s on top of the world just for bringing a smile to your face. God, he was down tremendously bad. 

Your spoon clatters onto the counter as you lean over, a hand clapped over your mouth as your boisterous laughing simmers into a giggle. Yunho leans into you slightly, matching your energy as he munches on his toast. This is what has you conflicted, so at war with yourself. The proximity should have you pulling away, but something about him always reels you in, despite the consequences that await.

And unfortunately, those consequences come to a head today.

“Are you fucking serious, Y/N?” 

You and Yunho jump back, whipping towards the source of the voice. Seojun stands there, his bags at his feet and his face crestfallen, disbelief written all over it. He shakes his head and turns to leave, you stumbling off of the barstool to follow behind him. The guilt you’ve only ever felt momentarily settles deep in your chest and deep in your stomach, though you technically haven’t done anything wrong.

Your abruptness startles Yeoreum and she’s up in a heartbeat, tailing behind you curiously. Yunho has to rush to stop her, but a part of himself wants to do the same. No matter how much he likes you, he’s never wanted to be the cause of your relationship falling apart. He wanted you organically, not like this.

”Seojun! Wait!” You call after him, holding up a hand to block out the harsh sunlight, tripping over your slippers. He scoffs. 

“What am I waiting for? You to spew some bullshit about how nothing’s going on between the two of you? I’m not fucking stupid, Y/N. I’m not blind.” He pops open his trunk and throws his bags in haphazardly.

”You’re being unreasonable,” you exclaim, rounding the car so you’re directly in front of him. “There is nothing going on. We’ve just gotten to know each other since we live in the same vicinity. Did you want me to stay here for three months and hole myself away with no other human contact?”

“He was just supposed to be the guy who lived in the farmhouse. He wasn’t supposed to bother you. That’s what you told me, remember?” Seojun is losing his patience, something that has always been the root of the problem when you’ve gotten into past arguments. “How do you expect me to react when I come to surprise you and see you being so close to another man?”

“I was laughing at a joke he told me. You’re making this a bigger deal than it is and blowing everything completely out of proportion. I’m sorry that it never came up that we became friends, but I didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve never once cheated on you in the three years we’ve been together and for you to accuse me of that is so fucking low of you.” You’re not going to cry, not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s won. He thrives off of seeing your vulnerability and you won’t let him have it. 

“I saw the way he was looking at you,” he seethes, balling his hands into fists at his sides. “I know that look because that’s how I used to look at you.”

A laugh devoid of any humor leaves you and he blinks. “That’s how you ‘used to’ look at me? When did you stop? And why am I just finding this out?”

”That’s not— that isn’t what I meant, Y/N—“

”No, Seojun. You did,” you glance away from him, nipping at the inside of your cheek. “We’re grasping for straws. We aren’t going anywhere anymore and we haven’t for a while now. That’s why we're standing here arguing over this. I just want to know why you didn’t just tell me.”

”I’m too complacent,” he sighs, breathing through his nose. “I was too comfortable with you and I didn’t know how to let you go or walk away. But you’re right, there isn’t anything for us to save, and it seems like we’re both ready to move on.”

“What does that mean?” 

“I saw how you were looking at him, too. You might not have acted on it, but you have feelings for him. I’m not gonna stay and hold you back.” Seojun unlocks his car, opening the door. “And for what it’s worth, you won’t be wasting your time.”

You don’t respond, instead humming and letting him drive off. Once his car is far enough out of your view, you go back into the house. There’s an indescribable emotion that hostages you, binding your wrists and tying you down metaphorically. You can’t seem to shake it. 

Yunho is still in the kitchen, sitting on the floor with Yeoreum to keep her calm. He gazes up at you expectantly and you feel the tears you were suppressing from Seojun bubbling up. If you weren’t going to cry in front of your (now ex) boyfriend, you definitely weren’t going to cry in front of him. 

With a trembling exhale, you force yourself to say, “I need to be alone.”

He understands empathetically, clipping on Yeoreum’s leash and leaving the house in the same breath. That in itself has you crying like a baby the moment you’re all by yourself. You hold your face in your hands, body shuddering with each sob you release. 

I saw the way he was looking at you. 

I saw how you were looking at him, too. 

You had a lot to think about, and everything always seemed to circle back to Jeong Yunho. 

A couple days escape you before you register you haven’t seen much of Yunho. After your breakup with Seojun, you really did need a bit of room to process it all, but you hadn’t realized just how much you depended on the cowboy’s presence until you were missing it. 

You hadn’t meant to push him away, if that’s how he saw it. A night of bawling your eyes out with a pint of ice cream and The Vow was enough to cure you. However, it appears that he thought you needed more, going as far as putting a pin in your daily breakfast ritual. You aren’t sure how to extend an olive branch when you weren’t even trying to cause a rift between you in the first place. 

Being with someone for three years may not seem like a lot, but that fraction of your life is stuck with you, like a thumbtack that refuses to come out of the wall. You’d had boyfriends before Seojun, but they weren’t nearly as serious. There weren't formal introductions between parents, no late night conversations that bleed into early mornings, no sleepovers and quick kisses before work. 

Of course, after a certain point, those had just become habitual. You weren’t doing them because they evoked a sense of love or care anymore, but rather because you were familiar with them. It was safer to continue the pattern of waking up and falling asleep to Seojun on the other side of the bed, the intrusion of sunlight and the cacophony of traffic outside your window, even if you didn’t really want to. 

And then you came here. 

Somehow, returning to your grandparents’ farm was exactly what you needed to break through that cycle. As much as you would love to attest it to your location and discovering the appreciation your family wanted you to feel for it, you know the real reason. It’s all thanks to a certain cowboy.

Yunho’s feelings for you run far deeper than he could’ve imagined. He doesn’t know the extent of what happened with you and Seojun, but he thinks putting distance between you is better in the long run anyway. On the off chance you’re still together, he wants to preserve his heart. He’s handed it to someone else too easily in the past and he doesn’t want to make that mistake with you if you don’t feel the same. 

But even on the off chance that you’ve broken up, he still wants to stop himself from falling further and harder than he already has. Without ill will, he doubts that you would give up the life you have in the city for this, for him. He’ll be perpetually chained to being a faint imprint on your memory of the summer. You’ll think back to the months you spent here and he’ll have played only a minor role. 

It was wishful thinking, too hopeful of him to presume this would lead to a happy ending. You were from different worlds, led different lives. It was time for him to be realistic. And that meant implementing the space that was supposed to exist between you from the get go. 

Though, you make it difficult when he bumps into you on the way back from the mailbox. Déjà vu, anyone?

Yeoreum is excited to see you, jumping onto her haunches to lick your face when you kneel to her level. You giggle, squeezing one eye shut as you balance yourself and hold her still so her weight doesn’t clamber you both onto the ground. Your fingers pet to top of her head softly as you coo, “Who’s a good girl?”

Yunho physically winces when his chest tightens at the sight of his two favorite girls. The word ‘distance’ bounces around his head like a pinball, reminding him what he’s supposed to be doing. He just can’t bring himself to walk away. Especially when you look at him with those pretty eyes of yours. 

“Hey…” You start, steeling your tone to ensure it’s even. “I’m sorry if it seemed like I was avoiding you or something. I needed some time to myself to figure things out. It wasn’t my intention to shut you out and put you on the back burner.”

”No, it’s okay. I had to figure stuff out on my own, too,” he uses his bandana to dab at the sweat perspiring on his forehead. “Did you sort through whatever you needed to?”

“I did,” you nod, standing upright. “Seojun and I broke up, so I had to sit with my feelings for a bit. We’ve been together for so long, I think I needed to remember what it was like to be without him, and then I realized that’s basically what I’ve been doing since I came here.”

”Oh.” Yunho’s lips form an ‘O’ shape, hands dragging down the sides of his pants. “I’m sorry— um— about your breakup.”

”Don’t be,” you smile, dismissing his sympathy. “It was a long time coming, honestly. We weren’t really in the relationship wholeheartedly anymore. There wasn’t a point in stringing it along, you know? But that’s enough about me, did you figure your own things out?”

”I thought I did,” he says, which is true considering he’d been mulling over what to do with his emotions subsequent to your argument with your ex. “And then I kinda steered off course. It’s alright, though, I think I like the new conclusion I’ve come to a lot better.”

You might be on the same page now, but there was an entire discussion that had to happen to solidify that. Following a very emotionally charged past couple days, you could do without that today. You’re both just glad that the air is cleared and you can resume building the bond that began forming the moment you stepped foot onto the farm, no restrictions whatsoever.

“Have you ever ridden a horse?” 

You glance up from your book, this time genuinely reading it as Yunho fed the chickens and cleaned up their coop. He towers over you while he asks the question, his shadow thwarting off any direct sunlight. Your nose scrunches. 

“When I was in, like, middle school? It’s been a minute,” you answer, making sure to bookmark the page you stopped at. “Why?

”Would you let me teach you how to do it again?” He nips at his lower lip, like he’s nervous you’ll say no. The truth of the matter is you’d say yes even if he asked you to commit arson, which is kind of a problem.

“That sounds fun,” you shrug. “What time should I be ready?”

”Uh, now?” 

Okay, so sitting on a horse did not seem this scary when you were twelve.

It probably had to do with you being fearless and whatnot, but also because you did whatever your grandparents asked just to appease them. The faster you got off the damn horse, the faster you could go back inside and situate yourself in front of the TV. They thought they were making progress with you, but really you were outsmarting the outsmarters. 

Sweat glazes on the underside of your hands, disrupting the security of your grasp on the reins. Yunho thought it would be wiser if he stayed on foot, guiding you and the horse around the perimeter of the pen. You hoped you didn’t look as afraid as you were, but you’re certain the slight quiver of your bottom lip gives it away. 

“You’re doing fine, Y/N,” he reassures, maintaining a comforting amount of eye contact with you.

”Am I? Or does it just seem that way because you’re pulling the horse?” You quip, gripping the reins tighter when it steps over a rock and you sway a little. Your tone is laced with sarcasm, something Yunho hasn’t heard much of from you since you’ve met, but he thinks it’s cute that you resort to violence when you’re scared.

You notice the quirk of his mouth and how he’s trying not to laugh at your terror. It pisses you off solely because his humor isn’t unwarranted. You are being a bit over dramatic. He unties his bandana from around his neck and tosses it to you. “So you don’t callus your hands.”

He’s too thoughtful, too considerate for his own good, but that’s what roped you in. Even when you met for the first time, he had you figured out. The longer you stare at him, the more you realize just how perfect he is. If you were still in school and you were tasked with writing an essay about the summer you spent here, you’re sure the words would flow onto the pages flawlessly, without skipping a beat. Your prose would be so beautifully written, that even the most notable authors would be envious of your experience.

The only downside of this was the fact that time was beginning to seep through your fingers. There was mutuality in your feelings for each other, that was almost unequivocal. You were both just hesitant in taking that first leap. The uncertainty lied with that goodbye at the end of August, the one that’ll hurt a lot more than it was supposed to. But you know that postponing your unceremonious declaration of feelings would just do more harm than anything else. 

One consistency you’ve singled out since coming back to the farm is this common theme of divine intervention, or fate, whatever you want to call it. Right when you’re on the brink of an epiphany, you’re always forcefully shoved into it, like a freight train crashing into its platform traveling at full speed. This moment is no different. 

Yeoreum barking at a squirrel on the other side of the pen scares the horse who’s back you were currently on. It bucks up and you release the reins in alarm. You fall quickly, but Yunho’s quicker, catching you in his arms like it’s been a childhood dream of his to be a superhero. He searches your face for any indication that you might be hurt, a hand coming up to cup your cheek. 

The eyes you’ve grown to adore examine your own with so much care that you find yourself melting in his hold. Your face instinctively leans into his palm, fingers still clutching the fabric of his shirt like he may drop you. 

It’s nearly second-nature to minimize the gap between you. 

You never understood what novelists meant when they described kissing scenes. And you think that’s because you’d never truly had a kiss like this before. It was as if they were all talking about this second, this blip in time. The sparks that shoot from where your lips meet to the tips of your fingers, the thump-thump-thump of your heartbeat in your ears, the sensation of never wanting to escape, never wanting to stop. 

Yunho’s hand snakes behind your head, tangling in your hair to deepen the connection. It’s hungry. It’s desperate. It’s too much. It’s not enough. Everything that had been stacking on top of each other was leading to this, the collision that rivaled the Big Bang. You whine into his lips, an invitation but also an inquiry. 

He parts from you just so he can catch his breath, his forehead resting on yours. “Can I take you inside?”

You nod fervently. “Yes. Please.”

He wastes no time hauling you to the farmhouse. His grip on your wrist is gentle as he pulls you into his bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed and trapping you between his legs. Your restraint wears thin, nimble fingers fumbling with the rest of the buttons on his denim shirt. You push it off of his shoulders, a bit shell shocked when you discover that he’s wearing a regular t-shirt as opposed to his usual tank top. 

“You would pull something like this today of all days,” you laugh breathily, untucking the shirt from his pants. He reciprocates the sentiment, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck while you undress him. 

“Is it evil of me to say I was sorta hoping this would happen?” He speaks into your exposed collarbone, nipping, sucking, biting the skin. Your appreciative sigh goads him, his tongue gliding across the abused surface as a form of relief. 

“Mm-mm,” you hum, shaking your head, fast to yank off his shirt and run your nails down his abdomen. “I’ve been waiting for this for too long.”

“Yeah?” Yunho flips the two of you easily so you’re the one on the bed now. He pushes up the hem of your shirt, pecking your stomach to your clavicle as he shows more and more of your skin until the fabric is removed from your body. “Can’t believe I finally get to have you.”

You involuntarily moan, completely untouched and because of his words alone. Every part of you feels like it’s lit ablaze, burning with want and need and everything in between. This ran further than just what-ifs and late night fantasies. Your relationship with Yunho tiptoed on the edge of something you’ve never known before, and that makes this so much more special. 

He glances up at you when his fingers reach for the button of your shorts, a silent ask for permission. You give him the green light and hold yourself up on your elbows, watching with your breathing trapped in your throat as he rids of your panties along with them. His hands push your knees to your chest, kissing your inner thighs and right around the place you need him most, but never there. 

“Yunho…” You warn, but it comes across as a broken whimper rather than an establishment of authority. He laughs and then his lips are pressing to your clit, a sweet kiss that has all rationality taking a vacation from your brain. Your head tips back and you fist at the sheets. 

He drags his tongue through your folds, swirling it around the sensitive bundle of nerves each time it makes its return. It’s almost criminal how good it feels to have his mouth on your cunt, eyes already heavy lidded with pleasure. He sucks on your clit at the same time he decides to insert a finger into your entrance, curling it experimentally just because he can. Like you predicted, it reaches that spongy spot at the crook of your pussy, brushing it once he’s sure he’s found it. 

While you walked in on him fucking his fist, the only thing on his mind was you. He was so absorbed in the mental image of what you would look like beneath him, wiggling, writhing, squirming with indulgence. His social awareness was at a zero. This replayed over and over until he came, his thoughts so vivid he could’ve swore it was real.

But this, the actual thing, was so much better; his forearm pinning your hips down, his middle finger curling and uncurling inside of you, his mouth working overtime to inch you towards the edge of that steep cliff. He moans when your eyebrows practically coalesce, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. You look so gorgeous like this, so disoriented all because of the bliss he was providing. The vibrations of the sound have you arching your back, uncontrollable whines running from your mouth.

“Feel good?” Yunho asks, disconnecting his mouth and replacing it with his other hand, ring and middle digits swiping across your clit with practiced pressure. 

“Mhm,” you nod frantically, eyes on the brink of rolling to the back of your head. “Feels so good, Yun… Just like that, ‘m almost there.”

That’s all he needs to hear, switching his hand and mouth once again, focusing on alternating harsh and gentle sucks of your clit, adding a second finger to pump in and out of your hole. The doubled change in stimulation knocks the wind out of you, the precipice of your orgasm so close you can taste it. You’d never been brought to the summit this early in the past, and you think Yunho deserves some sort of reward for being the first to do so.

You’d worry about that later though, because you’re blindsided by it before you can even conjure your next thought. You cum with a cry, tears springing to your eyes from the immense amount of ecstasy coursing through your veins, swimming in your bloodstream. Yunho coos at you, not stopping until you’ve relaxed in his hold. “That’s it, baby, you’re doing so well.”

The praise makes your head feel airy, like empty space unoccupied by anything. If you paid attention in chemistry, then you’d know that’s highly impossible, but you didn’t. The only chemistry you even remotely care about is the one between you and Yunho, the tension that has piled higher and higher for days on end until its crescendo now. 

You sit up to kiss him roughly, savoring the taste of yourself on his lips. He smiles into it, a hand raising to caress the underside of your jaw. He climbs onto the bed, scooting you up so you’re positioned by the pillows. It doesn’t take much effort for your bodies to swap, his back to the headboard. You clumsily seat yourself on his lap, a knee on either side of him and sighing wistfully when his mouth trails down your throat and sternum, slender fingers sneaking behind you to unclasp your bra.

He aids you in removing his pants, still simultaneously prioritizing kisses all over your bare chest. When you’re both fully naked, you take your time admiring his cock. It’s just as pretty as you remember, long and thick. Your hand wraps around it gingerly, stroking the length as you lean down to kiss him again. You don’t think you could ever get enough of his lips on your own. 

“I’m not exactly getting any action over here, so I don’t have any condoms,” he says into your kiss, voice no louder than a whisper. 

“That’s okay,” you run your fingers through his hair. “Wanna feel you anyways, all of you.”

”Fuck, Y/N, you can kill a man with those words.” He groans, nails digging into your hips. You giggle, but it’s interrupted by him sitting you fully, his dick slipping through your lower lips. A whine brushes his ear when the tip catches your clit, repeating the movement until you can’t stay still.

The closest you’ll ever get to Heaven on earth is Yunho’s cock pushing inside of you, filling you up so deliciously you think you could die like this. Your jaw slackens, hands coming up to support yourself on his shoulders. Even if this is a one time thing, something that never happens again during your stay at the farm, he wants you to remember this when you go back home. He wants you to recall this sliver in your timeline and never forget it, wants his name engraved in your memory like a branding iron.

Once he feels you’ve adjusted to him well enough, he pulls you off of him almost entirely, just to ram back in without mercy. He punches a voluminous moan from you, eyes watching where he disappears in you and reemerges. You’re tighter and so much warmer than he dreamed you’d be, but it’s perfect. You suck him in like a vacuum, as if his cock was made to be inside of you, as if you didn’t want him to part from you.

“You’re s-so deep, Yun,” you mewl, pulling him in for another headache-inducing kiss. “Don’t wanna stop.”

He exhales through his nostrils, mumbling out a curse when your walls squeeze around him. He wanted to last a while for you, wanted to hold out and prolong this moment until you were both on the crest of passing out. But you feel like a glove, your silk-adjacent cunt begging for more and more. 

“Think I might cum soon, princess,” he groans, tossing his head back and just about losing every ounce of his sanity when your lips start marking the column of his throat. 

His big hands move under your thighs, holding you in place so he can fuck up into you. The pace at which his cock drills in and out of your pussy has you seeing stars, eyes snapping shut and nothing but colorful spots decorating your vision. You were already abhorrently sensitive following your first orgasm, so it didn’t really take much to introduce the second. 

Your hips stutter and it washes over you like a tidal wave, your body shuddering and collapsing into his top half. He pulls out of you quickly, mouth stationed by your ear as he jerks himself off until he’s painting your backside. He moans, a lot like the sounds he was making the other night, and you feel the need to just kiss him again. 

Your lips lock sweetly, a stark contrast to your previous actions. Yunho curves a hand on your cheek, seperating from you the smallest distance so he can admire you. The smile that etches onto his expression makes you dizzier than anything else. However, the cutesiness can only span so long before the setting gives way. 

Yunho’s hand snakes in between you, his forefinger sliding up and down your slit teasingly. Your breath comes out shaky, your face finding purchase in the crook of his neck. He replaces the digit with his middle finger, parting your pussy lips in search of your clit. It doesn’t take him very long to find it, rubbing tight circles into the engorged skin. You moan into his shoulder, resting your forehead on it to see the way he works your cunt. 

“You’re so wet, baby. Have I not fucked you enough?” He whispers into your ear huskily. Yunho talking dirty to you is something you didn’t know you needed in your life. His finger slips downward, thrusting up into your hole with ease. He keeps massaging your clit with his palm, the stimulation making your head woozy.

“Mmmph— Yun, god. Feels too good.” You whine, gyrating your hips on his hand. 

“Is that right, babe?” He encourages, adding a second finger and increasing the speed of their thrusts, almost like you hadn’t been in this position already. “I can’t wait to feel this tight little pussy around my cock again. Gonna fuck you harder than the last.”

Your whimpers raise in volume, focusing on the way he curls his digits in you, applying pressure with the heel of his palm to the circles he’s rubbing into your clit. You can sense your third orgasm approaching, warmth flooding your cheeks at how embarrassingly fast he worked you back up. Your walls clench around his fingers, alerting him of how close you are. He pauses, worming his body down so his face is eye level with your cunt again.

Yunho does the whole teasing thing a second time, kissing and suckling the hot skin of your belly, knowingly denying you of your release. You grab a handful of his hair, tugging at the ends to spur him on. He groans, giving into you and licking a straight line up your slit. He inserts both fingers again, this time using his tongue to manipulate your swollen clit.

The heat of Yunho’s mouth makes your insides ache, the necessity to cum intensifying. You keen loudly, desperately, needily, the sight of the brunette between your legs so incredibly arousing. He sucks on your throbbing clit, his long fingers as deep as they can go, and you crumble. 

“Oh my god— oh my god— I’m cumming! I’m—” You cut yourself off, convulsing under him. He laps up as much of your juices as he can, coating his chin with your release. You moan as you pull him towards you to unify your lips, a mixture of your saliva and cum connect your mouths in strings. At this point, the sex is messier than anything you could’ve plucked from your wildest dreams. 

One hand trails down your body, using your nimble fingers to play with your sensitive clit when he starts fisting his cock in preparation to enter your pussy again. You use your free hand to scratch at his contracting abs. He hisses, propping himself up with one arm next to your head and his eyes trained on the way you finger yourself at the same time. You can feel his breath on your cheeks and being in this proximity to him fuels your yearning.

“Please, Yun… Need you back inside of me,” you whimper. Rubbing your clit with your own fingers isn’t satisfying enough, not with him here in front of you, not when you know how good he can make you feel.

“Fuck, baby, when you beg like that I don’t know if I can hold back.” He chuckles lowly. It rumbles from his chest, shooting to your core. 

“So don’t,” you rouse. “This is more than just a one time thing for me, Yunho.”

His eyes widen just a bit, your confession catching him off guard. That’s all he needs to line himself up with your hole, hooking his forearm under your knee as he slides in, stretching your cunt so perfectly with his perfect cock. “Shit— you’re so tight, princess… It’s almost like I didn’t just fuck you within an inch of your life.” He moans and spreads your legs wider. He bottoms out with a grunt, throwing his head back from the feeling of your velvety walls. A near deafening cry is ripped from your vocal cords. He nips at your neck, starting to piston his hips. 

His thrusts don’t slow but become calculated, speeding up and diving deep simultaneously. It only took a short amount of time to figure out what you liked and he used it to his advantage. Yunho hikes your knee to your chest, groping your tits with his free hand. He twists and tugs at your nipples just hard enough that it contributes to your pleasure rather than hurts you.

It’s as if he doesn’t feel buried inside of you sufficiently, because he decreases his pace to press and fold your other leg up, his hips ramming into your ass with each thrust now. The tip of his cock kisses at what feels like your cervix. That familiar coil begins to fasten again, keening with every drive into your cunt. The squelching noises would’ve made you cower in shame with anyone else, but with Yunho it turns you on further.

You moan, and he flattens his hand on the lower part of your stomach. Yunho groans, biting the skin where your shoulder meets your neck. Your fingers find your clit again, circling insatiably to get yourself off. 

“You gonna cum for me again?” He rasps, his hold on your legs almost painful. The backs of your thighs burn, but you endure it for the sake of the moment. You reach up and behind yourself, grabbing at the headboard in an attempt to match his force. 

“Oh my god, yes— yes yes yes yes,” you babble, the syllables blurring together like your mind. “Gonna cum so hard for you, Yunho. Keep going, please.”

His lips attach to yours, tongues tangling sloppily. The position you’re in is on the opposite end of the spectrum from how you were expecting this summer reunion to go. Had you not been made aware of Yunho living here at the last minute, you probably would’ve backed out of your commitment to staying. Deep down you’re a little too thankful that your grandmother mentioned him when it was too late to reconsider. 

“I think I’m in love with you, Y/N,” Yunho whispers into your mouth. 

You let go of the headboard, cupping his jaw and kissing him lovingly. “Me too.”

Your fingers speed up and so do his thrusts, perfectly timed with each other to shove you both towards your highs. You’re on the cusp of falling apart, arching into him to close the gap between your bodies. 

“Wanna cum inside you. Can I?” Yunho grunts. 

“Yes yes, please. Fill me up, Yun, want all of you.” 

He continues to abuse your cunt, pounding into you like his life depended on it. You sob, clamping your walls around him. He freezes, suddenly spilling into you. “Come on, baby, cum on my cock.” The warmth of his release and his words coax your orgasm, the fluttering of your cunt milking every single drop from him that it can. Even with his dick plugging you up, you can feel it dripping out of you and onto the sheets below. 

He rocks into you languidly until you’ve calmed down enough for him to pull out. His forehead is flush on your chest, rising and falling with it, both of you so spent from the intense physical activity you engaged in. You stare up at the ceiling with heavy eyelids, carding your fingers through his hair to soothe him. 

“You meant what you said right? About this not being a one time thing.” Yunho says hesitantly, like he’s afraid of permeating the atmosphere you created. 

“I don’t think I can go home at the end of the summer and forget the way I feel for you, Yunho.” You admit out loud. There had been a constant struggle in your head over whether or not to follow your heart, but as he looks at you with those sparkly eyes of his, you know your answer. And you feel a little stupid for ever considering the counter. 

“And what exactly are those feelings?” He pushes, folding his hands on your sternum and laying his cheek on top. You giggle, brushing his hair out of his view. As tempting as it was to divulge your theatrical journey in assessing your emotions, you’re too exhausted to stay awake. It would have to wait for another day. 

“You have the rest of the summer to find out, cowboy.”

© yunhoszn. do not steal, claim, or repost. 

[monsterslikemango]

How I headcannon the cod characters would dress off duty

John Price

Granola Dad aesthetic

Carhartt & Patagonia 

Baseball hats & beanies heaven

mostly wears boots and hiking shoes but has a pair of Birkenstocks Gaz bought him.

Wears a very nice tactical watch 

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Rich London private school

I headcannon Gaz was raised in a wealthy family — old money yet his dad had a good job to which only added to it. (Probably a judge — would explain where he got his very strong sense of justice from)

Really is just a pretty boy

Old money style, new money shoes

Definitely smells super good! Think Vanilla Sex or Tobacco Vanille by Tom Ford

Gold jewelry — usually small chain and gold watch

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Let me get this out of the way — he still dresses like he’s in high school just a little bit more organized now

Loves to be comfortable — baggy jeans, jackets, hoodies.

Lots of white t-shirts basically wears them with everything, same with white shoes but he can’t keep the shoes clean to save his life

Bought a pair of air forces, they were dirty in a week

Wears a fair amount of jewelry — silver

Never leaves the house with out his cross or medal of Saint Gabriel (he grew up Catholic)

Simon “Ghost” Riley

The girls know what’s coming

Biker

Definitely can dress nice if he tries but is more than likely wearing a black t-shirt, black jeans, and a hat

Keeps his head down — tends to always wear a hat in public but avoids masks as not to draw attention to him self — doesn’t matter cause he’s probably wearing his helmet anyway

Spends most of his off time in the gym — grey sweats and a black tee

Not really a jewelry person

Belts <3

Phillip Graves

Country boy through and through

Nothing else to say here

Definitely smells good though — think Dior Homme

[judenostopwaitkeepgoing]

A Class Analysis of the Crown Villains

Analyzing all of the EN-released Villains from who would be the most to least wealthy in 1890s Victorian England.

A/N: This is just for fun! These characters/stories are not that deep, and I don’t want them to be! I just find it fun and silly to think through what this world would actually look like in history, and maybe you do too! 😊 Spoilers for pretty much every villain on the EN server, so read at your own risk! Also I am not a historian or economist, just a gal with a computer, so take all of this with a grain of salt.

Also, I’m assuming that Ikémen Villains takes place sometime in the 1890s in London, England—the tail end of Queen Victoria’s rule. This estimated time frame is based mostly on Harry’s love of Arthur Conan Doyle and passing mentions of when “he has a new novel coming out.” Doyle was a prolific writer and wrote for a long time, but I wanted to keep the time period specific enough to really think through what the economics would be like.

Wealthiest - Jude Jazza

Originally I was going to put the villains who belong to the gentry (Elbert and William and ... Victor??? Maybe?? haha) at the top of the list, but the more I thought it through, the more it became clear that in order for Jude to realistically carry out some of the actions in his route (which I haven’t finished!) or various story events/collection events, he would need to be so fucking rich. Like stupid wealthy. Like not quite at Jeff Bezos level of wealth, but pretty up there.

And baby started from the bottom now he’s here, okay! The fact that Jude grew up in abject poverty then became a successful CEO of a trading company originally struck me as one of the more unrealistic things in the game (which I do not care about, he’s still daddy), but the more I looked into it, the more I got on board with it. The writers were smart to add a rich benefactor to his backstory, because in 1890s London, that was probably the only way for a poor kid from the slums to receive an education. Wealth disparity was bad in the 1890s, and people were mad about it! Jude’s hatred of the rich and powerful is in keeping with working class (and even some middle class) attitudes at the time. And with the rapid development and expansion of the Port of London (from the completion of the Royal Victoria Dock in 1855 to the Port of Tilbury in 1886), trading was the business to be in at the time. So it’s not impossible that Jude could have just lucked out in a few key ways and worked extremely hard to get to where he is (although he would still probably be considered a unicorn in this time period).

As for Raven Co.’s annual profit: who knows. I’m guessing it’s in the billions in today’s money. I’m unsure what Jude’s salary would be, he is explicitly characterized in his route as a fair boss who pays his workers a living wage, but he’s also like randomly really generous with like Ellis or Kate (i.e. giving Ellis a blank check for Xmas, giving Kate more than enough money to get a dress, etc.) so he’s probably taking home plenty. And considering how smart Jude is, he’s probably pretty savvy about saving and investing his money. He also makes a lot of deals and has a lot of involvement overseas, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he has bank accounts in several countries. The man is committed to building his rocket, okay! I’d say his annual income is in the hundred millions of dollars (in today’s money). But his net worth is probably in the billions.

Lord Elbert Greetia

Okay, now on to our first landed-gentry boy: Lord Elbert. Lord Elbert is most likely the wealthiest member of Crown in terms of generational wealth, with William coming in a close second.

Elbert is a member of the landed gentry or “peerage” and uses the title of “Lord,” which he inherited from his father. Being in this class means that he not only has significant wealth (in literal pounds and assets), but it also means that he has a rock-solid social standing and owns land. Land ownership is a big deal here because it means that Lord Elbert has the power to control anyone who might be living/working on property that he owns. And I’m not just talking servants/staff at his estate, I’m talking residents of any townships or villages on the likely acres and acres of land that he's in control of. So he has a passive income via taxing residents and laborers on his land(s)... forever! Being in this class also makes his wealth a lot more stable and immutable than say, Jude, who is a great businessman but whose income and assets are at the mercy of the market/demand.

Elbert’s character in the game is very stoic (until Kate shows up!), and he has deep trauma from his childhood home, so he doesn’t seem to exercise a ton of the privileges that would be available to him in terms of controlling the people who live on his properties. But, if we’re talking the 1890s here, he would probably have entire villages or even small towns under his economic purview. I think of him as a Mr. Darcy type, probably bringing in about £10,000 a year, or a little over £1.5 million/$2 million in today’s money. This combined with the cost of all of his assets or “beautiful things” that he compulsively collects (artwork, fine furniture, jewels, real estate, etc.) means I’d estimate his net worth to be about $70-100 million in today’s money.

Lord William Rex

I’m only putting William after Elbert because I do think Elbert has more non-cash assets, simply from the nature of his curse which causes him to be greedy. But let’s be clear: Lord William is also loaded. He, like Elbert, is a member of the peerage of the time and owns lots of land/real estate. He probably receives a pretty substantial passive income from all of his properties like Elbert.

I do think there’s one key difference between them: I have a feeling that William would either redistribute some of the income that he gets from any taxed residents/workers on his properties or lower their taxes—he just seems like the type to be about that. So that’s another reason why I think Elbert might have a higher net worth. Still, we find out that William paid for the construction of a hospital in his route, and for a man to do that in the 1890s, he’d have to be pretty freaking rich. I’d say that his net worth is probably somewhere between $50-100 million in today’s money.

Victor???

Big question mark around Victor! I’m putting him here just because he is so connected to the Queen, and unless we learn something different from his route, I’m pretty sure that means he’s at least upper class, if not a (former) member of the gentry/peerage. Or perhaps comes from a wealthier family. He also receives a salary and lodging from the Queen (as do all the members of Crown I think) so he’s certainly getting all of his needs met. He’s also the oldest member of Crown, which just makes me assume he’s had more time to accrue savings. But couldn’t tell you what his net worth is even if you held a gun to my head, this is all just vibes haha.

Liam Evans

Liam grew up comfortably upper class, basically wealthy despite not being a member of the landed gentry. His father owns an estate, or at least did when Liam was a child, and had staff and servants. Because of his mental illness and disfigurement, Liam’s father probably relied entirely on family money after a certain point.

As an adult, and considering he is a successful and popular leading actor at a major theater in London at the time, Liam is doing well for himself! He is now much better off than his father! Good riddance! Actors at the major theaters at the time were typically paid anywhere between 2-25 pounds per week, and Liam was likely on the upper end of that spectrum. Let’s say he takes home 20 pounds a week, which in today’s money would be about 3,200 pounds, or about 4,000 dollars. That’s 208,000 dollars a year before tax! Not bad at all! But, it’s worth noting, that at the time actors were definitely not seen as contributing members to society (especially women/actresses—they were essentially thrown into the same category as sex workers), so Liam’s social standing in the grand scheme of things is definitely lower as an actor than it was probably growing up in an upper-middle class house.

Ellis Twilight + Alfons Sylvatica

I’m throwing these two in here together because they are probably doing well for themselves, but only because they are attached to a super-rich person haha. Who knows what their salaries/wages are or what kind of deal they have with their respective sugar daddies (hehe) but suffice to say they don’t have to worry about money. Alfons is probably more irresponsible with his money, only because of his lifestyle, but even so he’s nowhere near as big of a spender as Elbert so it probably all ends up a wash. And I’m assuming that Jude pays Ellis pretty well because he loves him lol.

Harrison Gray

Okay, this one took some digging! Harry’s dad was a police officer, which in today’s world would mean that his family was pretty well-off and Harry had a comfortable upbringing. Not a member of the upper classes/gentry, but probably solidly middle class. This is also implied in the game, or at least Harry isn’t one of the characters that we know grew up poor.

But, it turns out, police officers weren’t paid super well in mid/late 1800s London! Harry’s dad would probably be on the better-paid side of the spectrum because he was a chief/high-ranking, but the police were a relatively new-ish phenomenon and weren’t considered “high-value” professionals. Harry’s dad likely only took home about 10 guineas a week, which in today’s money is about £1,400 or $1,700, so he was making about $88,000 a year in today’s money (before taxes). Which would be relatively comfortable for a single person today, but for a family in the 1800s would be pretty much living paycheck to paycheck with maybe a couple splurge purchases a year (like for Christmas or birthdays). So Harry’s family wasn’t anywhere near as poor as Jude or Alfons were growing up, but they likely lived quite modestly!

As an adult, Harry probably makes a healthy salary as an editor/proofreader. Publishing was booming in the 1890s, and writers were most often serialized in weekly publications, which meant a steady income for both writers and publishers. I’d say Harry is probably taking home a couple hundred pounds at the least per week, so something in the thousands of dollars in today’s terms. It’s unclear to me what the rules of living in Crown castle are. Like do they pay rent? I don’t think so? Let’s say they don’t, which means Harry gets to save/keep all his wages and only spends on personal stuff. He doesn’t seem like the biggest spender, if anything he reads as very sensible with money to me, haha. So he’s likely got a cozy little net worth building up but nothing crazy. Since wealth stratification is so extreme in this time period (the rich were very rich and the poor were very poor), Harry would probably be making enough to still be looked down on by the upper classes and enough to still be the object of contempt for the lower classes.

Poorest ? - Roger Barel

Doctors today are very well paid, but this was not the case in the late 1800s! Growing up, Roger’s dad probably had an annual salary of about 300-500 pounds a year, or roughly $45k-$80k in today’s money. Not a lot to live on for a whole family now, but this probably went further in the 1870s/80s when Roger was growing up. It’s implied that his family lived relatively comfortably, so I’m guessing that his dad had a good reputation and was sought after for his surgical expertise. He may have even gotten paid to teach in surgery ‘theatres’ of the time. (I haven’t read or looked much into Roger’s route so this might be wrong!)

I’m only ranking him last because he seems to not be formally employed haha. Since Roger is not a publicly practicing surgeon, he is relying on his income (?) and lodging from Crown for his day-to-day expenses. This could be any amount it seems, haha, depending on what he asks Victor/the Queen for. He doesn’t seem like a crazy spender, so he’s probably not complaining. I have no idea what his salary would be, though. It doesn’t seem like Crown bothers with all that, haha.

[charmed-quill]

Burrow Bound//B.W x Reader Chapter 2

Authors note at end.

Original request by @littlegreenteacup

Summary: Y/N, an American half-blood witch newly arrived in Muggle London, stumbles into the warmth of the Weasley brothers after a serendipitous meeting in Diagon Alley. Drawn into their world, she finds herself at the Burrow more often than not. Meanwhile, Bill Weasley is learning to navigate life as a single father, relying on his mother’s help to care for Victoire. Though their worlds orbit each other, Y/N and Bill’s paths never seem to align—until one evening when fate finally draws them together. Will it be the start of a love story, or will they be left with nothing but heartache?

Word count: 2.7k

Last Chapter

Next Chapter

The Burrow was alive with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of dishes. Y/N stepped through the doorway into a space so warm and inviting it felt like stepping into a hug. The scent of roasted potatoes and pork mingled with the rich aroma of gravy and something sweet dancing in the air. 

The kitchen was a whirl of activity, with Molly bustling between the stove and the table, her wand directing a ladle to stir a pot while she stacked plates with practiced ease.

“Oi, Y/N!” a loud voice called out, and she spotted Fred, grinning at her from the table. He waved her over with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Saved you a seat. Right next to the charming one.”

“That’s me,” George interjected from across the table, earning an exaggerated scoff from Fred.

She made her way over, carefully weaving through the chaos of chairs and family members, trying to take in everything at once. 

A clock ticked softly in the corner, the wood-paneled walls were adorned with moving photographs, their subjects waving cheerfully at her. A stack of books teetered precariously near the fireplace, and the whole house seemed to hum.

As she sat down next to Fred, Y/N couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face. 

“This place is incredible,” she murmured.

Fred smirked, leaning in conspiratorially. “Wait ‘til Mum gets yelling about something. Really completes the ambiance.”

“I hope you’re hungry,” he added as he handed her a plate.

“Starved,” she replied, inhaling deeply once more. The smells were intoxicating, a reminder of home-cooked meals she hadn’t realised she missed.

“Ron!” Molly’s sharp voice rang out across the kitchen. “Get your grubby fingers out of the pudding!”

Ron, mid-swipe at a bowl of something creamy and golden, froze like a deer in headlights. “I was just checking if it was done,” he mumbled, quickly retracting his hand as Molly shot him a glare.

“By sticking your fingers in it?” Ginny said, rolling her eyes as she passed him a clean spoon. “Try this. It’s called ‘not being disgusting.’”

“Enough out of you,” Ron muttered, his ears turning pink as he busied himself with a plate of bread rolls.

Arthur, seated at the head of the table, chuckled warmly. “Careful, Ron, you'll be banned from dessert.”

“I’m not banned, am I, Mum?” Ron asked quickly, shooting her a worried glance.

“That depends on how well you behave,” Molly replied, her tone stern but her eyes twinkling.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, feeling the tension of being an outsider slowly melt away. She leaned closer to Fred and whispered, “Does this happen every night?”

“Every meal,” he confirmed, looking far too proud of the chaos. “You’ll love it here. We specialise in entertainment.”

“Entertainment or torment?” George quipped.

“Both,” Fred replied with a grin. “We’re multi-talented.”

Molly bustled past, setting down a steaming bowl of vegetables in the center of the table. She paused to pat Y/N on the shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind a bit of noise, dear. With this lot, it’s unavoidable.”

“It’s perfect,” Y/N said sincerely, her gaze sweeping over the cozy kitchen again. 

Ginny plopped down beside George, shaking her head at her brothers. “Ignore them. They think they’re funny.”

“We are funny,” Fred corrected.

“No, you’re annoying,” she countered, snagging a roll from Ron’s plate before he could stop her.

“Hey!” Ron protested. “Get your own!”

“And miss the fun of stealing yours?” she shot back, grinning.

Molly took a seat beside her husband, smiling kindly at Y/n. 

“You better get cracking, Y/N,” Charlie called from a few seats down, his grin wide as he gestured at the food-laden table. “There’ll be nothing left if you wait much longer.”

Y/N smiled, feeling the warmth of his teasing, and turned her attention to the feast before her. Taking his advice, she began piling her plate with roasted pork, golden potatoes, bright green peas, tender carrots, and flaky little pastries that looked too good to resist. She finished it off with a generous ladle of thick, dark gravy, the aroma alone making her stomach growl in anticipation. The scents were heavenly, a comforting blend of herbs, roasted meat, and buttery richness that filled the room.

Her plate was a masterpiece of food, and her mouth watered just looking at it. Not knowing where to start, she scooped a little bit of everything onto her fork and took a big bite. 

The flavors hit her all at once, savory pork, perfectly seasoned vegetables, and the velvety gravy tying it all together. It was so delicious she couldn’t help but close her eyes for a moment, savoring the explosion of flavors.

“So, Y/N,” Molly began, her voice cutting gently through the hum of conversation. “What do you do for work?”

Y/N froze mid-chew, her eyes widening slightly as all attention turned to her. She quickly chewed harder, trying to swallow without choking, and reached for her glass of water to help wash it down. Setting the glass back down, she gave a sheepish smile.

“Well,” she began, setting her fork aside. “I work at the museum here in London. Actually, I was finishing an orientation there earlier today before I ran into Charlie.”

“A museum?” Arthur leaned forward, his curiosity palpable. “Muggle museums are fascinating, so many exhibits! What do you do there?”

“I’m part of a small team of magical historians,” Y/N explained, her nerves easing under Arthur’s enthusiasm. “We make sure the artifacts No-Majs bring in aren’t cursed or magically significant before they go on display.”

“Like a curse breaker?” Ron asked, his brow furrowing in thought.

Y/N shook her head, smiling. “Not quite. Curse breakers work on a much larger scale. What we do is a lot more focused. We just ensure the items brought in are safe for No-Majs to display and study. If something turns out to be cursed or too dangerous, there’s a separate department that handles it.”

“Sounds like you’re the first line of defense,” Percy remarked, adjusting his glasses. “Cataloging magical artifacts sounds like no small task.”

“It’s definitely detail-oriented,” Y/N agreed. “Most of our job involves identifying enchantments, figuring out their purpose, and determining if they pose any risk. A lot of the time, it’s minor things, like a quill that writes by itself or a mirror that gives overly enthusiastic compliments.”

“Now that’s something I could use.” Fred interjected, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye. 

“For what?” Ginny asked, rolling her eyes. “Inflating your ego even more?”

“Exactly,” George chimed in, grinning. “Fred’s confidence isn’t quite unbearable enough yet.”

The table erupted into laughter, and Y/N couldn’t help but join in, the tension in her shoulders easing.

“Have you ever found something dangerous?” Ron asked, clearly intrigued.

“A few times,” Y/N said, nodding. “We’ve had a cursed necklace that tried to strangle its owner and a painting that screamed whenever someone looked at it. But those cases are rare. Most of the time, it’s harmless, like a clay pot that sings or a book that rewrites itself depending on the reader.”

Arthur’s eyes sparkled with fascination. “Muggles have no idea how extraordinary their world becomes when it overlaps with ours. What do they make of these items?”

“They usually just think they’re quirky or broken,” Y/N said with a small laugh. “It’s amazing how easily people dismiss the magical when they don’t know it exists.”

“Well, it sounds like you’ve got a fascinating job, dear,” Molly said warmly, her genuine smile lighting up the cozy dining area. “And an important one. It must feel good knowing you’re helping to preserve history.”

“It really does,” Y/N admitted, her cheeks flushing slightly as she set her fork down. “I’ve always loved history. My dad and I used to go to a different museum every month when I was a kid. He loved them almost as much as I did.” She paused, her eyes softening as she recalled the memories. “There’s this big magical museum in Magical New York kind of like the magical world’s version of the Smithsonian. He took me there when I turned ten, and I think that’s what really sparked my interest in it all.”

“Are both your parents magical?” Ginny asked curiously, her head tilted as she rested her chin on her hand.

Y/N shook her head, a fond smile playing on her lips. 

“Nah, just my dad. My mum’s a No-Maj. She’s always been supportive, though.” She chuckled, the sound soft and nostalgic. “Dad was the one who taught me all about the magical world. He always said that being a witch meant having one foot in two different worlds, and I should learn to love both.”

“That must have been an interesting way to grow up,” Arthur said, his tone tinged with admiration.

“It was,” Y/N agreed. “I grew up in a small town in Georgia, where magic wasn’t exactly common. Most of my friends were No-Majs, and my mum did her best to keep things as normal as possible. But Dad would sneak in little bits of magic here and there, a charmed broom to help clean the house, enchanted fireworks on birthdays, that kind of thing.”

Fred and George perked up at the mention of enchanted fireworks. “He sounds brilliant,” Fred said. “A man after our own hearts.”

“He really was,” Y/N replied, her smile widening. “He always wanted to visit London, though. It was on his bucket list. He loved everything about British history, both magical and No-Maj.”

“He must be thrilled you’re living here now,” Ginny said, her voice light.

Y/N hesitated, the smile faltering for just a moment. She could picture her father’s gleaming smile, the way his eyes would light up at the news.

“He would have been,” She agreed, a wave of bittersweet sadness washed over her, and she quickly took another bite of her dinner to distract herself, letting the flavors ground her.

“Would have been,” Ron said loudly, his fork clinking against his plate. “What changed?”

“Ron!” Molly chastised sharply, her voice tinged with disapproval. “Mind your manners.”

“No, it’s alright,” Y/N said gently, setting her fork down and taking a breath. “He died just after I graduated from Ilvermorny.”

The room grew quieter, the lively chatter dimming to a soft murmur. The warmth of the room seemed to hold her, a silent show of comfort.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” Molly said, her expression filled with understanding as she reached out to pat Y/N’s hand. “Losing a parent is never easy.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said, managing a small smile in return. “It was hard, but he always encouraged me to follow my dreams. Moving here felt like a way to honor him, you know? He’d have been over the moon.”

There was a quiet nod of agreement around the table, a small acknowledgment of the weight of her words. 

After a moment, Fred leaned closer, breaking the silence with his usual mischievous tone.

“Well, if your dad was as brilliant as he sounds, then he’d definitely approve of you hanging out with us.”

“Absolutely,” George chimed in. “We’re practically a historical exhibit ourselves. Living legends, really.”

Y/N chuckled, the tension in her chest easing as the table erupted into gentle laughter. Ginny rolled her eyes, and Molly shook her head with a fond smile, but the warmth radiating from the family made Y/N feel a little lighter.

As the conversation shifted and the lively energy returned to the table, Y/N took another bite of her meal, savoring the flavors. 

Slowly, the plates began to clear as Molly stood up from the table, her wand in hand. With a graceful flick, the dirty dishes floated toward the sink, clinking softly as they settled into the soapy water. The warm hum of post-dinner conversation filled the room, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.

“We made an American delicacy for dessert,” Molly announced proudly, waving her wand once more. A massive apple pie floated to the center of the table, its golden crust perfectly crisp and flaked with sugar. Alongside it appeared an impressive trifle layered with custard, jelly, and whipped cream. Both desserts gleamed under the warm light, looking like they belonged in a wizarding cookbook.

Y/N’s grin widened as Molly handed her a generous helping of pie, the cinnamon-scented steam wafting up to tickle her nose. “This looks amazing,” she said earnestly, her fork already hovering over the plate.

“Careful,” Fred said from across the table, watching her with mock seriousness. “Mum’s desserts are enchanted. One bite and you’ll never want to leave.”

George nodded solemnly, a spoonful of trifle halfway to his mouth. “Happened to us. We were going to move out years ago, but she keeps us trapped here with puddings and pies.”

“Honestly, I don’t see the downside,” Y/N quipped, taking her first bite. The warm, gooey filling and buttery crust melted on her tongue, and her eyes closed in bliss.

“See?” Fred gestured dramatically to George. “She’s already under the spell!”

–

After dinner, Y/N wandered about the Burrow, her curiosity drawing her to every quirky detail of the cozy, mismatched house. The air smelled faintly of wood smoke and baked goods, and the soft glow of enchanted lanterns illuminated the rooms. Family photographs in animated frames waved at her from the walls, and a few stray knitting needles clattered away in the corner, working on a scarf of their own accord.

She stopped in front of a tall, old clock that sat proudly in one corner of the living room. At first glance, she thought it was just another whimsical wizarding relic, but upon closer inspection, she realized the clock didn’t display the time at all. Instead, its hands, each labeled with a family member's name, pointed to various locations: Home, School, Work, and Bed. All the hands currently rested on Home, except for one, which pointed to Bed.

“Who’s in bed at this hour?” Y/N mused aloud, leaning in to examine the name on the errant hand.

“Bill,” came a voice directly in her left ear.

“He’s our oldest brother,” added a voice in her right.

Y/N startled slightly, spinning to find Fred and George standing on either side of her, identical smirks plastered across their freckled faces. 

“Do you two always pop up out of nowhere?” she asked, laughing despite herself.

“Part of our charm,” Fred said with a wink.

“I haven’t met him, have I?” she asked, pointing at the clock.

“Nope,” George replied, popping the p for emphasis. “Bill’s a busy bee.”

“Probably for the best, though,” Fred added, crossing his arms. “We wouldn’t stand a chance if he were here.”

“Why not?” Y/N asked, her brows furrowing.

“Because,” Fred said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart, “all the witches go crazy for him. They think he’s all cool and mysterious.”

“But really,” George interjected with a grin, “he’s just a massive nerd.”

Y/N chuckled, glancing back at the clock. “He’s the curse breaker, right?”

“Yep,” George said. “Used to work in Egypt, raiding tombs and dodging deadly curses.”

Fred leaned in conspiratorially. “But he traded all that in for nappies and bedtime stories when Victoire was born.”

“Victoire?” Y/N asked.

“Our niece,” George explained. “Mum’s first grandchild. Total scene-stealer.”

Fred nodded solemnly. “Mum cried for two days when she was born. It was very dramatic.”

“Not as dramatic as when George sat on a toy broomstick last Christmas and broke it,” Fred teased.

“That was a faulty broom, and you know it!” George shot back, narrowing his eyes.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head at the antics. “Well, now I’m curious to meet this infamous Bill,” she said.

“Careful what you wish for,” Fred warned. “If you’re not careful, you might fall under his nerdy spell too.”

“Unlikely,” Y/N shot back with a grin. “I’m more interested in the clock. Do you think it could tell me where my lost socks are?”

“Not a chance,” George said. “That’s advanced magic. Even Dad hasn’t cracked the sock mystery.”

Fred sighed wistfully. “One day, though. One day.”

a/n: okay a few things: 1) I am not American nor am I English (🐨🦘🇦🇺) so if anything is wrong don’t tell me I’ll cry. 2) I made the reader Southern cuz southern accents are so stinking cute are you joking?! 3) this is definitely going to be a slow burn since I just LOVE building character relationships, I love having relationships that feel genuine?

[bethanydelleman]

Something about this whole Lydia thing confuses me a little .

Why did Darcy act alone ? Why didn't he inform Mr Gardiner of his involvement since the start not after the situation is settled ?

When he asked Lydia to leave Wickham, why did he expect her family to receive her when the whole town knew ?

I kept reading posts about how noble Darcy is for asking her to leave him. But honestly just because he does not care about reputation does not nobody else does. Heck, the whole family would suffer from social isolation, he is basically ruining what's left of the girls's chances of marrying well. He is not destroying just his own chances of marrying Lizzie, but with almost any gentleman she would ever come across. What was he thinking ?

At least, while married to Wickham, she has her reputation restored and she can go to balls and parties, if she leaves him she would be banished somewhere far away and for the extroverted loud Lydia, this is HELL.

And if he wanted simply to recover her, shouldn't he bring a relative alone so they would help convince her, surely that would help.

Honestly, the only sensible thing Lydia had done is refusing to leave him.

Darcy acted alone because he didn't trust Mr. Bennet to be a responsible adult so he waited until Mr. Bennet had returned home before approaching Mr. Gardiner:

But Mr. Gardiner could not be seen; and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father was still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him till after the departure of the former.

which, good judgment there, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bennet sucks.

As for the other thing, Darcy doesn't know what is going on in Meryton, he doesn't know that Mrs. Bennet is stupid enough to scream their bad news all over town. This whole affair could have been hushed up if Mrs. Bennet had half a brain cell. Lydia has family in London, they could have easily pretended that Lydia went to visit them.

Either way, I think in Darcy's mind, being married to Wickham is the absolute worst outcome for any woman. He hates Wickham and he knows all of Wickham's faults. To him, a sixteen year old being stuck with that sad excuse for a human being, forever, is worse than death or a cottage. Lydia didn't agree, but I don't think she's smart for that decision, she's short-sighted. And I'm pretty sure at this point that Darcy would marry Elizabeth either way, he'd probably prefer to not have Wickham as a permanent brother in law.

As for Lydia and the family's reputation, there must have been options or else Darcy wouldn't have given leaving as a choice to Lydia. He is very rich and very well regarded and everyone in Meryton now knows that Wickham is awful. So Darcy says she was kidnapped and is completely innocent and he saved her. Fortunately for the Bennet family, they never go to London, so this gossip will not spread far either way. No one knows who they are. Darcy marrying Elizabeth will give the Bennets the same reputation boost that it did in the original timeline. Lydia may need to lay low for a while, but having two very rich brother in laws can only help her marriage prospects down the line.

As for bringing a relative, I assume Darcy would have done that too if he thought it would help. As we know, it wouldn't have.

[ilikethisacompletelynormalamount]

Andrew Scott, Vogue: April 2024.

by Zing Tsjeng, Photos by Annie Leibovitz

Ripley, in other words, is the hero of the tale. “That’s why he fascinates so many,” says Scott. “There’s been so many iterations of him. I think it’s because people root for him.” Actors like Alain Delon and Dennis Hopper have tried the role; Matt Damon played him as an obsequious, lower-class naïf; John Malkovich, as a slimy, camp killer. Scott’s Ripley is different; a watchful loner escaping rodent-infested poverty, more at home among art than he is around people. Musician and actor Johnny Flynn plays his first victim—the monied Dickie Greenleaf—and Dakota Fanning is Dickie’s suspicious ex-girlfriend. “I find Tom quite vulnerable,” Scott tells me. “I don’t think he’s necessarily lonely, but I certainly think he’s solitary…. He seems to me by his nature that he just can’t fit in. He’s trying to survive.”

In Ripley, Zaillian extracts maximum Hitchcockian dread from every creaky footstep. But most sinister of all is Scott’s face, which exhibits a sharklike steeliness throughout. It’s a performance that exudes queasy force. Is Ripley a scammer, a psychopath, or both? “There’s so many things lurking beneath him that I’ve been very reluctant to diagnose him with anything. I never thought of him as a sociopath or murderous,” Scott declares. “It’s up to everybody else to characterize him or call him whatever they want.”

As we weave through tourists near the Tower of London, barely anybody notices Scott, save for a faint glimmer of recognition among mainly young women. He seems to draw reassurance from it. “I don’t like to think about it too much, if I’m honest,” he muses of fame. “I find it a little bit, er, frightening.” He is known but not blockbuster-recognizable, although he is in the upcoming Back in Action with Cameron Diaz and Jamie Foxx. What stunts did he do? “I can’t give that away, I’m afraid, or somebody from Netflix will come and shoot me in the head.”

What’s been on Scott’s mind the most hasn’t been acting at all, in fact, but art. As a 17-year-old, he was offered his first movie role on the same day he was given a scholarship to study painting. He chose acting, but has recently been thinking about Oliver Burkeman’s philosophical self-help tract from 2021, Four Thousand Weeks, which makes the case for focusing on the five things you truly want to accomplish. “For me at the moment, it’s like, What do you want to do? What do you want to say?”

He scrolls through his phone to show me his work. There’s a watercolor of a couple arguing in a restaurant in rich reds and greens, line drawings of friends and people on the beach, and two self-portraits. “It’s a bit weird,” he acknowledges of his depiction of himself, all bulbous forehead and Pan-like tufts of hair. His brisk, nervy lines are reminiscent of Egon Schiele or Francis Bacon, who turns out to be one of his favorite painters. “Well, God, I’ll take that,” he mutters at the comparison. He would like someday to go to art school. “I don’t ever regret it,” he says of acting. “But I suppose you just get to a stage where you think, What else? That’s one of the big painful things in life for me, where you can’t quite live all the lives.” As he gets older, he feels the tug toward revisiting old working relationships, including with Waller-Bridge: “We’ve definitely got things cooking,” he smiles. “I’d love to work with her again. She’s just a singular, wonderful person.” For her part, Waller-Bridge says: “I’d love to see him do a fully unhinged slapstick comedy character. Someone who is outraged at everything, all of the time.”

As we round the pavement and the Tate Modern looms back into sight, he recalls a poster he received in 2017—a monstrously large graphic that detailed every week in a human life span. “It’s your entire life if you live to 80—you have to fill in all the bits that you’ve already lived,” he remembers in awe, “a visually terrifying gift.” What did he do with it? “I didn’t hold on to it for too long.” Easy come, easy go: We finally finish our loop around the Thames and, as Scott disappears back into the throng, anonymous just the way he likes it, it occurs to me that the actor has many lives to live yet. ■

[gardenwalrus]

The Beatles speaking about themselves in DISC (12 October 1963) [Paul & John section here]

[GEORGE] Our dress style has changed…  It was when I was relaxing in a Boeing jet on the way back from America last week that I realised that in many ways I was still the same George Harrison I was before The Beatles were so well known. But I also realise that in some ways my life HAS changed - mostly for the better I’m glad to say.  The most obvious change is financial. That’s very nice, but I don’t think it's the most important thing. It’s nice to be able to buy a new car and new clothes when you want them, but I was happy when I couldn’t afford these things.  One big way The Beatles generally have changed is in their style of dress. Eighteen months ago, for instance, we dressed far more casually than we do now. 

I think my social life has changed considerably as well. Now we meet far more people than we ever met before.  I mean, like, when we appear at a one-night stand we’re often invited back after the show to a nearby club. People seem to go out of their way to try and make sure we have a little fun after our work.  A question I’ve been asked quite a few times over the past 12 months is: “What do you think is the right age to get married?”  I honestly think there’s no such thing as ‘the right age.’ I think that you should get married when you decide that this is the time when you should get married. This is a decision which you can only make yourself. There’s no correct age.  In my personal tastes, I’m a bit undecided about clothes, too. I haven’t got any definite preferences. But if something I see pleases me I’ll buy it and wear it whether it’s in the French style, or Italian, or English.  One thing I really do get enthusiastic about is music. As I’ve said before in DISC, I like the coloured American groups like The Shirelles and The Miracles. But I’m fond of a lot of other music - Segovia on classical guitar, for example. 

+

[RINGO] I’m the silent type…  I’m the one the boys call the silent type. Well, I haven’t got all that much to say for myself, and I prefer to listen to other people speaking. My real name is Richard Starkey, but the Ringo bit has been with me for so long, I don’t think of myself as a ‘Richard’ anymore. Of all the Beatles, I live nearest to the city centre - about 10 minutes walk and six bus stops away. It’s not a rich part of town, but my mum has all her friends there and doesn’t want to move out.  Some of my family are just outside London. They sometimes come and visit us, and once a year my dad makes a trek down south.  I want to do things for my family, but they keep telling me to save my money. Eventually I think I’ll open a chain of hairdressing shops in and around Liverpool. I’d like my main shop to be in the centre of the city, and be THE place.  I have enough hairdressing friends to keep the shops well staffed, but feel with a haircut like mine it would be best for me to stay away from them!  I have my hair cut about once every three months! I’m joking of course. I have it trimmed when the mood takes me and have no special barber.  You don’t hear very much about me in the group, because I don’t sing. I had my big and only singing moment on ‘Boys’ for our LP, and really made the most of it.  And, surprisingly enough, although I’m a drummer I don’t have a favourite musician. Well, not a real one. I like to see good showmanship in any artist, and I hope to get a chance of seeing Brook Benton while he’s in England. It’s a stroke of luck he’ll be doing the Palladium show at the same time as us, but I’ll probably be so nervous, I won’t have time to appreciate his act.  I don’t eat very much. If I did, I’d probably have much more energy. As a kid, I was very fond of chips and jam-butty (that’s a jam sandwich), and to this day, I still like it. Even if I enjoyed it, I don’t think I’d ever get used to eating caviar or drinking champagne.  One of my ambitions in life is to learn how to play the piano. I’d willingly take lessons if only I had the time. But my main ambition is to be happy all the time.  Yet I don’t relax very much. I like to be active. Even if I have a chance to go on holiday, instead of sitting in the sun all day I’m off exploring the local neighbourhood. I think I do this because if I didn’t I’d be nothing more than just plain lazy! I very rarely go near a Chinese or Italian restaurant. Don’t like either food, and if anything has onions in it then I’m completely done for.  I’m mad for rings. I wear four, and would wear them on all my fingers if I didn’t think they’d get in the way. Often I get wrist ache from drumming too much, but the only other ailment I suffer from is occasional colds. I’m not as bad as John though. He keeps on losing his voice. Never doing a performance, but usually just after a recording session. 

[buckrecs]

Hi Sera! I’ve been wanting to ask for recs for a while but every time I think of something you’ve already posted it, but I am a bit obsessed with this right now so I thought I’d ask anyways(you are a gem and do so much for the bucky girls on this hellsite and I love you for it!)

Have you got any Brother’s Bestfriend/Best Friend’s Brother Bucky recs?

Brother’s BFF / BFF’s Brother Bucky

masterlist | req masterlist

i follow you (pretend you want me to) by @buckys-black-dress

your best friend’s older brother who has never once given you a second glance finally does one day when he seems to be fond of your new tattoo. it throws you for quite the loop, to say the least.

The Number One Rule by @justkending

Y/N has always been seen as “Steve’s rambunctious sister.” However, she grew up, graduated, and moved to London to study abroad for 4 years and get her bachelor's degree. The girl that returns looks nothing like the teenager that left. But don’t worry, the attitude is still there and stronger than ever. What’s to come of the two grown adults that used to push each other's buttons, but now have a lot more in common than they’ve ever realized?

Untouched by @buckyalpine

A series of discovering all your firsts with your brothers hot best friend.

Save Me From Myself by @fatecantstopme

You and your boyfriend get into a fight and he beats you. You go to your brother’s house for support only to find his best friend and roommate, Bucky Barnes, instead. Bucky is furious when you tell him what happened and he takes care of you.

This Must Be A Dream by @lunarbuck

You've been best friends with Becca Barnes since third grade and have been pining over her older Bucky just as long.

super rich kids by @traitorjoelite

kids with too much money, parties every night, and an incident with your best friend's brother is just the norm on the upper east side.

The First Birthday by @eviesaurusrex

It’s not his first birthday after Hydra, but the first birthday he thinks he actually wants to celebrate—only because of YN.

it’s really you (that’s on my mind) by @heavysoldat

inseparable since middle school, it was no surprise that you ended up falling for your long-time best friend. what was surprising, was who you actually ended up with at the end of the day.

Miss America and the Heartbreak Prince by @fangirlovestuff

Your brother’s best friend, Bucky Barnes was a serious pain in your ass. Shame, since he used to be so nice when you were younger. Too bad he’s changed now in high school. Or has he? All it takes is some detective work, milkshakes and pranks for you to finally figure it out. 

Bucky Barnes x Rogers!Reader by @itsapeterthing

You’ve known your brother’s best friend Bucky Barnes since before you can even remember. As the two of you get older, your relationship grows from one of teasing friendship to an everlasting love. Despite all odds and decades apart, you never fail to find each other every time.

Not as Subtle as You Thought by @marvelousmarvelimagines

You and Bucky have been hiding a relationship from your brother successfully for several months now. Bucky’s getting tired of it though and wants to tell Steve. Are you willing to risk that? 

About Time by @vanillanaps

Coming clean about being in a relationship with your brothers best friend is never easy—or is it?

A Secret by @tweedlydumbtweedlydoo

You’re Steve’s younger sister and secretly dating Bucky and Steve finds out.

Brother vs Boyfriend by @marvelous-imagining

I Will Always Pick You Up by @eviesaurusrex

Usually, Bucky would pick her up wherever she is, but today, with a night out with some of her fellow Avengers (and her brother), it wasn’t possible that her secret boyfriend could come and pick her up, would it?

Hands Off by @buckysgoldenheart

You’re Steve’s cousin and he has some rules when it comes to you that Bucky isn’t a fan of. Mainly, that he can’t have you.

i wanna be yours by @noctumbra

you’d support him no matter what. he was yours at the very end. and you were his. 

On My Mind by @targaryenvampireslayer

You haven't seen your Brothers Best Friend in far too long. Neither of you can wait. Sexy challenges ensue.

[gayforink]

you and me from the night before

January 1st - Glow | Prongsfoot | word count: 919 | @taylorswiftmicrofic

A/N: This is longer than 500 words 😭. Hope you like it!

A soft thump, and a muffled “Fuck!”

James shuffles next to him. It's the only thing Sirius can register; the movements of his best friend’s hands, clumsy with liquor. They barely managed to coax the Fat Lady into letting them into the Gryffindor common room after a raucous New Year’s Eve party in the Hufflepuff common room. They expected the rest of the night to be calmer, but their dorm room door is stuck. Remus isn’t likely to wake up at this hour, Peter’s a lost cause, and the other dormitory for boys in their year is filled with a bunch of stuck up fools who wouldn’t open for James and Sirius. Not after the four of them filled their bookbags with dungbombs, at the very least. 

“P’foot,” James mumbles. “Padfoot, I’m giving up. That’s it.” The younger boy pants, slipping down to the floor and looking up at Sirius through foggy glasses. Sirius looks down, bracing his hands against the rich fabric covering the walls. 

“We could just stay out here,” Sirius agrees. The night is slipping into morning anyway; he’d seen traces of light splitting through the dark sky as they rushed to their rooms. The party ran late; one of the seventh years’ last desperate hurrahs against the ticking clock of their time at Hogwarts. They can all feel it; the quiet fear that grows with each day. Remus deals with it by slipping further into himself, avoiding everyone except for their group. Peter grows more and more anxious, reading news of the brewing war like it’s something to pray to. And James–he grows more exuberant, louder and happier, as though his joy’s a life-saving raft, something to hold onto. 

Sirius can’t say anything about it. It’s the only thing he’s been holding onto for the past seven years. 

He sits down next to his best friend, leaning against the cold door as he stares into the darkness. James is almost uncharacteristically quiet before–

A sharp light explodes into existence, lighting James’s face. The younger boy held his wand up, smiling softly. 

Sirius scoffs. “Do you want someone to come outside and see us? Idiot, turn it off!”

‘It’s not like we’re making any noise!”

“Even still,” Sirius says. James eyes him with knowing eyes. 

“Are you okay?” He asks instead. Sirius…can’t say anything to that. 

“What do you mean?” He mumbles after an uncomfortable moment, looking away from the light. 

“You know what I mean,” James presses. “You’ve been off all week, Padfoot. Especially tonight.”

Sirius stays silent. What can he say? That he is afraid of leaving Hogwarts, of growing up into a war? That he is afraid? 

To James?

But he didn’t have to. James kisses his teeth, turning to look at Sirius. 

“When we leave–” And James takes his hand, holding it with a strong grip. Sirius wants to turn away, but he can’t, he can’t. James smiles and James glows. “When we leave here, you come with me. We don’t have to stay with Mum or Dad. I’ve the gold for an apartment.” 

Sirius stares. 

“In London,” James continues. “It’s small, but it’s close to the Ministry and it’ll be convenient. With Auror training and all.” They planned to join as Auror Trainees after Graduation, helping with the war effort. There’s also Dumbledore’s elite crew of fighters; the headmaster had already called the four of them to meetings in the Hog’s Head. 

Sirius swallows, feeling off-kilter. “What about Evans?” 

“Lily?” James grins, all cocky. “What, you don’t want her coming around?” 

Sirius flushes, hoping that it would seem like more of prudish self-consciousness rather than the shameful jealousy he knows it to be. James turns back to his lit wand. It’s better to have him looking away, to not have to face earnest hazel eyes. 

“So what do you think?” James asks. “Will you come?”

There is a lump in his throat. Sirius can feel his eyes burning, and hopes fervently that he won’t cry now. He hasn’t cried in years! 

He breathes through his mouth, trying to compose himself. Sirius ignores the question, changing the topic instead. “Will you turn that stupid light off? You look stupid.” 

“I never look stupid,” James says. Sirius scoffs, but he feels lighter. The seconds trickle away, quiet with the coming days. The only easy ones they have left. 

Sirius swallows and clears his throat. “I’ll–I’ll come with you,” There’s more to say, but Sirius can’t say it, can’t say it now, not to James. It didn’t matter. He can feel his best friend’s joy, an expanding sun, just for Sirius. James laughs. 

“This is cause for celebration, you know,” James tells him. “You shouldn’t be moping around.”

“I’m not moping around.”

“You are moping around. Don’t lie to yourself.”

Sirius turns to face him, stretching his face into a grotesque smile with his fingers. “Am I moping now?”

James pinches his cheeks, snickering when Sirius winces. He’s still holding Sirius’s face when their laughter declines, and he beams softly, tilting his head forward. “I’m serious, Padfoot. Don’t be sad tonight.” His forehead bumps against Sirius’. It’s too much, too soft. Sirius closes his eyes.

“Padfoot,” James nudges. “Sirius.”

Sirius opens his eyes. 

“Smile,” James says. He’s still smiling. And glowing, like he always does. The light weaves warm rays through his hair, making his eyes shine like a thousand stars. So happy and welcoming that Sirius melts into it, without even realising it. The light flickers, bright and warm. Glowing.

And Sirius melts.

[avelera]

I loved your post on Jayce's lack of haggling skills, I thought it was really interesting! It made me think about the class divides that have to exist within the twin cities, actually, independent of Piltover's sovereignty over Zaun. Like we know that Jayce is more middle class (especially compared to characters like Caitlyn) and that the chem barons are comparatively rich when held up next to the average Zaunite laborer, but now I'm wishing we had more insights to how classism works within the cities. I also wish we had more information on Viktor's background in Zaun. Like where did his family rank on the economic/social scale compared to other Zaunites? How'd they manage to get him into the academy? I'd love to hear your thoughts/observations/theories/etc, if you've got any to share!

So I agree and writer of the show Amanda Overton agrees that one thing I think we'd all like to know more about is Viktor's background. BUT we do have some word-of-god (which means, outside canon technically and could be changed later, but can still inform a canon read) information about Viktor:

"We have a backstory for Viktor that wasn’t made canon to explain how he got into the Academy. His parents saved their money to buy him a uniform and he pretended to be a student until he gained Heimerdinger’s attention. Instead of punishing him, Heimer made him his assistant!!" (Source)

I think if you want to learn more about a possible inspiration for the way Piltover/Zaun's class divide works in Arcane (I can't speak to League of Legends where it's very different) I would highly suggest this lecture series about London from The Great Courses Plus.

Specifically, lectures 14-17 talk about the rise of industrialization and how that impacted London, its class divides, the introduction of social services like the first orphanages and its sewage system (implied to be very similar to the ventilation system installed in Zaun by the Kirammans) which was built to combat cholera, and the class frustrations that led to the rise of workers' rights movements and the first legal pushback really in the world against things child labor.

I can absolutely guarantee this history of London in the late 1700s-early 1900s was at least a major contributor if not a purposeful direct parallel to the simmering class resentments and wealth disparities we see between Piltover and Zaun in the show. And as a bonus, you learn a lot about a real world parallel that can really enrich your understanding of history and current events!

[soracities]

oooh please tell us what writing rules are garbage I would love to hear more

it's not that they're garbage, which isn't what i said, just that they annoy me and even then what annoys me is not the "rules" themselves (because i do believe they can be useful depending on what you're writing) but when some of them are put out as the only way to write something as if storytelling is a one-size fits all approach, as if you can reduce the millenia-long history of literature into a fail-proof formula that will work for all writing across all cultures with no room for experimentation.

i think there are as many ways to tell a story as there are stories and how you tell something and the kind of language you use will vary depending on what language actually means to you as a writer. hemingway and faulkner both famously took digs at each other for their styles (even though i think there was a lot of admiration between them) but they are also two very different writers with two completely different approaches to language and how they use that language to say the things they want to say: neither is inherently better, or more right, than the other--their approaches were just right for them; if faulkner wanted to write using the "older, simpler, better" words hemingway loved, he would have. if james joyce wanted to depict dublin the way dickens depicted london, he would have done so. but they didn't.

someone once posted an excellent breakdown by jeff vandermeer of the different writing styles employed by different authors which i was silly enough not to save at the time, but in it he gives an overview of the structure of their sentences, and how complicated or "rich" the language is, without pitting one style against the other. and to be honest, i think writing advice that encourages you to examine and look at that relationship with language, and what it holds for you (and others) and why, is probably more helpful than blanket statements like "stay away from ambiguity" or "avoid long sentences" because neither of those actually mean anything--a sentence is a vessel but it's also a tool, like a hoghair brush or a palette knife; the value of its impact is not an essence that exists in and of itself, but entirely dependent on how you use it, otherwise all literature would just read the same way.

strict adherence to a particular form or structure within a language does not automatically make for better writing, especially not when so much literature actually consists of, and is built from, works and authors actively rebelling against those same traditional forms and structures (but which is also not to say that those forms and structures are inherently useless, either). you can say that long sentences "risk distraction" or are "ineffective" but then where does that leave someone like laszlo krasznahorkai, whose prose runs on like some kind of breathless, hypnotic incantantion for 20, 30 pages without a single full stop in sight? or a book like solar bones by mike mccormack which is made up of a single sentence going on for 200 pages? i'm not saying long sentences can't be boring or tedious, but in all honesty so can short sentences--so can any writing that follows the "rules" to the letter. if something is poorly written, the "rules" matter very little; if it's well written, they matter even less.

all that said, telling people to "avoid long sentences" is not inherently a bad thing because i think the core of it is wanting to ensure your writing remains clear, which is a fair point--but it's an issue, to me at least, when it turns into one of those dictums or pronouncements that actively narrows the potential range language can actually have. clarity is not always about length, or whether or not you cull all of your run-on lines--mihail sebastian drew a very nice distinction in one of his novels when he said "[is] there’s a single way of being clear? A notary can be clear, or a poet, but they don’t seem to me the same thing". a long sentence can be clear, but its clarity exists on different terms to a sentence that is five words long, because its relationship to its content is different. and at the end of the day, that relationship is really what it's about for me and it's distinct to each work and its author.

writers use the language and form they use that best allows them to say what they want to say. no one in their right mind is going to dismiss zadie smith for not writing like angela carter or angela carter for not writing like hemingway or hemingway for not writing like beckett or beckett for not writing like mallarmé. robert frost and sara teasdale were no more correct than the beatniks were. i love pared down, beautifully concise prose, but i also adore books that relish in language and all the various, multi-coloured layers of it, books that eschew (traditional) plot and books that question their own form and the reality of that form, and books that tell a story as straightforwardly as possible.

to be honest i think one of the most formative things i came across, years ago now, was this piece by gary provost, which really sums up the whole notion of "writing rules" for me:

this is not about do's or dont's. it even breaks the first writing rule i learnt in school ("never begin a sentence with 'And'"). but what it does is center an intimate understanding of language, where it can go and how it can get there, and what you want that to do. that's where it's at for me!

[locklyle1kanij]

I’m gonna make a list of my fav Lockwood and co fics in the hope that someone will see this list then reblog it and say “wow good choices! You should really check out this fic!”

(PLEASE I NEED FICS) (Warning these are basically all mainly Locklyle fics just letting you know)

(okay obviously we need Policy 8 on this list!)

“Policy 8” written by by: The_Biscuit_Agreement

Ongoing

Plot Summary :

Policy 8 was established in the hope of encouraging the birth of increasingly powerful agents. All agents 18 and over must accept the marriages DEPRAC assigns them. Agents between the ages of 16-18 can volunteer to enter the programme or else be forced into it due to minor illegal behaviour.
Lucy Carlyle volunteered. Anthony Lockwood was forced. In an effort to protect the two teenagers from being turned into pawns in the games of the rich and powerful, Barnes ensures Lucy and Lockwood are married. But just because they aren't stuck as pawns, doesn't mean the teenagers aren't forced into the same dangerous games.

“As London Burns” written by: ScienceFantasy93

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

An AU About locklyle in the middle of world war two with Lockwood fighting as a RAF pilot and with Lucy as a news reporter. (very angsty) (idk what else to say about it tbh… BUT I LOVE THIS FIC!)

“The bones of our past written” by: moon2pluto

Finished (but has a sequel that’s ongoing)

Plot Summary:

Just a few months after the destruction of the bone mirror, the team of Lockwood & Co. has another big case to tackle:
When Lucy gets a letter from her little sister, begging her to come back and help her with a haunting doomed to kill them, she doesn't need long to make a decision, and neither George nor Lockwood are going to let her face this alone. To not get any unwanted attention in her hometown, Lucy and Lockwood agree to take a closer look disguised as a couple while George is busy researching. But when the haunting turns out to run much deeper and wilder than any of them thought, and other players enter the game, one question arises: Will Lockwood & Co. also make it out of this case unscathed?

(This one’s my all time favourite)

“The hidden archive” written by: BrooklynBooks

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

Ghost possession doesn't happen often, but fatality rates are high. Even if an agent does survive, there are the aftereffects to worry about. After surviving a possession, Lucy Carlyle struggles with recovery, delving ever deeper into the memories of Visitors and, in the process, stumbling into the world of blackmarket Sources. Meanwhile, George Karim races to learn the truth behind ghost possession in order to protect Lucy and save future agents. And Anthony Lockwood must face his own past with the London underworld if he wants to save his friends and himself.

“Connections” written by: The_Biscuit_Agreement (I’m sorry i’m so obsessed with their fics lol)

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

Lockwood forms a psychic link with a dead young agent and the group try to use it to work out how the agent died with disastrous consequences.

“Crushed” written by: itripandfallalot, Salvoirfaire

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

A bad case and broken leg leave Lucy no choice but to return to Portland Row until she recovers. Lockwood is definitely not using this as an opportunity to persuade her to come back for good, because that would be unfair. And he never plays dirty.

“Because everything is the same until, very suddenly, it isn’t” written by: Netflixcapricorn

Finished

Plot Summary:

What happens when the only way out of this mess is a fake marriage?

(Here’s a warning, extremely angsty)

“Lucy takes the long way home” written by: agents_cxrter

Finished

Plot Summary:

Lucy might have left Lockwood and Co, but she can't get Lockwood out of her system.

(So many annoying emotions in this one like WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!!?!)

“This is going to end badly” written by: The_Biscuit_Agreement

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

When Fittes Agent Lucy Carlyle is cornered by relic-men alone in the woods, she is rescued by an unlikely source: Anthony Lockwood, run-away and relic-man. When Fittes gets tasked with trying to track the young man down, Lucy finds herself in an interesting position.

“Perfectly Incandescently Happy” written by: OceanSpray5

Finished

Plot Summary:

After the death of her best friend, Ms Lucy Carlyle is given the opportunity to be sponsored for the 1815 London season by Norrie's aunt. Instantly compared to the Diamond due to their astonishingly similar looks, she befriends Lord Lockwood quite unexpectedly yet is left wondering if she was a fool for believing he'd look twice at a mere country girl.

(This fic is literally the cutest thing to exist… if you exclude the angst lollll)

“No One Cares About The Nightwatch” Written by: Nomolosk

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

Lucy Carlyle is a Listener, a failed agent, a runaway, and now works the nightwatch in London. One might think her life a failure from start to last- but Lucy has goals. She will get a grade four certificate, and reapply to all the best agencies, and her life will get immeasurably better.

However, firsthand experience of the treatment most people give the nightwatch, and a chance encounter with Lockwood and Co. have her reevaluating those goals... maybe she can do some good before she moves on...

“The Injury of Finally Knowing You” written by: booknerds_unite

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

Anthony Lockwood, the only surviving male monarch from the Lockwood line, has six months to find a wife or Parliament will make a case to keep him from the throne. Lucy Carlyle has just arrived at the palace to work as a maid and to escape her horrific mother. They were never supposed to meet.
On the night of Lockwood's birthday celebration, their paths cross and nothing will ever be the same.

“What lies between the lines” written by: The_Biscuit_Agreement

Ongoing

Plot Summary

When she arrived in London, Lucy Carlyle took up a job at the British Archives, spending her days determining which love letters, suicide notes and other collected paperwork could one day produce a visitor. It's a taxing job, made easier by king archivists and the presence of young agents doing research nearby. As Lucy becomes close with some of these young agents, she starts to receive love letters herself and finds herself using her under-utilised talents to try to work out who might be behind the notes.

(at this point just go through all of The_Biscuit_Agreement fics tbh… There all perfection)

(okay i’ve read a ton more really good Lockwood and Co fics but i feel lazy now so maybe i’ll post a part two of fic recs later)

[slightly-unsure-buryatwoman]

Finally, I've made a full-fledged art with this heroine, so now I'm posting it for public access. Those who have read the original novel "Around the World in 80 Days" know that, in addition to Phileas Fogg and Jean Passepartout, there is a heroine called Aouda - a Hindu woman whom the main characters saved from sati - a funeral ritual in which a widow is burned with her deceased husband, and together with them she travels to London, and in the end she even becomes Fogg's wife.

While reading this book, I didn't like Fogg, but I loved Passepartout with all my heart, as well as the relationship between him and Aouda, even though I understood that in the end she would end up with the phlegmatic Englishman (and the Frenchman himself, if my memory serves me right, turned out to be a confirmed bachelor). But I didn't stop shipping them. However, remembering the 1972 cartoon series, I immediately realized: Here it is! A chance to realize my pairing!

For those who don't know, this animated series is very different from the original, especially the main reason for the round-the-world bet: here Phileas Fogg agrees to travel for 80 days for the hand and heart of the rich Lord Maze's niece Belinda, that is, there is no trace of Aouda, and her role is occupied by a completely original, but very charming character. And then I decided, why not squeeze a young Indian woman into this setting and bring her together with Passepartout? The meeting between them will be the same as in the book, but:

1) Sati might be worth replacing with a regular sacrifice

2) If there was an episode with her, then Aouda would be a purely episodic character and at the end of the episode she would calmly leave alone to her relatives in Hong Kong, but at the end of the story she would still come to England on business, and at the same time she would meet our heroes again.

Yeah, in fact, I just created it to bring it together with Passepartout, but she has already managed to sink into my soul, so don’t blame me.

If you are not familiar with the animated series one or two right away, watch the intro: www.youtube.com/watch?v=LyceRy…

Old sketch 2022

[blueiscoool]

11th Century Silver Coin Hoard Found in UK

A hoard of coins dating back to the 11th century has been found at the site of a future nuclear power station.

Oxford Cotswold Archaeology discovered a cloth package containing 321 silver coins in mint condition during excavations at Sizewell C on the Suffolk coast.

The team believed the bundle of coins could have been the savings pot of a local figure, fearing regime changes following the coronation of Edward the Confessor in 1042.

Archaeologist Andrew Pegg said he was shaking when he found the coins.

"I was shaking when I first unearthed it, seeing a single coin edge peeking at me," he recalled.

"A perfect archaeological time capsule.

"The information we are learning from it is stunning and I'm so proud to have added to the history of my own little part of Suffolk."

Mr Pegg referred to the collection as "the pasty" due to the coins being wrapped in a cloth bundle which was barely bigger than a Cornish pasty.

The coins date between 1036 and 1044 during the reigns of Harold I, Harthacnut and Edward the Confessor.

A large number of them were minted in London, but others were struck at locations including Thetford and Norwich in Norfolk, as well as more locally in Ipswich and further away in Lincoln and Stamford in Lincolnshire.

The archaeologists said it represented a substantial amount of money to most people of the time and likely belonged to someone of middle status rather than anyone of very high status or national importance.

However, they do not know why the collection was never retrieved.

It was likely the owner was prevented from returning to the location, they potentially died before they could return or they were unable to relocate the exact spot they buried the coins in, it was theorised.

Damian Leydon, site delivery director at Sizewell C, said the find was "extraordinary".

"This project provides a rare and fascinating glimpse into Suffolk's rich history, deepening our understanding of this part of Britain," he added.

"In partnership with Oxford Cotswold Archaeology, we plan to make these discoveries as accessible to the public as possible."

By Alice Cunningham.