#there's sort of a summary in the description but not full IDs so i need to go back and do that | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aubreyprc · 3 years

Text

four hands bloody

summary - entropy but, its hotch and emily. and they’re in love. that’s it.

part seven of my sour series

‘all the things I did,

just so I could call you mine,

all the things you did,

well i hope i was your favourite crime’

Ten Years Ago

One year, five months and four days. That's how long they had been together when she announced she had been offered a job in Europe. Interpol, to be exact, and that she was leaving for Brussels in less than two months. There was no argument, nor was there a discussion, he simply takes her out for dinner, a celebration on her success so fresh out of college and they spend their last two months preparing for their separation. They pack up her apartment, they place certain things in storage and other things in her Mother's house in D.C, one that was empty for most of the year anyway and they enjoy their last few weeks together. Confessing love under the sheets, whispers of promises they know neither are going to be able to keep and they pretend as though there's a chance they'll meet again, even though in reality, they know its unlikely. Her love for Europe one he's very well aware of, and he knows once she's there she will never leave and he wouldn't want her to, and she's aware that he would never move, too fond of the city, his heart set on a job in the FBI, and she wouldn't ask him to give that up, just like he'd never ask her.

He takes her to the airport, cupping her face, wiping her tears with a sad smile as he holds back his own when they stand at her gate, parting way's for the first and final time.

"I love you." he whispers to her, and the happy laugh she lets out as she sniffles has his own small laugh escaping his chest. She hooks her hands to the back of his neck as she kisses him softly, the cold of her tears latching onto his skin as he pulls her closer.

"I love you, too." she whispers as she pulls away, gently resting her forehead on his, closing her eyes while she takes a small breath. "I—" she says but she stops herself, opening her eyes as she pulls away from him, her eyes on his as they stand there, feeling as though they were the only two people in the area.

"You're going to miss your flight." he tells her gently as the last calling for her plane echo's through the airport.

"I can't say goodbye to you." she whispers sadly, lacing her fingers through his as they rest in the middle of them.

"Then don't." He says, squeezing her hand as he entwines it with his, wiping her tears with the other, and she leans her face into it with a sad smile. "Think of it more as an... I'll see you later." he smiles to her and she laughs.

"Okay." she nods, "I'll see you later." she smirks.

"Go," he tells her, nodding as she slowly backs away, "I'm a phone call away."

"I love you." she tells him again as she steps back.

"I know," he says, "I love you too."

And just like that, with one last smile, she turns, her dark hair moving further out of focus until she is just a memory he can look back on, a woman he loved once.

Had he known just who that woman who turn into, he would have never let her get on the plane. Would have kept her in his arms, and then maybe none of this would have happened.

JJ runs into the briefing room, relief running through her veins as she finally has an ID on the killer they had been chasing for four months, a woman, who had a signature that matches one of an International terrorist, Ian Doyle, their first suspect as soon as the first two body's dropped, two Interpol agents, Clyde Easter and Sean McAllister, until he was found dead, and had been dead, a week longer than the two Agents, as well as his entire inner circle. His son still a missing person.

"I have an ID on her," JJ says as she rushes in, dropping the files on the table as she grabs the attention of the team. "All the Agent's who worked The Valhalla case last year have all been killed, apart from three who have been placed into witsec, using the the same signature Ian Doyle used," she tells them as she clicks on the screen. "Which made me think that it had to be someone Ian knew, right? Someone he trusted."

"What are you getting at?"

"Ian had a fiancé," JJ says, "Which we already knew, I know, however this is where it got interesting." she tells them as she clicks on the screen, "Ian, had a son, Declan, and everyone in Interpol had come to the conclusion that he and his inner circle were killed by another terrorist group and that his Fiancée would have taken Declan at his orders. But," she stops, “His Fiancée was a CIA agent, deep undercover, the Agents on the case just assumed he had killed her the moment she was made, her cover blown just the day before he was killed but there has been no record of her death anywhere."

"Who was she?" Morgan asks, looking through the files.

"Her cover name was Lauren Reynolds, and all files, pictures… everything was completely wiped when the case agents were found dead so its been impossible to find her real identify, to know if she had been found, dead or alive. So, I had Garcia work her magic..."

"Yes," The blonde says, standing up, clicking a few buttons on her computer as she pulls up the files she had recovered. "Lauren Reynolds, arms dealer, you know, everything that would be needed in a fake identify to get into the big leagues, but after searching around and doing several face recognitions, the same woman appeared, and its her. There is no doubt." Penelope tells the team.

"Who?"

"CIA Agent, Emily Prentiss." JJ says and the room goes silent as they stare at her picture on the right of Lauren Reynolds, the similarity leaving no questions, the only difference being in hair colour.

"She's the killer?" Reid asks.

"She's the only one from JTF-12 who's still alive, has the training, knows how to vanish, would have intimate knowledge of Ian, which is why the kills are exactly the same as his were."

"Do we think she's killed other people apart from the Agents?" Morgan questions

"She's vendetta driven, she'd kill anyone who came under that vendetta." JJ answers, "She fits the profile."

"Prentiss..." Rossi mumbles, "Why does that sound familiar?"

The room is silent, neither noticing Aaron pale as he stares at the picture in front of him. His mind running wild with questions.

"You worked for Ambassador Prentiss, right?" Dave asks Hotch, "Before you worked here?"

Hotch just nods, unable to trust his voice as his eye's move from the picture of her to the descriptions of her crime.

"Did you ever meet her?" Morgan asks, but Aaron doesn't answer, just simply stands.

"Excuse me." he says, before basically rushing from the briefing room and to his office, the sound of his door shutting echoing into the room.

"I'll take that as a yes." Morgan says, looking back at the picture on the screen. "That's her, huh."

"That's her."

"Now what?" Reid asks, and Rossi stands.

"I guess that all depends on what Aaron knows about her."

Slamming his office door shut behind him, he closes his eyes, taking deep breathes as his stomach turns to the point where he thinks he might be sick, the image of her on their board making his head spin with reasons, questions, but mostly, it just shows him flashes of the woman he knew, all those years ago, the woman who would smile at him from under his covers when he brought them back breakfast from his morning run, the woman who would kiss him so gently he theorised right there that she could never hurt anyone, the young woman he loved so much and who he knew loved him back just as equally now painted as a murderer, profiled, as a murderer, probably a murderer and he can't wrap his head around it, how someone so innocent and full of joy and happiness could switch so drastically and become of the most notorious and well known killers the BAU had looked for, how someone so light and full of life could become someone who took it from others, killing higher commanding agents from all sorts of government positions, leaving no trace except an M.O that leads back to a man he realises she knew well, probably even loved and he can't understand it.

"Aaron." Dave says as he opens the door, "I gather you knew her, back when you worked security?" he asks almost gently. He closes the door behind him, heading further into the office while Aaron stood at the window, staring out of it while he caught his breath, forcing the sick feeling to vanish.

"Something like that..." he mumbles, looking down to the floor as his heart rate lowers, his breaths evening out.

"How well did you know her?" Dave asks, taking a seat; Aaron turns, looking at his oldest friend with a face that tells him all he needs to know and the older man just looks at him with shock, before nodding his head. "Very well, it seems."

"Dave—" he begins but the older man shakes his head.

"This was years ago, the woman she is now wouldn't have been the woman you knew, there's no reason for explanations, not to me."

Aaron just nods, "So, what now?"

"Now, we come up with a plan of how to get her out of hiding, she hasn't been seen by anyone, that were aware of but she has to be somewhere, right?"

"She's CIA. She could be anywhere, she knows how to work the system better than anyone."

"Then we use something personal, give her a reason to show up, let her play her game."

"She never got on well with her mother I doubt anything like that would bring her out—" he stops when the older man looks at him, "What? Me?"

"Do you think it would work? Were you involved enough to have you be someone she'd want to see?"

"Dave, it was ten years ago."

"Yes," he tells him, "Which is why I'm asking how involved you were..."

"We were— It was..." Aaron says, before sighing, "Using me as bait might not work, she could be—"

"Did she love you?"

"What?"

"Emily, back then, did she love you?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then using you as bait will work." Dave says, standing up, "Trust me."

"You have a plan?"

"Sort of, but we have to tell the rest. All of it."

Aaron rolls his eyes, turning again to look out of the window.

"She needs catching, Aaron, she will find the last three, and she will kill them. We need to know why."

"I know," Hotch tells him, "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

He explains it to them, how he and Emily had dated ten years ago, before she got offered a job at Interpol, he explains that he hasn't heard from her in years and that he isn't even sure the plan will work, but they have to try. Said plan, being putting out their first press conference since they got the case, with Aaron, who will explain they have an ID on the killer and that they are close to catching them, their hope being that Emily will see it and reach out to him, knowing that with her ties to the CIA, she would have no issue finding his number.

"And if she reaches out?" Morgan asks, "Then what?"

"We let her set the terms, but we'll get her. If she calls, if this works, we'll get her. We would have found a weak spot." Reid tells them, "Love."

It does work, it take's a few days, but it works.

He's in his office, running through some reports when his phone rings.

"Hotchner."

"You have my attention," The voice on the other line says and he tenses, before he stands, clicking to the team as they follow him to the briefing room. "If I knew you were the Agent on the case I would have called sooner. I always did love it when I was the centre of your attention." she tells him just before he puts the phone on speaker.

"So you know we've figured it out? That it's you who's killing these agents?"

"I'm not worried." she says easily, they can hear her walking around somewhere, as though they were having a causal conversation, as though she wasn't an international killer, an assassin.

"Why's that?"

"Because, if I hadn't have called now, you would never have found me. I'm still two steps ahead." she says with a smirk. "That was the plan, right? For me to call?"

"It was." he says, looking at Garcia as she tries to trace the call.

"How about dinner?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Dinner, you know? Two people at a restauran—"

"I know what dinner is." he grumbles, hates that he can envision the smirk on her face, hates that it gives him butterflies. “What's your game?"

"No game," she tells him, "but, I figured if I'm going to be interrogated it might as well be over a nice three course meal."

"How do you know you won't be arrested on the scene?"

"Because if there was any evidence against me at all, I'd already be in your interrogation room." she tells him, "All you have is Ian's M.O, the death of my old team, and the fact that I was undercover... I'm CIA, Aaron, I know everything."

"So, you want to get dinner?"

"Sure," she says, as though she was accepting an invitation. "How does Saturday fit in with your schedule?"

The team nod at him, so he accepts.

"I have one condition." she tells him, "It's just you. No wire. No team."

"You know we can't do that.”

"Not even if were just two old friends catching up?" she teases, "Where's your sense of adventure, Aaron?"

"It's a wire or my team."

"Dealers choice," she teases, “if I get away don't feel too bad about it, I just don't think orange is my colour." she tells him, before the line goes dead.

"Anything?" Morgan asks Garcia, who shakes her head.

"Somewhere in Italy, no pin point location."

His phone beeps on the table then, and Rossi gently turns the screen to him.

"The name of the Restaurant and a time."

"Do you think this will work?"

"I think it's the best chance we've got."

His phone beeps again.

"Your team or a wire, not both, and if I find out you lied, someone will die, Aaron. I don't play games." Morgan reads aloud.

"You have to have both."

"You read the message—"

"No wire and there's no recorded confession, and we lose her, no back up and she could do anything." JJ tells him.

"We'll figure something out." Dave says, clasping the man on the back. "We're this close."

Aaron nods, but something tells him this wont be as easy as they predict.

Despite his protests, he's told he has to wear a wire, explanations of needing both eyes and ears on him (them) at at times. He steps into the restaurant, noticing JJ and Morgan sat at the table three away from his, sending them a nod as he sits down, he then notices Reid sat at the bar, then Dave sat at the table on the other side.

"You ready sir?" Penelope says down his ear piece from the unmarked van out front, "She's on her way in."

His heart hammers in his chest as he prepares himself, nerves racing through his body as he see's her for the first time in ten years and its nothing like he thought he would. He always imagined they'd get called to a case in Europe and she'd be there, or she would move back to the US and they'd bump into each other in the supermarket. But this? Meeting her in a restaurant because she's killed more than ten people in the span of a year? This he never imagined, because who would?

She's smirking as she walks over, the slit of her dress showing of her left leg and it almost leaves him breathless. She reaches the table in what feels like slow motion, every head in the place turned to face her as her heels clack on the hard floor, each one entranced by her. Even members of the team. Even him.

He stands once she's a few inches from him and soon she's right there, it’s then he realises he's just as enthralled by her as he was ten years ago, it has his stomach tightening. He nods at her as she smiles at him with the tilt of her head and a twinkle in her eye that he's seen before and suddenly it's ten years ago and there's no FBI, no dead Interpol and CIA agents, just them.

"No hug?" she teases, but he just stares, watching as her eyes move around the restaurant before back at him. "I see you went for team. Good choice." she says, taking a seat in the booth. "That mean's no wire, correct?"

"Correct." he lies, taking a seat across from her, watching as she grabs the wine menu.

"Good." she says casually as her eyes cast over the menu. "The one at the bar looks ten, are you sure he's qualified?"

It takes all of him not to laugh, her humour unchanged, the one thing that caught his attention in the first place all those years ago.

"I'm sure." he nods, looking down at his own menu as he rolls his lips.

"You can laugh, you know." Penelope tells him, "She's funny."

He simply clears his throat.

The waiter come over, she orders them a bottle of wine, before looking right back at him.

"It's been awhile." she tells him, "It seems we have a lot to catch up on."

He raises an eyebrow at her, "Yeah, I'd say so."

"Tell me about your life, Aaron." she smirks, knowing full well it's a game he isn't interested in playing.

"You want to have small talk?"

She just smiles, thanking the waiter as he places the wine on the table.

"Like you said, we have a lot to catch up on."

"That's not why were here."

"Then why are we?"

"Emily—" he says and her eyes catch his, her name coming off his tongue catching her off guard; she clears her throat as she picks up the glass.

"You have a tan line on your ring finger," she points out while bringing the glass to her lips, "either you took it off for my benefit, or you're recently divorced." she smirks, raising an eyebrow as he clenches his fist at the table, running his thumb over where his ring used to be, "Does it make me a bad person to hope its the latter?" she whispers to him, leaning over the table to trance her finger across his arms, laughing when he slowly pulls away, bringing her hand back to rest around the glass. "Divorced or game playing, Agent Hotchner?"

"Why?" he asks, "Does it make a difference."

"Yes." she tells him, "Either you're divorced, or you thought you could flirt your way into getting me into the back of a SWAT van, which just insults both our intelligence at this point." she says, before looking at him, "I'm not a toy, Aaron, you cant play with me till I give you want you want."

"I never planned to." he tells her, "Divorced."

"Kids?"

"Yes."

She nods, leaning back on the chair as she throws her eyes over to the blonde woman, an agent, she knows, and waves, raising an eyebrow in her direction.

"Your team aren't very good at blending in, Agent Hotchner." she mumbles, looking back at him, "Aren't you supposed to be profilers?"

"You already knew they were coming, why hide them?"

"Hm," she shrugs, "A challenge, maybe."

"Is that why you killed your old team? A challenge?"

"Really keen on getting down to business aren't we..." she chuckles, leaning her chin in her hand as she rests her elbow on the table. "No small talk?"

"Isn't that what we've been doing for the last half an hour?"

"Here I thought we were just reacquainting."

"Why did you do it?"

"I have my reasons."

"Then share them." he says, "You called me, Emily. You came here, why?"

"Maybe I just missed you." she muses, "Would that be so bad?"

"Not if it was the truth, but it's not."

"How do you know?"

"Because I don't think you're capable of those feelings anymore." he tells her, watches as her face falls for a moment before she smirks, her mask back in place, "You were, but something happened and it changed you. You've killed eleven people, five of which you considered friends... I don't think anyone is capable of feeling anything after that, how could they be?"

"Maybe I can compartmentalise." she offers with a smirk.

"Not this well." Aaron sighs, "Why come out of hiding? Why come here knowing there's a chance you could go to jail, why risk it.. If it wasn't to talk?"

Emily looks at her glass, rolling her lips as she sits straighter and clears her throat.

"Like I said," she tells him, "Maybe I just missed you." her voice is more soft as she says it this time, a voice that brings back memories from ten years ago, when she was the woman he loved, when they were happy.

"What happened to you?" he asks gently, looking at her as she catches his eyes, her mask falling and a look of pain staring back at him. She lifts up her glass, brining it to her lips.

"They got me in too deep and left me to die," she tells him, "Karma's a bitch."

"Undercover? As Lauren?"

She sighs, dropping her glass, looking around the restaurant at the other Agents slyly looking in her direction.

"I said no wire," she mutters under her breath and he tenses, "I said you could have your team but no wire. Those were my conditions."

"I'm not—"

"Don't lie to me, Aaron." she tells him, watching as the Agents in the room start to move, another hint that he is in fact wearing one. She looks at him with a head tilt, "I said no wire."

"Rules are rules—" he starts, and she nods, dragging her tongue across her front teeth before she looks him dead in the eye, yet this time it isn't pain that looks back at him, it's something else entirely, something he has never seen from her before and it has terror climbing through him.

"They sure are," she agrees, "Do you remember mine?"

And he does, they all do, if i find out you lied, tricked me in anyway, someone will die, Aaron. I don't play games. Her words running wild in everyone's head as she looks around the restaurant.

"Emily—" he tries but she's already standing as is the rest of his team, their guns aimed at her and she laughs almost viciously once she's on her feet, the team surrounding her at all angles.

"No one shoot." Aaron tells them as they stand, gun's aimed at her.

"You should listen to your boss." she smirks, pulling her own gun from her inner thigh from a slit in her dress, clicking it as she grabs a man from the table behind her, gun to his head as she smiles.

"Now," Emily sighs, "Are you going to let an innocent man die because you couldn't follow my simple instructions?"

"Emily, just, everyone out their guns down." he says, "Now." he orders and the team lower their weapons cautiously. "You want the wire gone the wire can be gone."

"Too little too late for that I'm afraid."

“You wanted to talk, right? You came all this way. You risked a lot.” he tries, “I’ll remove the wire and we can talk. Just us.”

Emily stares at him, catching her eyes on his before she pushes the man down, placing the gun back on the strap on her tigh before she takes small steps towards him, smirking as she the others agents watch her carefully.

She places her hand on his chest, feels the wire and before he knows it she’s yanking it from him, the device falling to the floor and everyone in the room jumps as she slams her heel into it.

“You broke my trust.” she tells him, their eyes meeting. “You want to talk?”

“Yes.” he nods.

“Then come with me,” she smiles, “No team. No wire. And I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

“Emily. You know I can’t do that.”

“Why?” she asks with the tilt of her head, “You're going to act like there wasn't a plan B? I'm sure there's a voice recorder...” she stops, raising an eyebrow as if to challenge him, before she rolls her eyes, pulling the voice recorder from the back of the booth and throws it at him.

"Shall we?" she smirks.

He’s silent for a moment, before he accepts and she smiles, holding her hand out for him to take and he sighs before placing his own in it.

They walk out of the restaurant, as they pass Morgan and Reid she smiles.

“Don’t wait up.” she winks, and they’re out of the building.

“I’ll drive,” she smiles, pulling his car keys from his back pocket with a wink.

He doesn’t dare look back as they get into his car, and as they speed down the road, something tells him this won’t end well. He doesn’t see how it could.

She parks the car on the streets, turning the engine off before she looks at him.

"Do you know where we are?"

He turns to face her, his expression soft as he nods.

"Of course." he tells her, "We're a few blocks from-"

"The car has a tracker," she smirks, "Come on."

She jumps out of the car, all but slamming the door before she ventures down the street, a carefree stride as her heels click against the floor, he follows suite.

As they reach the old building she stops, turns to face him.

"Its a shame they closed it down." she muses, "We used to hide out here all the time."

"It was out of town."

She laughs, before she heads towards the ladder to the roof, ignoring his clear detest to the idea.

Once she's on the floor she inhales, looking up, listening as Aaron came up next to her.

"How long do you think we have?"

"Half an hour, tops."

"That'll do." she smiles, walking aimlessly. "Ask away, I know you want to."

"I want to understand..." he tells her, "Why you did it?"

"I told you."

"Tell me again."

"They— All of them," she starts, "They left me to get killed."

"What do you mean?"

She turns, facing him as she sighs.

"I'd been under for...just over two years and Ian started...asking questions. Normal ones, about kids, and marriage." she explains, "And when I couldn't answer he got suspicious, starting asking around if they knew me, and he was... I don't know but I knew I needed to be pulled out before he found out anything."

"They wouldn't pull you out?"

"Worse," she laughs, "Clyde refused to pull me out, Sean was planning on having the whole organisation Ian was running killed, me along with them."

"Thats—" he stops, "They can't do that."

"They can if they lie to higher ups, claim I've started working against them."

"Why would they do that?"

"I don't know. I don't care." she tells him, "Tsia, who I thought was my friend was the one who came up with it, the whole plan to have them all taken down, Jeremy helped her."

"So you... Killed them?"

She smiles as she looks at him, "Yes."

"And the higher up's who let it happen?"

"Everyone." she tells him, "Apart from three, who by the way, I was on my way to when I heard your press release."

"You—" he says but stops, shaking his head. "And you... Don't feel any guilt?"

"Why should I? They were going to kill me." she answers, sitting on the edge of the roof, her legs dangling as she lays back, looking at him with a head tilt as it lays on the floor. "Join me."

He sighs, before dropping next to her, the both of them staring at the stars.

"I heard you got stabbed." she says softy, turning to face him as he turns to face her with a frown.

"How?" he asks but she raises an eyebrow and she just chuckles. "I did." he answers.

"The reaper, right? George?"

"You know him?" he asks with wide eyes and she laughs, looking back up at the sky.

"No." she tells him, "I'm sorry about your family."

"Me too." he sighs, and before he can say anything else the surrounding area is lit with blue flashing lights, sounds of sirens echoing in their ears.

"That was quick." she laughs, sitting up. "What's it going to be, Aaron?"

"What?" he asks as they both stand, "You're going to jail."

"No," she says, slowly moving towards him and he want's to move, he should move, but he can't. She reaches out to cup his face, before kissing him, grabbing a needle from her pocket before jabbing him in the shoulder and he goes instantly, falling into a hump in her arms. She lowers him, resting his head gently on the ground before grabbing the voice recording and stroking his cheek.

"I'll come back for you." she whispers, before quickly standing, rushing off the roof and down the streets before the FBI even figure out where she and Aaron were.

Once they find him, once he's given the all clear by the medics, he's asked questions about what happened and he says only that he can't remember, that she'd said something about her team leaving her to be killed and the rest is a blur. It isn't true, and he refuses to think about whether or not they believe him.

His lips feel hot with the pressure of her own lingers on them, the ghost of her hand on his cheek feeing like a burn. He lays awake that night and wonders if he’d never see her again, and he hates that he hopes he does.

Over the course of the next three weeks, she remains on his mind constantly, a mixture of what they used to be, the time they spent together feeling like a life time ago and yesterday all at the same time, but what she became, who she became, reminds him that meeting her again, being reminded how much he had loved her, means nothing. There is no more them, no more hopes for a future with her, no more wonders about her life, just the facts. And the facts are that she’s a murderer, an international serial killer and makes him hate himself more than he is ever thought he could when he realises that he doesn’t even blame her, that he understands why she became who she did, why she did what she did, and it has him unable to look at himself in the mirror, leaves him wondering that maybe he’s just as bad as she is, that if he was given the opportunity to kill the person who had ruined his life, taken his family, he wouldn’t even hesitate to put a bullet through his head makes him her equal, rather than someone who had the right to arrest her.

He doesn’t expect to hear her, when he’s on the phone begging for Foyet to spare his family, racing back to his family home with prayers that he makes it, in fact it’s the first time she’s been off his mind since their reunion, so when the gun shot echos down his ears, the silence on the other end defending as he hits his fists against the dash, it takes a new moments for her voice to even process, to even hit his ears, but when it does his broken heart hammers in his chest.

“Hello George.” she says, and he can see the smirk on her face, can imagine the startled look on his.

“who are you—“ he starts, before there’s a crash, and he’s left with the dial tone, the incessant ringing sounding like a siren as he speeds down the road.

He arrives at the house not twenty minutes later, not even turning the engine off as he rushes into his old home, the home where he ex wife, the mother of his child, lays dead, murdered by a man he brought into her life. He expects there to be shouts, screams, raised voices from the two of them but the house is silent as he walks through it, the only thing he can hear is the sound of his heartbeat as it races in his chest, his whole body on edge, his hand on his gun.

"It's over." her voice say's from across the living room and he turns quickly, his eyes meeting hers from across the room and it takes a few seconds for him to notice the blood on her hands and her shirt, the knife more red than silver as she twists around in her hand, her eyes staring right back at him, a twinkle of something in them that he just can’t describe.

“Where’s my son?” he asks, “what did you do?”

“I didn’t touch your son, Aaron. I have no idea where he is.” she tells him, sitting up, “I did however get into a little bit of a brawl with the man who—” she stops, “I was about three seconds too late. She was dead when I got here…” she says, an almost sadness to her tone that catches him off guard. He's stood in shock, trying to work out his next move, looking around the living room in a sort of haze as he tries to piece together what the hell he's supposed to do now, when she stands, the sound of her heeled boot on the hard floor making his head snap towards her, the sight of her covered in someone else's blood one he never thought he would have imprinted in his brain, and he wants to yell, he wants to scream at her, but he can't because he's grateful. Grateful that she got here in time to stop him from killing his son, grateful that she put an end to his torment, killing the man he would have spent the rest of his life hunting for if he got away, grateful that she took it upon herself, to end the man's life, leaving him free of the burden of taking one, no matter how much he would have been justified, no matter how much it would have been deserved. But then she's walking towards the front door and even though he is grateful, even though he wants to let her go, whisper a small thank you to her as she leaves, he can't because he has a duty, a duty he has sacrificed too much for to let her slip away now, and he find's himself grabbing her wrist as she sips passed him, and is taken aback when she freezes, her eyes snapping up to his.

"I can't let you leave." he tells her, his eyes burning into hers, regret filling them because this is the last thing he wants to do. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," she whispers, and her words have him tensing, unsure of what exactly she could do, knowing far too well what she was capable of, knowing she does not deal well with betrayal, he starts to think that she never really has, even then. He feels her go to pull from his grip and before he knows it, he has her pinned to the door, a gasp leaving her lips as her back knocks into it harshly, his side pf his arm resting on her chest, keeping her pinned as he looks at her. "Ouch." she tells him, smirking as he meets her eye, his face inches from hers.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks her softly, "How did you even know?"

"I was in the area." she tells him, a lie, he knows, and he simply just stares at her. "I was... doing you a favour." she whispers, hating that her mask was slipping, that he still had this hold on her.

"A favour?"

"You've been worried about your family, I thought if I could give you some... If I could insure you that they were okay that you'd, I don't know, stop beating yourself up about it."

"You were with them?"

"Haley didn't hate you, Aaron." she whispers, "If anything she was grateful that they had the option of witsec at all."

"Stop." he growls at her, pinning her to the door more harshly, letting his anger take over. "How did you—"

"I saw him talking to them and I knew... every single one of us are the same, Aaron. I knew. I was just too late." she whispers, lifting a hand to his cheek to wipe the tears she's sure he isn't even aware has fallen. "Go and get your son." she tells him gently, smiling sadly at him as he looks at her.

"You saved his life," he whispers to her, "getting here when you did." he says, "you weren't too late."

Emily smiles softly, running her thumb across his cheek, "Go and find your son, your team will be here soon."

"I—" he says, conflicted between his duty and his love. "If I let you go... you have to promise me that you're done. That you will settle down in a small country and that you will be done." he tells her, "the anger that you're holding, the killing... it won't do what you think it will. If I let you go you have to promise me you will stop, and let yourself be happy."

"I don't think happy is in the cards for me," she whispers, "But I promise." she tells him.

He looks at her, seeing the woman he loved all those years ago, the woman he knows he does and never will stop loving and he tells himself that if this is the last time he ever see's her this will not be how it ends, and he kisses her, his arm moving from across her chest to around her waist, pulling her into him gently as her arm hooks around the back of his neck.

"Go," he whispers against her lips when she pulls away slowly. She meets his lips once again for a chaste kiss, before she drips out of the door, the sound of another one slamming a few yards away making him jump before he heads for his son, the sound of the team arriving outside echoing through the walls.

She walks right passed the team, watching as they rush into the house and she wonder's what he will tell them. She sits in the empty house across the street, looking out of the window as she sips on a glass of whatever wine she had found in their pantry and she watches. Watches him leaving the house with his son in his arms, watches him pass the little boy to the blonde agent, watches as he speaks to officers, lets her mind ponder about just what story he's spinning to them and she's caught completely off guard when he looks up at the window of the house across the street, like he knew if he looked she would be there, and as their eyes meet, he just nods slightly, and looks away, following the older agent into the back of an SUV, he son reaching out for him, and then they're gone.

He tells the team how she slipped right passed him when he went to get his son, that he has no idea what her game is or where she went. He lies because he has to, he lies because he can, he lies because he can not find it in himself to care anymore, and he thinks maybe if he sees her again, he might just run off with her.

Two months and eight days, that how long she waits until she calls him, hidden away in a small city in Paris, her heart hammering in her chest every time she remembers that fateful day. Every time she remembers that kiss.

"Hotchner," he says, half distracted by the paperwork he's filling out on his desk, she remains silent for a few moments, wondering what to say, wondering if he'd even want to speak to her.

"Hey," she says simply, and the silence that follows makes her stomach turn.

He leans back on his chair, the sound of her voice through the phone filling him with something like comfort and he cant' help but smile, even now.

"Hi," he says, "It's been awhile."

"I had a few things to sort out." she teases, smiling to herself. "How have you been?"

"It's been hard but, I think we're through the worst of it." he tells her, "it seems as though you kept your promise."

"Only for you." she jokes, "I needed a break anyway."

"Hm, sure. " he plays, the sound of her easy laughter on the other end making his heart flutter, "where are you?"

"That depends," she says.

"On what?"

"On who's side your on." she whispers, he can hear the pain in her voice, the hurt, and it makes him want to throw up that someone who used to be so free, and kind, has been made into this, forced into this, and he speaks before he even realises he wants to.

"Yours," he tells her, "always" he adds quietly, and the small breath she takes on the other end makes him smile.

"I'll call you again when I can," she whispers, "There's one more part of the promise I need to keep."

"I look forward to it." he smiles, and the line goes dead.

He knows he should feel guilty, dirty, for feeling like this for her, for hiding her like this but he just can't. He loves her, and why shouldn't he?

He hears of Emily Prentiss' death through JJ as she closes the file, and it has his heart snapping in his chest for a moment, until he finds himself thinking that maybe she just created the best get out of jail free card he'd ever seen.

"I heard you died." he tells her over the phone when she calls a few days later, a small smile on his lips. Her laugh sends waves through him.

She calls again two weeks later, it's a short conversation as he sits in a hotel room, whispering soft words of how he’s growing to hate the job he works, missing his son, wishing for a new life, one where his failure doesn't follow him around and she listens, soft words of advice falling from her lips that make his heart warm.

They talk for hours, days, weeks, months and soon enough he breaks.

“I can’t stay here anymore." he confesses as he watches his son play in the living room.

“Then move,” she tells him.

“Where?”

“Where do you want to go?"

“Where are you?" he asks softly, and he can feel the smile on her lips.

"A small town... somewhere in France." she whispers.

"Maybe I'll move there." he offers, a smile on his lips as he listens to her try and hold down her nerves.

“I...suppose that’s always an option,” she agrees after a few moments of silence.

“Are you an option?” he whispers, his true connotation not lost on her, and the question has her heart thudding against her ribs.

“Yes.” she tells him softly, and he knows its the right decision when his heart flutters.

He and Jack move three weeks later, a soft apology to Jessica, who promises to visit once they are settled, a conversation with the team on his last case, a simple explanation that he's moving for Jack, for a better life, and everyone stands in shock when they realise he never did tell them where he was going.

He follows the directions on his phone to a small little town outside of Nice, the sound of Jack's laughter as he steps out of the car and into the sun a sound he'd been wishing to hear for months. He reaches up as they're walking and he scoops the boy into his arms. They're just at the gate of her home when she steps out, leaving agasint the door. He walks, unable to hold back his smile as he heads towards her.

"Hey," she smiles when he reaches her.

"Hi," he smiles back, "Jack, this is Emily." he tells his son, who looks at the new woman with wide eyes, "can you say hello"?

"Hi." the boy smiles, his hand coming out in a small wave and she laughs.

"Hi." she says back, "Come on." she says, opening the door further to let them through. He stops at the side of her, before kissing her softly, the feel of her smile making his heart jump. He smile when he pulls away, before heading into the house, whispering to Jack as the boy points to things around the new surroundings.

Emily walks beside him as they reach the overly large garden and he looks at her.

"Nice place," he smirks and she shrugs.

"I killed the owners." she says nonchalantly, before heading off towards the large garden furniture in the middle of it, the feel of his eyes on her back making her laugh. "Are you coming?" she says, holding out her hand and he takes three steps, grabbing her hand in hers as they walk.

"You didn't really.." he whispers and she holds back a smirk as she looks at him.

"A lady never tells." she answers, and the sound of Jacks happy laughter as he jumps into the pool has the questions dying on his tongue.

She lets him ponder about her words for two weeks before she whispers in the dark that it was her mothers home, one she visited frequently when they were in France, and that after her mother passed it was sold, to her, but the name she put it under is one she'll never share.

fin

#hotchniss sour series #hotchniss fic #hotchniss #the thought of hotch and emily being cat and reid would ? not leave me alone #and so here this is <3 #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #this will be on ao3 when i finish work lololololololol

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ragnarachael · 4 years

Text

the valiant arsonist — worry

Pairing: Loki x TVA Agent!Reader

Word Count: 2,273

Summary: You're not sure what to do with the new found information Loki's given you, and you meet what seems to be a new hire.

Note(s): this is part two of WHO KNOWS HOW MANY also the gif has nothing to do with the content of my fic,,,, i just love watching it and watched it for like.. 5 mins before adding it on here. (also shoutout to @klargreeves for their loki post about how he’s the reason behind Julius Caesar getting stabbed!! it’s mentioned briefly in this piece!)

file no. 1 file no. 2 (you are here)

"You're going to what?" You asked suddenly, panic starting to flood through your veins. Loki just stayed still, the smirk on his face still evident as the sunlight from the singular window beamed down onto his pale skin.

"You heard me, darling," he stated. "I don't believe it needs repeating."

You tried to form words, but every time you opened your mouth, shock took over and made you silent.

"Be sure to keep that mouth shut, pet, or I'll readily find another use for it," Loki quipped from his seat, his smirk only growing as you recoiled in disgust from his comment.

"Why would you be burning this place to the ground?"

"Is it not obvious? Your team has captured me. I would rather be out in the world continuing my personal vendetta and not continue to be locked up in this Hel you deem as your place of work." You blinked at the God as you started to slowly stand from your seat. "I thought your kind were smarter than this."

"Well," you started, stepping around your chair to push it back in how you found it as you tried to ignore the gravity of his reply. "We are."

Loki scoffed out a laugh that definitely shook you to your core. "Now that, I beg to differ, darling. Just because you are simply a researcher does not mean you're knowledgeable."

To say that his comment hurt you would be an understatement.

"Stop with the nicknames. Just—Just stop," you demanded weakly, taking in a shaking breath as you tried to stand up straight, squaring your shoulders again. "Is there anything else you have planned?"

"Like I would tell you," Loki replied easily, the smirk finally going away to be replaced with a venomous smile.

You sighed quietly and found your hands rubbing your face for a moment.

"This has been... enlightening," you finally began, forcing a kind smile at Loki. "Thank you for your response, Loki. We'll be in touch."

You turned to leave before you could even get a reply, twisting the doorknob and pressing against the door again once you were on the other side, feeling like you could finally, finally breathe clean air.

Loki was quick to get under your skin and make you even more anxious about speaking with him than you were to begin with. Maybe that's what he had as powers.

Maybe.

Or, perhaps he was just a huge prick from some kind of family of Gods.

Regardless, you had little time for recovery as you could hear the radio's the security guards used coming from the opposite end of the hall. So, you pulled yourself together and made it seem like you were checking on the guards to see that they were back from their break.

After giving a brief welcome back to the men you smiled and walked back into the sea of desks, easily navigating to your own before looking through your small stack of files to dig up your research.

Loki's voice was still echoing in your head.

I'm going to burn this place to the ground.

It still made you shudder, even thinking about the smirks and smiles he gave you when you two conversed. Frankly, you could feel the hair on your arms standing up just thinking about it.

This also made you realize that no one noticed where you had gone. It was suspicious for sure. Everyone who worked at the TVA knew who was doing what at all times.

Maybe you were actually sneaky enough.

You grabbed a pen and started to manually write down everything you could remember from your visit with Loki, ignoring the painful scratch of the pen tip against the paper as your writing speed picked up.

Once you had finished transcribing the conversation in your notes, it finally crossed your mind that you were right.

Loki is planning something. And your director didn't believe you.

You could tell her, but that was at the cost of admitting how you got that information...

Or, you could just sit back and watch what would happen while the rest of the group figured a plan of attack to get Loki to talk and admit to his actions.

Sighing, you closed your research files and started to reach for the file that held all of Loki's time disturbances, deciding that you should brush up on the information and not actually believe anything this man says.

He is a criminal, afterall.

The manila folder was thick. Thicker than you remembered from the first time you had discovered the slight disruptions in the multiverse, and you wouldn't be too shocked if there was another folder to accompany the first one.

Upon opening the folder, you saw what little profiling the TVA had on Loki. It was stapled to the left side of the cardstock, all printed in black and white ink. Your eyes drifted to the technical mugshot that was taken of Loki the day you caught him and could feel fear starting to bubble in your stomach.

He had that devious smile as he stared right into the camera. Next to the mugshot was the simple basic identification questions, but next to race, place of birth, family, and species there were question marks followed by unknown.

At least you knew that he could most certainly be a God.

After eyeing the rest of the document, you turned your direction to the stack of papers that were attached to the right side of the folder, looking at the neon green sticky note on the top.

"All known time disturbances for inmate 60383," you easily read aloud off the sticky note before lifting the sheet it was stuck on to see another sheet full of images and handwritten descriptions. "Oh my god.."

You don't know how the pictures were taken or even who took the pictures (let's be realistic, it was probably the Chronomonitors up stairs), but it looked like the Theatre of Pompeii.

From 44 BC.

Your mind made the connections immediately, noticing the Greek architecture and the pictures varying with men of all sorts stabbing another man.

It was the Ides of March. Well—March 15th. The day Julius Caesar was stabbed 23 times.

Loki was behind that assassination, because of course he was.

As you continued in his files, you found that he was actually behind a lot of mishaps in history.

Including but not limited to: causing the French Revolution in 1789, The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand—also the assassination of Alexander The Great's father—and many, many more things that just so happened to change history in the universe.

It was giving you a headache, learning everything he's accomplished in such a short time. It's like mischief was his job.

"Wait a second," you mumbled to yourself, twisting in your office chair slightly to click around on your computer screen to open a search engine. Once you opened the first search engine your mouse could find, you typed in Norse Mythology and waited for the screen to load. Your computer was taking ages, which let you have your eyes wander on your desktop before catching the time in the upper right hand corner of your computer screen.

It was 12:30 in the afternoon.

Cursing quietly you were quick to get up from your seat, almost forgetting to close the loading window of your search as you grabbed your jacket that you tossed on the corner of your desk forever ago when you came in at 6 this morning.

"Okay, jacket, wallet—" you let your hand slip into your back pocket, feeling the plastic edge of Travis's I.D. as you pulled it out of the pocket. You've never been faster to shove something deep within the confines of a random desk drawer, cursing as you grabbed your car keys in rapid succession before practically flying through the sea of desks provided by the TVA officials.

The elevator was... calming. In a way. Smooth jazz playing on the speakers followed by occasional dings that signified what floor you were passing.

Until you were stopped on the 13th floor of the building, a man stepped in. He was tall, short dirty blond curls resting pristinely on his head. His hair actually looked to be borderline auburn thanks to the lighting in this metal deathtrap, you noted. You also noticed he was dressed up in an almost similar get up as you were that researchers were required to wear in the office.

The two of you gave awkward yet kind smiles to each other as he stepped in, hands in his jean pockets.

"Uh, what floor?" You asked softly, gesturing to the panel you were standing close to. The man glanced at the board.

"Same floor as you," he replied with the same tone.

He had an accent. A british accent. He reminded you of someone from Earth-199999, and you couldn't put your finger on it.

All you did was nod in reply before letting your hands go into your jacket pockets, redirecting your gaze to the elevator doors as the beeping started to continue as you passed floors.

After passing floor ten, you started to actually look closely at the man.

His jawline looked like it was structured by some higher power, and if you were to try and even touch you'd have cut something open. His stubble dusted over the sharp edges, though. It looked a lot softer than it might if he were clean shaven—which with the policies in the TVA, would be soon—and frankly, you'd like to see it.

It's almost like he looked like—

"Tom Hiddleston!" You exclaimed, finally making the connection in your brain.

"I beg your pardon?" The stranger asked, turning his head to look at you.

"Sorry, it's just," you started, laughing awkwardly, "you look a lot like this famous actor from Earth-199999. Tom Hiddleston."

"Oh," he started while shifting on his feet, seeming to step closer to you. "He's in that one show on Broadway, isn't he?"

"Yeah, uh, Betrayal I think it's called? I can't remember. It's been ages since I've looked at those files from that case forever ago."

There was a brief pause between the two of you before you took a breath and decided to introduce yourself, holding out your hand as you tried to relay your name without the awkward tone you still had in your voice.

The man smiled again and let one of his hand out of his pocket to shake your own. "Jonathan."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, not Tom Hiddleston—"

"Don't start that," Jonathan groaned playfully, the both of you sharing a laugh. "Are you part of Director Love's team?"

You nodded as you recovered from giggling in your corner of the elevator. "Yeah."

"She's really a piece of work."

"Yeah, but she gets her missions done," you replied easily, looking up at Jonathan. "Are you with Director Wilson?"

Jonathan looked confused for a moment before shaking his head, "no, no. Director Mills."

"Ah. Heard he's a tough guy."

"He's like the drill sergeant I've never had."

The two of you shared a laugh again before a comfortable silence took over the space. The jazz music seemed to have stopped playing now, which confused you slightly before Jonathan spoke up again.

"I don't mean to be rude or.. or break the rules, but what's your current mission about? Isn't it with that Loki guy?"

You hesitated for a moment. Why would you tell Jonathan anything about your mission? You've never seen him around before, let alone get told about him period. He seemed like a new hire. Newer than you.

That alone made you want to slam one of the buttons on the elevator wall so you could get off to avoid this whole topic.

And yet, you nodded, still under his curious gaze as you took a deep breath.

"Yeah. Inmate 60383. He's.. He's, well," you exhaled uneasily, letting out a weak laugh, "he's definitely something."

Jonathan didn't seem to like that answer enough.

"Something? What is that meant to mean?" He sounded like he was offended on Loki's behalf. You couldn't help the look you gave the man. It was a mix of confusion and offense.

"If you tried to interrogate him, you'd get it." You let out a sigh as you could feel the tension rise between the two of you, the elevator finally getting to the first floor of the building. The usual automated voice rung out in the metal box, announcing arrival to the first floor before the doors opened.

You were quick to get out, Jonathan following behind as he called your name. He probably noticed he struck a chord with his question.

Luckily, you were the only two in the main lobby of the TVA building as he kept trying to get your attention.

You grabbed the handle to the doors that led to the parking lot, turning around to look at Jonathan who seemed to look apologetic as he said your name one final time.

"I-I'm sorry for my comment. Really. I just want to know more about Inmate 60..."

"60383," you finished for him, part of you thinking you should be feeling skeptical about this whole situation.

"Yeah. 60383."

"Well," you started, letting your hand fall from the door handle, "I can't tell you anything, it's protocol. And I'd like to keep my job."

And with that, you threw open the main door to the building and walked out to the parking lot to head to your car and finally meet up with Travis for lunch.

#loki odinson x reader #loki layfeyson x reader #loki x reader #loki odinson #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel writer #marvel writing #loki drabble #loki #rachael writes #tva #tva agent!reader x loki

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jenetica · 3 years

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Baywatch Chapter 12: The Condensed Version

Here is a summary of the contents of Chapter 12, with minimal reference to any graphic or violent descriptions. I won't lie, this is a pretty cut-and-dry synopsis, without much flavor, but it will provide you with the key details you need to skip Chapter 12 without feeling like you've missed a whole episode. Ever read a Wikipedia plot summary of a horror movie, instead of watching the movie itself? This is that. Cool? Cool. Let's go.

Melissa awakes in a foreign, musty room with no memories of what brought her there. She discovers that she has a concussion from what feels like a blow to the back of the head, but her skin has not been broken. Taking stock of herself, she learns that all of her possessions have been removed, save for her clothes and her hair tie. The room is large, with a filthy, blood-stained cot in one corner, and a toilet with a fresh roll of toilet paper at another. The windows are near the ceiling, too high for her to reach, leading Melissa to believe that she is in a basement of some sort.

After nightfall, she is brought dinner by an unassuming, beige-clad man who calls himself Ralph. Dinner is a ham sandwich with mustard, plus a paper cup of water. Melissa rations her food to preserve it, in case she does not get more, and tries to keep her panic at bay. Though she realizes the hopelessness of her situation, thinking hard about either plans or her emotions worsens the concussion. For this reason, thoughts of the pack are agonizing.

Melissa decides that she must find a weapon of some sort using whatever supplies she has. She realizes that the underwire of her bra, though delicate, is her best option. She uses her teeth to tear at the lining of her bra, then removes the aluminum underwire from one cup. She uses the grout from the toilet as a sandstone to sharpen both ends of the underwire into angled, sharpened blades.

Believing that the pack will eventually find her and rescue her, Melissa bides her time. After a week her concussion subsides. She begins working out and developing a daily routine to give herself structure. Thinking of the pack eventually becomes easier as her panic settles into desolation. She hopes that Scott is learning to live without her, in the event that she dies.

Thoughts of Stiles remain difficult, as Melissa realizes that each day that passes in her cell is another day that she loses with him. One week becomes two, and Melissa's fantasies of him morph from being primarily sexual to becoming domestic. She longs for the happy routine of a life together, which she reluctantly accepts could never happen, even if she were home.

The routine in the room is consistent: Someone (one of five people Melissa has met thus far) will bring her a ham sandwich and water with mustard before dawn, and after dusk. She uses these opportunities to ask questions and learn more about her circumstances. She learns that her captors have taken her because she is "beloved," and that she is collateral for some negotiation. She also learns that her captors are new to town and looking to settle there, and that she is somehow important for that goal.

Melissa is able to see the moon out of the high windows in the room. When she first arrived, it was half full and waning, but she has been in the cell so long, it is approaching fullness again. Melissa finds herself looking forward to that night, hoping that it will be the night the pack finally finds her. In preparation for their arrival, she saves her breakfast sandwich and eats both it and her dinner sandwich after dusk. She uses the sharpened underwire to prick her fingertips, which she slaps on one of the windows to make a scent-heavy signal for the werewolves to track.

Shortly thereafter, Ralph comes into the room and notices the handprint on the window immediately. He becomes manic and grabs for Melissa, angry at her for ruining the plan, and she realizes that her captors are vampires. Scared that the blood on the window will incite Ralph to feed on her, she withdraws the sharpened underwire from her pocket and uses it to disable Ralph, leaving him technically alive but unable to move. She searches Ralph's pockets and finds the keys to her cell, a wallet, and a flip phone. She calls Derek, wasting no time to tell him that she is kidnapped and doesn't have much time. She locates an ID in Ralph's wallet and provides the address to Derek. She takes Ralph's belt to use as a noose.

She prepares for more battle while she waits, anticipating that someone will come to find Ralph when he does not return from her room. She is correct. Another vampire, Jonathan, comes into the room five minutes later. As soon as the door opens, Melissa looses her hair tie across the room to hit the opposite wall, drawing Jonathan's attention to Ralph. When his back is turned, she leaps up and uses both the noose and the underwire to take him down. After she does, she hears howling from the distance: Her pack has arrived.

She waits in her room while the pack dispatches the remaining vampires in the room above, sure that she would be a liability in that fight more than an aid. Derek shouts that she's in the basement, and someone comes downstairs. Melissa uses Ralph's keys to unlock the doors and finds Stiles on the other side. They have a desperate, teary reunion wherein Melissa expresses her disbelief that they actually came, and Stiles confesses that he will always rescue her. Derek joins them, emotionally distraught, as do Erica, Isaac, Boyd, and Allison. They cluster on the floor, crying, until Scott finally comes downstairs. Melissa abandons the group to fling herself at Scott, more shaken and relieved than before. Scott tells her that they'd been searching for days with no results, and Derek reveals that they were using witchcraft to block Melissa's scent.

The pack realizes Melissa is covered in blood, and Stiles panics that it's hers, and that she has been bitten (and thus turned) by the vampires. She places her hands on his cheeks and soothes him, telling him that she wasn't bitten. Grateful, he kisses her palm. Scott witnesses the kiss and draws back, confused and suspicious. Derek refocuses Melissa on the blood, and she takes him to her cell. The members of the pack are impressed that she was able to take down two vampires, but without her survival instincts in play, Melissa is horrified by what she's done. The more she looks at the scene, the more overwhelmed she becomes, until she blacks out.

#what the hell is this baywatch?#ao3 #idk do i really even need tags for this? it's pretty niche

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carrionxcamille · 4 years

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Bucket Full of Eyes | Camille & Kaden

TIMING: Beginning of Ever Leering Sea (https://wickedsrest-rp.tumblr.com/post/619562038709141504/the-residents-of-white-crest-have-long-since) LOCATION: Traveler’s Rest PARTIES: @carrionxcamille and @chasseurdeloup SUMMARY: Camille takes it upon herself to call animal control when there’s a ‘rat’ problem at the motel. Things don’t quite go as expected.

There were days Kaden was pretty sure people confused Animal Control with a pest control service. But the call about the very very large rat at the Traveler’s Rest sounded to him like a monster case if he ever heard one. A rat the size of a small dog? Last seen nibbling on a severed finger? Could be an agropelter. Or something worse that he’d never heard of. Cage in hand, net and a knife or two with him and ready to go, he started wandering the grounds, looking for any signs or tracks. It was hard to find rat shit in this shit hole, it was pretty much nothing but shit. He was inspecting the ground for anything remotely helpful when the door nearby swung open, revealing a woman with a bucket in her hands. “Sorry, just animal control. Not a--” A what? A murder? A creepy guy? Right. Kaden let the sentence fall flat and stood up. And took a closer look at the bucket in question. “Uh, are those eyeballs? In a bucket?”

When Camille had rocked up to the motel she knew it was cheap as chips for a reason. Minimal services, thin mattresses, poor water pressure. She could cope with that. It wasn’t pleasant, but she could deal. What she wasn’t going to ignore was a giant rat eating a finger. As if she needed more vivid horrors to keep her up at night. The murderous husband and vampire neighbors were plenty, so she found a number and called animal control. Once that was taken care of she turned to task number two of the day- honestly calling animal control first was just a way to put it off- pulling on a pair of rubber gloves and scooping eyeballs out of her sink into a waiting bucket.

A seriously grim task. God, she hated this town. Now she didn’t know if the police or plumbers or whoever were going to come up with some proper disposal method for these things, but Camille really couldn’t cope with them in her room, so she was just going to take the bucket outside. Where the animal control guy happened to be with perfect timing, because her life wasn’t bad enough. “Oh, great. That was fast. Uh- yeah…” Okay okay think fast, how could she explain this? “They... came out of the tap.” Perfect.

Kaden narrowed his eyes at her, keeping them fixed on the bucket. That was a lot of eyeballs. Granted, one singular severed eyeball was too many fucking severeed eyeballs. “The tap? You’re really telling me a bucket full of eyeballs came out of the tap? That’s not--” Alright, there were a lot of things that happened in this town that weren’t possible, even by supernatural standards. Something about this still seemed off. “You’re the one who called in the rat? A Ms…” He paused to look at the notes he’d scribbled from the report to bring with him. “Hawkins, right? That you?” he asked, giving her a good look up and down. “I heard something about a really big rat. Where was the last place you saw it?”

Camille was really going to have to get her identity all straightened out as soon as possible. Telling the animal control guy her real name wasn’t such a big deal- it had slipped out, she was panicking and staring at a sink full of eyeballs- but she’d need proper ID for a flat, and she was really getting sick of being referred to as Hawkins. “Well- okay I know it’s a lot but when I saw it I freaked out and forgot to turn the tap back off.” She nodded, hoping to dismiss the topic. “Yup. Huge rat.” She grabbed at the bottom of a rubber glove to start peeling it off, but then she remembered the strange mark on her hand and also the finger eating rat- “y’know, I’m gonna keep these on for a moment. I’ll take you to where I spotted it.”

She grabbed her room key and locked the door behind her, starting off down the pathway, “it was eating a finger. Like I know rats are scavengers, but that’s really creepy.” Camille rounded the corner into the courtyard, pointing to a dark corner by the bins, “it was over there.”

So she was really sticking to the tap bit, huh? Kaden was about to believe her, because really, who made that sort of thing up? Then he watched as she decided to leave her rubber gloves on and the doubt came flooding back. “What, afraid to touch something around here?” Granted, alright, maybe that was valid, looking around the place. Still, he’d have to keep an eye on her. For what, he wasn’t sure. Yet. He followed behind her, looking for any more traces of the animal he could find. “Eating a finger, huh?” Didn’t sound much like a rat. There were a number of monsters that could easily fit the description. It could even be some White Crest special he’d never seen yet. Like mime spiders. “It wasn’t black and white was it?” That was stupid. He pulled out his flashlight to get a better look in the corner, see what might be there. “Uh, never mind. I meant what color was it? Anything else you can tell me?”

Look, there was a list a mile long of things Camille had to worry about. Frankly the animal control guy thinking she was a little weird was not going to rank high on that list, despite how often other peoples’ perceptions had been her biggest problem in the past. “I am afraid to touch everything. There’s a reason I called animal control instead of waiting for any of the staff to do it.” She pointed out, gesturing vaguely to the general disarray of the place. Seriously. She’d gone from a beautiful, clean, well decorated home- to this. It was cruel. “Black and white? Wha-” you know what, she didn’t even want to get into it. “No. Like-- grey, mostly. Kinda- almost looked greenish, but I think that was the light. Or it rolled in grass or something. It had really big eyes.”

“Right. Sure. So how’d you end up here of all places?” Kaden’s mouth pulled into a thin line as he shined the light over to the bins and what not. There were some droppings. Huge ones for a rodent. Which could have been a good sign if the potential size of this rat wasn't completely alarming. He set down the gear he’d been carrying and pulled out a net before slowly walking over towards the spot in question. “Greenish? A fucking greenish rat? Okay.” Sounded more and more like a monster problem than an animal one to him. “Are you sure it was a rat and not anything… else?” It was always hard to know who knew about the supernatural. It was never something he wanted to assume or say first, but it was so much easier when he could speak freely.

Camille sighed, folding her arms. “How does anyone end up here? Didn’t have anywhere else to go.” She wondered if it made her more impressive that she was determined to build her life back up from rock bottom, or just a bit pitiful. This motel seemed like the kind of place that swallowed people whole. It was difficult to admit she had nothing- Camille had long prided herself on her ability to appear more put together than she was- but it wasn’t like he’d believe anything else, considering where they were. “I don’t know, maybe it rolled in freshly dyed grass. Stranger things have happened.” Though she wasn’t sure if this was the kind of place where people dyed their grass.

“Anything else?” Camille repeated, rubbing at the hand with the covered sigil on it- did he mean..? “Well I-” It was eating a finger, and it was pretty big. “I’m not… An expert. Maybe? I- it was freaky big. And the eyes were like, really not like any rat eyes I’ve seen. Not that I’ve seen a lot. Do you mean like-” She looked around, as if anyone else would be hanging out in this scabby courtyard. “Like not a normal animal, right? Like a- uh.. Creature. It could have been, yeah.”

“Fair enough. You didn’t seem the type is all.” Kaden gave her a quick glance and saw her rubbing at her one hand. “Save for the bucket full of eyeballs that I’m still not entirely convinced came out of the sink.” Not that it mattered how sketchy she was or wasn’t. The call was about any animal, not her. At her insistence of the green dye, he took a quick look around the grounds behind them. Not a whole lot of fresh anything, let alone grass or plant life. The whole place was pretty pitifully drab. “Doubtful,” he said as he walked closer to the bins in question, net in one hand, flashlight in the other. So far, it seemed pretty clear. No sounds or signs of movement. The more she spoke, the more he was sure he was dealing with a monster. Fingers could mean agropelters, but that still seemed too small. Maybe a really really big agropelter. “Yeah if I had to guess, this isn’t your standard rat. There’s a whole lot of weird animals that show up in this town. If you think it wasn’t a rat, you can say so. I’m not going to think you’re crazy.”

Kaden bent down to examine the area and shoved one or two of the bins aside. Nothing. Odd. He was about to stand up and ask her if there was anywhere else it could be when he heard a rumble in the distance. There was a vibration under his feet, getting louder. Tilting his head, he looked closer into the corner where the buildings met, shining the flash light that way. For a moment, there was nothing. Then a flash of reflection against sharp teeth and beady eyes as a rat the size of a small dog burst through the hole in the wall. Kaden scrambled to get the net, to back away, anything, but the greenish grey rodent leapt at him and knocked him off balance to the ground as a swarm of more giant rats came tumbling out of the corner. Putain.

Was she the type? No. But it raised an interesting question; should she be? There weren’t going to be many people who believed or understood her experience. Regan was proof of that, the woman had wings and she still refused to even entertain the possibility that Camille was telling the truth. Evidently there were more sorts out there than you could shake a stick at, maybe if she jumped down the rabbit hole she would find people she could actually relate to in some way. There was also the distinct possibility that jumping down the rabbit hole would destroy any chance she had at a normal life, which is what she really wanted. Right?

Right. This stuff was interesting, but she wasn’t going to be consumed by it. “The eyeballs came out of the tap.” Camille repeated hotly, frowning. She was so sick of people not believing her. “You live in White Crest! You’d believe I saw some monster that wasn’t a rat but eyeballs out of the tap is too far?” It was baffling to her, the arbitrary lines people here seemed to draw. She watched him work quietly for a moment more and was honestly debating just leaving him to it- she’d had quite enough of being invalidated, thank you- but then a swarm of damn rats- or whatever the hell they were- came rushing out.

Camille screamed- and again considered just leaving him to it- and flapped about uselessly only for a moment before reaching for the net that the guy had dropped in his scuffle, using the stick end of it to try and keep the bastards away from them both. “Ew oh my god! oh my god ew ew!” She grappled with the one of the animal control guy, which tried to cling on to the net but she managed to eventually fling it away. “Okay, I don’t think you brought enough cages.”

Kaden braced his face with the back of his arm and felt a tear as sharp teeth dug into his flesh and pulled away. Fuck, that hurt. He tried to get a closer look at what the fuck this was as he wrestled with the rat, pushing it off of him. The fucker was strong and coming at his face with those fucking long, flat, big ass teeth. He managed to throw it off and started to scramble back but a stampede was headed his way. Fuck, he wass done for. She’d probably turned and ran by now. To his surprise, he saw the net fly in and push the rat closest to him from crawling on top of him. Kaden pushed himself up and ran back over to her away from the rats. “Not enough nets either!” he yelled, grabbing her arm briefly to pull her along as he kept running back towards her place.

When Kaden reached her door, all he could do was hope that she’d let him the fuck in for a minute or two so they had a fucking safe place to sort this out. Granted, it was locked. Also hers. He could be completely fucked. Either way, they had to buy time. But how? “And it’s because I live in White Crest that I know there are a whole lot of reasons why someone might be collecting buckets full of eyeballs, alright. For the record.” Wait. Bucket of eyeballs. Right. He reached over and took the handle, dozens of severed eyes looking back up at him as a dozen more pairs of angry, beady rodent eyes stare down the hall towards them. Putian, this better work. No time to waste, Kaden took the bucket and threw the eyeballs back towards where they’d come from, onto the swarm of unusually sized rodents. Maybe if they liked fingers and skin enough, this would satisfy them for a second or two. Just long enough to come up with a better plan.

Mimes, eyeballs, and now fucking rats. Camille knew there was going to be a lot to process in regards to her own life, but she hadn’t imagined she’d have to do it in a setting this chaotic. When would there ever be time to figure out her own problems if simply calling the animal control guy resulted in fending off a rat swarm?! She stumbled after him back to her door, whipping the key from her back pocket to shove it open- honestly it was more about force than the lock itself- “I’m not collecting them!” She snapped back, getting the door open just as he managed to distract the rats with the eyeballs- wow, and she hadn’t thought they’d come in handy.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, pushing the door shut behind her and leaning up against it to catch her breath. “Oh my- oh.” Camille had been about to spiral into panic, but the blood dripping down his arm managed to catch her focus and she rushed to the bathroom for her first aid kit, wasted maternal instincts kicking in. The box itself was easy enough to open but the packet for the disinfectant wipe was impossible with the gloves on, and Camille tugged them off without thinking about the mark- someone was hurt, that took over every other thought- taking Kaden’s wrist gently to wipe down the wound. “Sorry, I know it stings.” She murmured, unwrapping a gauzy self adhering bandage to wrap over the top, “Right. One crisis dealt with.”

For a moment, Kaden wondered if there was another reason why she was eyeing the blood on his arm. Vampire? No, they were just out in the fucking daylight. He really had to stop assuming that. First Regan, then Nell, now Camille. Three out of three wrong, maybe he should leave that shit to Alain. He was ready to just wipe the blood off, maybe smear some dirt in it but she’d fun back with the first aid kit so he held out his arm and let her patch it up as the thumping against the door carried on. He assumed it was a few of the rats trying to push their way in. “Don’t worry, not the first time I've been injured on the job. And this isn’t even bad.” It was probably a good idea to get it cleaned up before going for round two, hard to argue with that. “Also a bucket full of eyeballs is by fucking definition a colletion.”

Kaden went to the window and peaked out of it to see an ugle mug of nose and whiskers slam into the glass. What the fuck? Were these flesh eating giant rats? Where the fuck did those even come from? “Right. Doesn’t look like the coast is clear. Some of them seem to have scurried away but a few of these fuckers are determined.” His lips pulled into a thin line and his brow creased as he tried to formulate a plan. No way to fight them all off with weapons, there were too damn many. And his net was outside but even then. “Only thing coming to mind is fire. Molotov. Hairspray flame gun. I don’t know. Any better fucking ideas? Beyond climbing out the back window and making a break for it? You didn’t like any of your shit, right?”

It was the most useful she’d felt in months, patching up his arm. Camille used to teach kids to read and now she didn’t do anything. The rest of the world shrank back and she felt like herself again rather than some freakish re-animated corpse version. “You don’t want them to get at it again, and make it bad.” She pointed out in a very teacher-tone, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “Sorry I don’t have a sticker for you.” She quipped, crashing back to reality with the next thud against the door. Right, the rats.

Camille shuddered as one of them crashed up against the window, hoping the glass would be thick enough to hold. “Fire? Woah woah, and what am I supposed to tell the front desk when half my room is burnt to a crisp? I don’t think a fiery solution to a rat swarm will be covered by their insurance, and I sure as hell couldn’t pay for the damages. I mean, can’t we just- I don’t know- shit.” She sighed, collapsing into the chair against the wall and running a hand through her hair. “And I thought things couldn’t get worse.”

Kaden raised a brow at her remarks. Her tone was almost as if he had been a child and she was patting him on the head. Interesting. He couldn’t figure out if that was some sort of mom thing or a teacher thing. It was a weird level of comforting he didn’t see a whole lot of nor did he expect while out on an assignment. “I think I’ll be okay without.” If she really was a zombie or some other kind of undead, he wondered what sort of life she’d left behind to end up here in White Crest. In this dump. Not that now was the time for pondering.

“Tell them it was me,” Kaden answered, rolling his eyes. “Plus, do you really think this is the type of place to give a shit? Look at it.” A quick gesture around the room and the sad rundown state proved his point. At least he sure thought so. “Plus I can’t fucking stab them all and there’s no nets big enough for that.” The pounding by the door grew louder. He went into her bathroom and found an aerosol can of hairspray or something or other and pulled out his lighter. “Alright. I’m going to need you to open the door a crack and then I’ll take down what I can with the fire. Ready? On the count of three.”

It wasn’t like Camille had much anyway. It was a bare walled motel room. The meager wardrobe space wasn’t full, the kettle in the kitchenette wasn’t even hers. It just felt absurdly unfair that despite how she’d obviously already fallen all the way to rock bottom the universe was still trying to destroy the things she was clinging onto. She gave a defeated sigh, resting her elbows on her knees. “I know it’s shitty but it’s where I live.” She hissed.

This guy had no idea how it felt to finally have a home that felt peaceful, even if it was a crappy motel room. For so long that house with Jace had been full of shouting and hatred. This place wasn’t much but it was the hub from which she was trying to rebuild her life. Setting it on fire seemed like a bad omen. It wasn’t like she had a choice though. “Fine.” She groaned, pushing up from her seat and crossing the space to set her hand on the door handle. She sucked in a shaky breath, “one… Two…” She tightened her grip on the handle and turned it down, “three!” Camille pulled the door open just a little, enough for the swarm to start squeezing through.

As soon as the door was cracked open, Kaden pushed the trigger on the can and hair spray filled the air. He brought the lighter up underneath and fire flew right at the rats. The stench was awful, burning hairspray and burning flesh and fur, the squealing was bad before but now the few rats in the front were wailing. The first few were trying to wriggle back and away from the flames, but the rest were pushing them forward.

Kaden kicked the one coming closest to coming in. Then another. He could feel the heat from the flames by his feet and the smells were almost damn near enough to choke him. At least two were on fire and the others trying to pile on weren’t looking so good either. Fuck, he couldn’t take it anymore, he was about to start choking on the air around them so he stopped spraying and let go of the lighter. “Close it!” he said with one last punt to rat writhing in front of them. The flames were no comparison to Bea’s fireballs, but one peek out the window and they sure got the job done. Three or four out there were on fire. “See. Only minimal scorch marks.” So far.

It smelt like hell. Like, Camille was going to wipe every surface down with bleach after the ordeal is over to get rid of the stench. She was going to go shopping and buy every incense burner she could get her hands on. There was that witch store on Amnity Road, they’d probably have stuff. The sound made her scrunch her shoulders up around her ears and she had to work really hard not to scream herself, just owing to the viscerality of it all. This was it. This was her life. Giant fucking rats and an improvized flame thrower. She should’ve just stayed with Jace, could that really have been worse than all this? Well, maybe.

At Kaden’s command Camille wasted no time slamming the door shut, pressing the sleeve of her top against her nose and mouth to try and filter out some of the smell. “This is really-” She coughed a couple of times, pulling in a shaky breath, “not how I was expecting my day to go.” Cam collapsed back into the chair by the door, pulling her knees up to her chest. “I mean, thankyou- obviously. But this is- it’s nuts. Every time I think this town can’t get any weirder it pulls out another surprise.”

Kaden kept watch out the window and a few of the rats writhed until they stopped wriggling, presumably dead. The rest scurried away. To where he didn’t fucking know. “Welcome to White Crest,” was about all he could manage. He had to admit though, this was a lot for one town. He thought he knew what he was walking into when he came to the small Maine town. This was a supernatural hot spot and he heard all kinds of crazy stories coming from hunter bars as far up as Canada about it. “Sorry this was a little more than you bargained for but I think they’re mostly dead. Or about to fuck off. I’ll put out some traps.” He looked back out at the size of those things. “Uh, more like I’ll set out some big ass cages.”

Putain, she looked really distraught by this whole thing. Kaden coughed at the stench again and well, alright, fair enough. He came here about a rat and ended up having to use a make-shift blowtorch out of her apartment. “Are you going to be alright?” he asked. “I’m Kaden Langley. By the way.” Officer Langely sounded stupid no wawy he was going with that. “Let me know if you have any more trouble with them and I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.”

Could Camille really stay here? Maybe it would be better to save up and get the hell out of town. Okay maybe this was probably the only place she’d get more answers about what had happened to her, but there was the question of whether she’d stay sane enough for that to be worth it. Giant rats taken down with makeshift flame throwers? Eyeballs out of taps? Women with wings? It was a lot. Too much. “I mean the good thing is they probably won’t be coming anywhere near my room.” Maybe it would be better to just ignore all strange things in the future.

She shifted to set her feet back on the ground and sit up straighter, heaving one final sigh before fixing a smile on her face. Camille had been incredibly good at pretending problems with Jace didn’t exist, she could do it again now with all this weird shit. “Kaden.” She nodded, committing the name to memory in case she needed to call again. “I’ll be alright.” Cam twists her hands together, stands up to head to the door. “Thank You for your help today. I appreciate that this wasn’t exactly what you were expecting, either.” No matter what he might be used to dealing with this had only been a call about a rat, afterall. “I hope the rest of your day goes a little more as planned.” She even managed a breezy little laugh, “I’ll be sure to call if they start causing problems again.” She pulled open the door just a crack, heaving a sigh of relief when they weren’t immediately swarmed again. “Thank you, again.”

#kaden #kaden chatzy #chatzy

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quagmireisadora · 4 years

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[Jonghyun / Taemin] After the Fire

Prompt: A is a struggling writer going through a creative block, until B literally crashes into their life, claiming that they are a modern-day muse. Rating: R-ish(?) Warnings: some explicit descriptions Length: ~10,000

Summary: Drawn to danger, I burned my own house down.

(Written as part of the Winter of SHINee fic fest. Please go support all the entries there)

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“... we thank you for your manuscript and applaud your efforts in completing another book. Unfortunately, it is not quite in the vein of what we are looking for. Please stay in touch for…”

In Jonghyun’s eyes, there is only one way to construe the letter—your stuff isn't sexy enough.

He knows the standards the publication house upholds. When he’d first applied to write for them, presenting a short story full of elucidated gasps and pants and whatnot: he’d done his research. The other writers and their works are miles apart from what he could ever produce. Those books are too salacious, too irreverent for him to match.

So, he knows there is a yardstick, and that he is required to be faithful to it, if he must help retain their astronomically high readership.

Honestly, though… the only reason Jonghyun writes erotic literature is because it is easy money.

Coming straight out of college, he first tried his hand at working for obscure webzines. That was a very weird, isolating experience. His colleagues were constantly embroiled in intellectual and cultural debates, the likes of which a man of his upbringing could never participate in—the elegance of noir films, the chaos of punk history, the artful French New Wave. Not only did these subjects evolve outside the barriers he grew up between, the webzines’ subscribers were largely foreigners, rendering a monolinguistic man like him… well. Useless.

Following this, he’d done a stint at small, virtually unknown publications. He’d written largely ignored thought pieces for national papers. He’d even submitted the less embarrassing specimens of his attempted poetry to the Metropolitan office of which, none were imprinted on subway doors. Yet.

To the interested employer, his CV reads like a grocery list of jobs: I did everything I possibly could with my mediocre talent, just so I could earn a living. And he doesn't mind that—encourages that thought, in fact. It is Jonghyun's earnest belief that only by downplaying his past professional experiences will he ever get a step ahead, climb a rung higher. It is also Jonghyun's earnest belief that dream jobs do not exist and, in this economy at least, settling is a good idea when you have qualifications as meaningless as his.

So no, he doesn't turn any work down. Nothing is beneath him. And that attitude has led him here—to writing cheap erotica for easy money.

Except, Jonghyun hasn't a single erotic bone in his body.

He is a man, most certainly. Red-blooded as they come. But something about writing down the act, about describing it in the most colourful and drawn-out details... femininity must surely be a prerequisite, he thinks. To notice the way that things look or sound or feel or taste in those short moments. To recreate that passion, that ecstasy, that urgency with paragraph upon paragraph of meticulous and explicit narration: one must need a very observative mind. Or a hyperactive imagination. Because something that lasts just a few minutes from his perspective, can only be recreated with such intensity if it were a woman on the other side of the pen.

So no, Jonghyun doesn't do sexy. Despite having penned three short novels, all with the reluctant perusal of internet porn, he doesn’t do sexy. He doesn’t do softcore, he doesn’t do taboo or wild or… anything, really. He just isn't capable of indelicacy like that. He reasons he can probably try romantic, but that’s not what this specific job entails, does it? No, and the letter is good evidence of that, he realises, stowing his last manuscript away for recycling.

Where sexual depravity is concerned, Jonghyun is running on empty. And if things don't change soon, his bank account will too.

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His mother doesn't know, of course. She thinks her poor son, her youngest baby, is so deeply mired in the nine-to-five that he doesn't even have time to visit these days. Writing is time-consuming. Writing entire novels, even more so. He doesn’t tell her what his job is, though. He keeps it vague. I’m working at an office. I’m working for a big company. I’m working in a building on Saemunan-ro.

As common a name as Kim Jonghyun is, a pseudonym is useful in many ways, he realises. He doesn’t get strange calls from distant relatives, demanding what the hell does he think he’s doing, while ignoring the fact that they went looking for erotica in the first place. He doesn’t have his young cousins approach him with was that really you, hyung? or can we get an early copy of your next one? His friends and ex-associates don’t have a clue. He would like to keep it that way: Minho already gives him a hard time about growing into an old shut-in, if he had the faintest idea of what was going on behind those closed doors and drawn curtains… Minho would no longer be a friend, Jonghyun wagers with shame.

Even so, the question of inspired writing—if he can call it that—still remains. Rather, the question of how he will pay next month’s rent, how he will settle the stack of overdue power and internet and water bills, still remains. Seoul is an expensive city to live in by oneself, and he cannot move back under the same roof as his mother and sister, not with a scandalous job like this.

At this point he has no way of stimulating his mind without resorting to stealing from other writers.

And so, the idea of a fan-meeting event is a sort of lifeline. He figures it could help if people show appreciation for his work: even if those people are wild-eyed and pimple-faced oily young men who should be ashamed of themselves, his morality yells wordlessly. But he is no one to judge. And if they prove to be a motivation, if they can help him get out of his block, then all the morality in the world can go to hell.

The event isn’t as clandestine as he imagines it to be, either. Outside the venue is a board yelling out a “SHIN YUN BOK PUBLICATION AUTHORS’ CONVENTION”. The doors are wide open. The sound of chatter, the smell of food, the murmur of excitement, all floats out to the lobby just outside.

When he enters, his face obscured by a surgical mask and a large pair of sunglasses, the place is packed. A man is on stage, calling out polite directions for crowd control. Jonghyun recognises him as his employer. Or at least, he is the guy who interviewed him over a grainy skype call late one night. He self-consciously checks his disguise and walks deeper into the fray.

A semi-circle of tables is arranged around the hall, each nominated to a writer. Upon studying the occupied seats, Jonghyun’s premise is solidified when he realises eight out of ten appear to be women. Somehow, this information impresses him.

When he ducks under the ropes and is stopped by a security guard, he points at the only empty table in wordless explanation. Some awkwardness ensues: a request for ID, a weary denial on the basis that pseudonyms aren’t on any ID, a quick consultation by text message, an unenthusiastic “OK, sir. This way, please.” Soon after, Jonghyun has taken his place and assumes the target of many pairs of staring eyes in the room. Some point and snicker, some watch him awestruck, some even take photos. Selcas! Like he is some sort of celebrity! He feels uneasy and oddly vulnerable, fidgeting with his sunglasses as they threaten to slip on the sweat beading his face.

But when the doors are finally shut and the event declared open, Jonghyun’s jealousy soars.

There are lengthy, winding lines of people waiting to speak to nearly all the other writers--but not him. No one approaches him. Not for the first ten minutes, not for the next half hour. In spite of all the staring from before, no one wants to speak with him. No one is interested in getting his signature.

It is only now, at such a place and such a time, that a series of paranoid questions fills his head. Does anyone read his books? Does anybody like them? Is he not popular? Is his work insignificant, even in circles like these?

If the number of people dying to speak with the others is anything to go by… then no. Jonghyun is not in the least bit popular.

He overhears his neighbour chuckle to say things like, of course there is a sequel coming out or yes, I based that character on myself. There are squeals, there are gasps, there is enough veneration to drown Jonghyun in self-pity. Suddenly, he wishes for that love and admiration. He wishes someone would ask him interesting questions and expect fascinating answers; dote on him just the way they dote on the rest of the panel.

His jealousy is poisonous enough that it spreads through his blood. His eyes burn with it, his pulse throbs against it, he feels it bristle in and out of his nostrils with every breath. His sweat begins to sting. His solitude starts to prick. His confidence dwindles to nearly nothing. The weight of envy makes him slide lower and lower into his seat. He plays with his marker and acts nonchalant. Acts like he is unaffected. But in truth he feels like crying. He feels like going home. He feels like quitting--

When his latest book is suddenly slammed onto the table, he yells and jumps a foot off his seat. Eyes turn to him again, this time with thinly veiled distaste rather than disinterest. He looks up at his assailant to find a lanky young man donning fashionable sunglasses and equally fashionable clothes.

“Sign, please,” the guy says in a tone that borders on demanding.

------

What surprises Jonghyun isn’t the fact that he has a “fan” in someone like Lee Taemin, as he introduces himself later. It is more astonishing to him that other people immediately follow his example and accost Jonghyun with copies of his work—some that look well used and dog-eared to the point that he is afraid to touch them. More and more readers who claim to love his writing flock over, while this Taemin character stands by. Silent, watchful, critical.

As he doles out autograph after rushed autograph, Jonghyun can’t for the life of him understand how the situation reversed itself in the blink of an eye.

“Uh… thank you?” he expresses uncertain gratitude. “I was. Surprised.”

“Mm hmm, so what do you want to do next?” the guy counters, folding up the sleeves of his baggy tee-shirt. The crowds have long dissipated. Security has rounded up all the stragglers, even the rowdy ones trying to get too close to that overly popular writer who went by the penname of Eonsook. But no one seems bothered by Taemin. No one cares that he is still here, still engaging in lazy conversation, going at his own pace. Everything about this is so peculiar. Everything is the opposite of his expectations.

“Well, I was about to go home and eat dinner, so—”

“I meant,” an exasperated look berates him. “What do you want to do for your next project?”

There is no answer for that. Jonghyun doesn’t plan these things out. He sits in front of the screen and starts to pour things onto it until he realises none of it is usable. Then he gives up. Rinse, repeat.

But he is expected to answer now. He is expected to say something rooted in a fully formed thought. He is expected to answer this man, this person who appeared out of nowhere and somehow managed to single-handedly create the interest Jonghyun was looking forward to. So, is there also an expected answer? Is there a right and a wrong response? Should he take the question as a cue to say something else, something scripted for such interactions? He doesn’t know.

He settles for a vague, “Uhm, is there anything in particular that Taemin ssi likes to read?” If he has learnt something from his time writing about politics, it is this: the best answer to a difficult question is another question.

An indifferent shrug replies. “Don’t really care. As long as there’s sex in it.”

He’d make a great politician, Jonghyun thinks as he starts to gather his things. “Well. I’m sure you’ll find plenty to satisfy you, then,” he gestures around them at the nearly vacated hall.

The man on the stage waves to him, he waves back. They will probably speak on the phone later on, and Jonghyun will bombard him with questions.

“But I like what you write,” Taemin continues, drawing is attention back. Physically holding his chin and turning his face so they are looking at each other again. “I want you to write more. Much more. A series!” there is a hint of excitement on those puffy lips.

Jonghyun knows not to aggravate people like him. People who are probably more dangerous than they appear to be. He takes a cautious step back. “I… I wish I could, sir. But you see—”

“I’ll pay you to do it.” A sure motion pulls an expensive-looking wallet out. A wad of cash is counted before nearly all of it is set onto the table. “An advance. I’ll give you three times that when you’ve finished the first draft. How about it?”

He stares at the fan of ten thousand won notes. Rent, he reminds himself. You must pay rent by the end of next week. But what the hell is he going to write?! “Sir, I’m… I’m really very sorry. I don’t have any plans to write the next book and. And I’m not even sure what to write so—”

“I’ll help with that,” Taemin insists. “You need ideas, I’ll give you all the ideas you need. I’ll… I’ll be your muse,” he decides.

Jonghyun stares for a long uneasy moment. Where is security and why aren’t they doing anything? he wonders. He takes another step to back away from the weird man. But the money is right there, perfect bright green rectangles that seem to have come fresh out of the mint. The overlapping portraits of Sejong the Great are all pleading with him to be pocketed. Just say yes! the king is shouting out, even in that placid gaze. You don’t have to follow through, just take the money and run! He can’t find you, anyway!

No. That would be disingenuous. That wouldn’t be right. No matter how desperate his situation, Jonghyun would never resort to thievery. He shakes his head and stays his hand, making no move to accept the money.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you, Taemin ssi,” he bows and rushes off.

------

Their story begins and ends at Namdaemun.

She looks at its sombre face, artillery fire still marking some of its masonry and disrupting the course of the story. Their story. It is the gate that reaches out for a hug, she thinks when a cold wind picks up and threatens to swoop her shivering self away. It is the gate that offers an embrace, arms angling out from its stiff middle, like a father consoling his sad and broken child. How odd it looked in its place. How quaint, to be the only survivor of its own story. No more kings roam under its elegant archway. No more guards train their arrows from the pagoda. No more tigers rustle nearby under the cover of trees, desperate to find a meal.

This gate… this thing. It shouldn't be here. But someone has shown it their kindness and tended to it; fed it with mortar and concrete and newly painted timber. Someone has seen fit to breathe new life into it.

Their story begins and ends here.

She met him once, then many times, upon the tufts of grass framing Namdaemun. She met him and with every meeting the distance between them diminished from feet to inches to barely anything. She met him, met all of him, met every place on him with every place on herself. His hands would smell of spice. Of coal and heat and rain… perhaps he tended to a garden in their time apart. He had the gentlest hands. When he touched her, they felt like lamps against her skin. His warmth would intoxicate her.

Maybe he was made of fire, she would wonder in the hours they lay next to each other, breath stuttering and pulse racing. Maybe he was a jinn.

“You’re not small enough to fit in a lamp,” she would tease him when they'd stumble over each other.

In her loneliness, she’d dream of him, floating on clouds made of cotton. She'd imagine him traveling from land to unknown land and sea to unending sea. She would imagine him soaring, his skin burnished and his eyes like bronze.

But he is long gone, now. He has left her side and his hands warm someone else's days. She is the survivor of her own story. She is a stiff gate looking for someone to embrace, someone to comfort. She endures, just as Namdaemun endures. They stay and they wait, the gate and her, in the hope that someday there will be a finale to their respective stories.

And then they will breathe a unified sigh of relief.

------

Jonghyun supposes it would’ve been wise to expect a second meeting.

He is still shocked when the time comes: a buzz from downstairs, a murmured excuse about routine maintenance, a knock on the door that sounds far too eager to be just pest control.

When he opens the door to find the familiar lanky frame, he panics. There are no more disguises obscuring the distance between them now. Each man is plainly visible to the other. Jonghyun feels caught. Trapped, like a wild animal hunted until metal teeth closed around his leg. He frantically searches for something to hide behind, forgetting that he could simply shut the door again.

The creepy man named Lee Taemin invites himself in. He saunters casually, ambling the length of the hallway, looking around the room and humming, appraising it, measuring it. Measuring Jonghyun, who is still shocked and unable to react in a way that protects him.

“Wh-what’re you—?!” he begins when some of the shock has worn off.

“You don’t make a lot of money, do you?” Taemin cuts him off. “Why don’t you accept my offer? I’ll pay you plenty. More than you’ve probably ever seen. Then you can move out of this dump.” Even as he says this, he runs an appreciative hand over a row of books. “I can help you realise all your dreams, you know?”

“How did you even find me?!” Jonghyun counters.

“Does it matter?” the other drawls, shaking his head in exasperation. He swings his arms around himself as he walks, and when his palms meet, he lets them clap together. Like he’s out on a relaxing stroll in the park. Everything about the setting is preposterous. “I tracked you down, now I’m here, and I’m giving you a second chance. Isn’t that what’s important?”

He stares, trying to figure out this puzzle of a human being. What is this guy? How is he so at ease right now? What is this game he’s playing and why? Why with Jonghyun, of all people? Does everything out of his mouth sound like that? Like a simple fairy tale? I’ll do this, then you do this, then we’ll live happily ever after. Ridiculous!

He’s only ever seen people like that on dramas. Badly written and poorly acted dramas.

“Please leave,” Jonghyun requests, maintaining a formal tone despite all the peculiarity of the setup. “Or I'll call the police.”

Taemin clicks his tongue. “Not until you answer me.”

“Sir, I can’t be bought for no reason.”

“But I’m giving you a reason,” Taemin points out as if the concept is too difficult for Jonghyun to understand. Which it is. “I pay you, you write for me. I like what you write, I pay you to do more. It’s like…” he gestures, standing in the middle of the room, his stance oddly graceful and formidable at the same time. “Like when a king enjoyed an artist of his court and promised his patronage,” he illustrates. “That’s what we’ll be like.”

The smile on his face is a perfect representation of a magician’s. Maybe he is something of a trickster, Jonghyun thinks. Maybe he likes to put on a show and confuse people.

“The publication house already pays me,” he informs.

“After you finish the book,” he is challenged. It isn’t a lie, but how does this guy even know?1 “And only proportional to the sales. I’ll pay you regardless. In fact,” Taemin points. “I want you to write these books especially for me. My eyes only.”

So that’s it? Jonghyun wonders. Just a rich kid feeding his own kinks? He scoffs and rakes through his hair, sitting down at his desk to think.

He decides to consider it, because yes, he needs the money. Yes, he wants to stop living in fear of sleeping hungry. Yes, he doesn’t want to be destitute at the age of thirty-one, before he’s even had a real relationship, let alone marry and have kids.

But can he really uphold his end of a deal like that? Can he really write what this guy is expecting him to write?

“I’m not good at… at sexy things,” he finally declares, motioning with his hands as if to show they were empty. “I have to work very hard at it. I can’t do it the way the rest of the authors do, and—” he sighs, remembering the way crazed readers had flocked to everyone else’s tables. Remembering his sales numbers, and the words of the manager of the obscure bookstore as he complained about having to lug all the unsold copies back into storage.

Trash, he’d called them.

“Really, I’m not even sure why you came to me, when someone like… I don’t know. Eonsook? She’s the better choice, clearly.”

Taemin walks closer, his lips pursed like he is thinking of a convincing argument. Maybe he is, from the way his eyes are so focused and bright. There is an unbreakable determination in his every movement. He crouches in front of Jonghyun, sighing as he looks up.

“Your first book,” he begins. “A story about a man with a delusion. That he is in love with a woman. They fight, then they grow close together. And then, the man is cured through therapy. But,” he clicks his fingers. “His delusion has been passed to the woman. Brilliant idea,” he compliments. “Excellent writing. And yeah, sure, the sex stuff left a lot to be desired but…” he shrugs. “I liked the story. I liked that there was more to look forward to than just two people going at it. And you wrote to tell us that story, not to satisfy my needs, I could see that,” he assures. “So why not do more of that?”

Jonghyun gives a soft laugh despite himself. “Because that book sold less than a hundred copies. And the feedback was dismal—”

“Fuck the feedback,” Taemin shakes his head, a frown creasing his features. He looks young; too young to be involved in disreputable matters like this. Or… maybe at the perfect age to waste his time on such prurient endeavours. “Fuck what any of them think. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“And you do?” Jonghyun doesn’t mean to be so standoffish but he cannot help it. Here is a stranger, coming out of nowhere, to validate him and say nice things about his pathetic attempts at writing. Here is someone trying to convince him that sales don’t matter, popularity doesn’t matter, even the adoration of the readers doesn’t matter. Then what does? Jonghyun confronts with a scowl. What does this guy know?

Taemin chuckles. “All I know is this. I like everything you write.”

------

“This world is built on supply and demand,” Taemin explains.

He’s still here, hours later. By Jonghyun’s benevolence, of course. They are sitting on the floor, a laptop with a blank word document between them. The cursor is blinking… blinking incessantly. It taunts with each flicker.

Tell your story, Taemin said to him. Tell your story. Write it all down. Whatever you’re thinking of. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as your put it down in words.

Easy to say. Because try as he might, he doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t even have the shadow of a beginning, forget the middle and the end. There is no story in his mind, no words waiting at his fingertips.

This is a waste of time.

Taemin continues regardless. “The readers of this kind of stuff... their lives are filled with disappointment. With reality. They want the impossible: sultry encounters, beautiful getaways, improbable scenarios. You see?” he signals like his words are shedding light on abstruse philosophical concepts. “They want what they can’t have. And writers like Eonsook understand that. They supply that demand. That's why she’s always making bestsellers.”

Jonghyun considers this for a moment, seeing some truth in those claims. He takes a look around his own apartment, eyes roving over the small desk and small sofa and small kitchen. It is a liveable space, he reckons. It is better than a half-basement, or a slum with toxic asbestos roofing and poor access. But he is aware that in the bigger picture, he is still poor. He is confined. He is restricted. He is at the bottom of a heavy and insurmountable hill.

Disaffection comes easily to people like him. And short of being on the wrong side of the law, there is only one way to be at ease with his circumstances.

To pretend.

“But you? You fuck everything up,” Taemin carries on, amusement in his features. “You take that supply-demand model and turn it on its head. You say, I decide what I'll write. I decide what I produce. This is my art, not my bread. This is more than a paycheck for me. This is more than a popularity contest for me. That's what I see you think, and…” he shakes his head, chuckling as he reclines on his palms. “I gotta say, I find that really ballsy.”

A small balloon of pride inflates Jonghyun’s chest at the words, to his own surprise. He shifts and clears his throat. “Th-that’s all well and fine, but… but it doesn’t help that no one will read my stories.”

“Tell me something,” the other contests. “Why did you start writing in the first place? And—” he holds up a finger between them. “Don’t tell me it’s for the money. You could do anything and earn money. Why this specifically?”

“W-well, because… because what else am I going to do with a major in—?”

“No,” another shake of the head stops him. “No. Don’t answer from up here,” Taemin taps his temple. “This isn’t about rationality. This is about how you feel. About why you feel that way. Give me the answer in here,” he reaches forward and pokes a finger into the centre of Jonghyun’s chest.

He stares at the perfectly shaped fingernail, at the faint pink that dissipates into flesh below the joint. Why does he write? What compels him to scribble on stray pieces of paper? What makes him put his thoughts down on phone notes? What is it that surges in his chest when he’s in the shower, when he’s about to go to sleep, when he’s listening to a beautifully sad song for the first time? What makes him write?

“I… I have a lot to say,” he concludes. It feels like an admission of guilt—freeing. Splitting the restraints he’d been struggling against for… perhaps, years. It is like a large weight has come off his shoulders and now he can stand up straight. Now he can float off the ground. Now he can fly. He sighs and closes his eyes. “I have a lot to say. About… everything. And I—” he shakes his head, looks up from the finger, glances at the blank screen, turns his attention to the face of someone who is listening. Someone who is here and who does not appear to be in any hurry to leave.

“I really want someone to listen.”

With a pleased smirk, Taemin tilts his head and nods. “So start talking.”

------

He wonders what sounds he would hear, if he were up on the moon.

Would he hear the distant roll of waves? The rushing and ebbing of tides, their froth effervescent in the shell of his ears, their folding and retreating as sharp as the feeling of sand between his toes. Would he hear the occasional beep of a passing space shuttle? Would he see the face of another human in the window of the craft as it zooms past, their hands mirroring a wave and their faces reflecting each other's smiles?

What would he hear in that vacuum?

Would he hear the patter of his heartbeat, like water dribbling off a tin roof to roll along the eaves and fall against leaves, touch the ground, seep into the earth and become lost? Would he hear it speeding and softening like the tides, waxing and waning like the moon, repeating itself over and over, spinning like the earth does, like the stars do, like this universe does? Or would he feel an urgency in his lungs, the frenzy to drink in as much breath as he could, to gather as much oxygen in each inhale and retain it until his sight shook and his hearing went dissonant and he realised that he could hear nothing on the moon?

Nothing?

Maybe it would be hope. Maybe he would hear the sound of unfiltered sunlight hitting his skin. Maybe he would hear the whisper of a solar wind playing with his hair. Maybe he would hear his smile, his happiness, his joy even in solitude like that. Maybe he would hear something like that. Maybe it would be melodious to his ears, maybe he would dance to it, on the ashen rigoleth, the dead and cracked surface of the moon. Maybe he would float from crater to crater and find himself repeating circles, large ellipses that never ended. No beginning and no end. Maybe he would hear the most perfect sounds that ever existed. Maybe he would hear the sonorous representation of heaven.

Maybe the moon is full of music.

------

Jonghyun stretches his arms and arches his back, rolling his neck tiredly. The light outside his windows has dimmed by a large degree. The sun has gone down hours ago, without his noticing. He blinks and feels around himself to reach for a light switch. An afterimage of the laptop screen remains in his vision for a while as he stands on complaining legs and ankles. A grumble in his stomach alerts him of the time. Dinner time.

“Taemin ssi…?” he calls out, rubbing his eyes. “Taemin—”

It takes him a moment to realise he is alone. “Eh?” he scratches his cheek, trying to recall the sound of the door opening and shutting. He can’t tell how long it has been since the other left. There are no traces of his visit, no discarded teacups, no dirty plates with crumbs, nothing. He checks the bedroom, the bathroom, just to be sure. But it’s true: he has been a bad host.

Jonghyun really has been doing nothing but writing.

Searching for his phone to type out an apology, he realises belatedly that he doesn’t have a contact saved under “Lee Taemin.” With a repentant pout, he hums to himself. Next time, he promises himself. I’ll make it up to him next time.

When he’s settled down in front of his laptop again, this time with a steaming bowl of kal-guksu, he makes a choked sound at how much he has typed. Scrolling through page upon page of a very coherent-looking storyline, a reverberating surprise runs its course through him. Did he really do all this? Was that guy really serious about all that stuff? Has his inspiration finally returned to him, after all this time, all these years?

A muse… he feels the hint of a smile playing under his cheeks. He has a muse.

“That… isn’t that something imaginary?” Minho asks him when he excitedly gushes about the encounter. “Like, something that old men used to think up so they could make paintings and all that?”

“You’re just looking for an excuse to call me old,” Jonghyun dismisses. They’re lying on Minho’s carpet, listening to music. The sun is streaming through tall slider doors, and the usual sound of traffic is absent on a Sunday morning like this. Even the shadows look blue, their hue fluid and sparkling like light bouncing off of water. He feels calm, he feels like he is cradled in a hammock. As they relax side-by-side and read off their phones, there is a plot swirling in the back of Jonghyun’s mind. It buzzes and stirs, waiting to break out and lay itself down in orderly lines and sentences. He nurses it, pets its back, scratches it between its ears. He gives it a name.

But it can wait.

“Look at this,” he scrolls through a namuwiki article on the Muses, holding it out for the other to see. “It says this famous novelist from America calls his bowling trophy a muse. Wah…! He’s written so many famous books!”

“He’s old, too,” Minho snorts before he’s swatted at by an annoyed Jonghyun. “OK, OK!” he defends. “OK. I get it. You have a muse. So, is she hot?” he grins and rolls onto his elbows, a happy glimmer in his large eyes. “Does she pose for you? Do you get to take her on dates? How does it work?”

“It’s a guy,” Jonghyun frowns.

“Really?” Minho hums, the slightest disenchantment pulling at his lips. “But it says here that muses are supposed to be beautiful women. Look,” he wrests the phone away from his friend and goes to the image section of the article.

His point is proven by several old and colourful depictions of elegantly posed women, loose garments draped over their voluptuous fronts. There is no hint of an awkward lanky male form in dark and brooding clothes that blend him into his bleak surroundings. The women’s expressions are calm and filled with wisdom, unlike Taemin’s youthful fervour. The only feature that is barely reminiscent of the young man are the dark, mystical eyes.

Something inside Jonghyun grows uneasy.

“I mean…” he shrugs, hoping to give an explanation. He doesn’t have one, not at that moment. He doesn’t know how to defend his experience. All he knows is a name, some very sound advice, and the promise of money… money he hasn’t yet received, mind. He realises he is dealing with a stranger, after all. That if he isn’t careful, his prefatory suspicions of Taemin being a dangerous guy might still come true.

“Look, why don’t I introduce the two of you when he visits again?” he offers as justification, trying to push the issue aside. “You’ll like him, he’s got an... entertaining sort of personality, you’ll see—”

“I have a better idea,” Minho rejects the response. “Why don’t you just let me read one of your books, eh? I searched for your name and nothing comes up, you know? Are you really getting published at all? Or are they just taking you for a ride and stealing your work—?”

“Let’s just,” Jonghyun holds his hands up between them. He feels alarmed at the turn their conversation has taken. “Look. Let’s talk about this later, OK?”

“Hyung…” Minho makes an exasperated face, but he’s a good friend. His words are rooted in concern. He slowly settles back onto the floor, giving up on his argument, intertwining their legs. The soothing sounds from his music system take over once again.

What remains is Jonghyun’s fear of losing a dear friend.

------

“Who are you, really?” he shoots his misgivings the first chance he gets.

It has been many weeks since their last meeting. He has been progressively furthering the new book, or whatever it turns out to be in the end. What first sat as an idea in his scribbled notes has grown tall and strong. He now has chapters, and multiple plotlines that diverge from and converge on each other. He has dialogues, he has beats, he has imagery, he has descriptions. He has woven all the ends to make one whole, one complete mass, one continuous flow. Things are coming together, and Jonghyun is amazed at his own progress.

But his gratitude doesn’t dilute his distrust.

As soon as he barges into the apartment, Taemin demands to read through whatever there is so far. For a long time, he sits reposed on the sofa: silent for once, interest wavering only when he is addressed.

“Huh?”

“Are you just some rich chaebol kid looking to spend his dad’s money? Is this… just fun for you?” Jonghyun expounds on the interrogation. There is some insecurity in his tone, some residual lack of confidence from previous encounters that have left him wounded. Even he can tell. But he continues, unabashed in his self-preservation. “All this… this muse stuff. What’s in it for you?”

“I told you,” Taemin offers an apathetic shrug. “I like your writing.”

“I thought you like books with lots of sex,” Jonghyun frowns and counters, pointing at the tablet in the other’s hold. “I don’t have any of that in there.”

“Are you planning on keeping it that way?”

“Well, I wasn’t really going to, but—wait, no, listen to me,” he is nearly distracted, and the momentary look of triumph on Taemin’s face leaves him flustered. “I need to know who you are. I need to know why you’re doing this, and I need to know now,” he places his ultimatum. “Or I’m not writing another word.”

Taemin sits up and releases a slow exhale. His gaze is amused. It roves over his host, appraising him like a teacher would a child on his first day of school.

“What if I don’t tell you?” he posits. It’s not a challenge. His tone is chatty, conversational. As if he’s asking, what if cars could fly. He leans forward and smiles that magician smile again. “What will it change, if you know? Is it going to fix your life? Is it going to rid you of all your problems? Is the world going to make sense?” he motions with his hands. “Of course not. So why do you want to know?”

“Because—!” Jonghyun wants to say it will sate his curiosity, but he can’t admit that. Something about that feels like a confession. He can’t speak his mind like that.

“Look, I like that you’re curious,” Taemin reads his mind anyway, still smiling. “I like that you want to learn about things you don’t understand. I think that’s important for a writer. But I think what’s more important is figuring out what the real question is.”

He blinks with confusion. “The real question…?” he shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re writing this thing,” the other waves the tablet. “And you’ve advanced really far into the storyline. Things are getting exciting, characters are finally starting to become full people I can be invested in. I can’t put this book down even if the house was burning,” he compliments. “But there’s something missing. And I can’t tell what it is, except that it exists. In there,” another poke into Jonghyun’s ribcage. “Maybe the question you should be asking then, is what is missing? What else do you need? What else is there for you to find?”

A clearing of the throat, a shift of the seat. Jonghyun won’t acknowledge it, but the words resonate with him.

Missing. Something is missing. Something needs to be found. Something is waiting to be discovered. Something that he requires to complete this story… or maybe complete himself. Something that once sat in an empty slot in his chest must be recovered. He doesn’t mean for the thought to be so profound. But it is that very same profoundness that makes him believe it’s probably true. Something is missing inside him. Something is missing from his life. Something is missing from his world. And he needs to find it.

“Will you help me look?” he entreats his muse.

A magnanimous stretch of the arms replies. “It’s what I’m here for,” Taemin grins and falls back onto the cushions, continuing to read.

------

They stand outside the apartment block and Jonghyun is still not sure about this.

“Look, I really don’t think—” he starts to beseech, but Taemin silences him with a wave of his hand. He clicks on one of the call buttons and a ring starts to go, only raising the panic in Jonghyun’s gut.

“Just meet with her,” the other persuades, rational as always.

When someone answers on the other side of the line, it’s as if his entire body freezes until he is nudged. “U-uhh… yes. M-my name is uh… I mean. That is—”

“Is this a prank call?” the woman asks with anger in her voice.

Another nudge shakes his senses up. “N-no…!” Jonghyun insists. “Uhm, we—you and I. We work for the same company. M-miss Eonsook.”

A long pause. Some rustling of cloth. Some whispered conversation in the background. Then the woman’s voice returns. “OK, come on up,” she finally acquiesces before a loud buzz swings the front door open.

“Go!” Taemin hisses at him, grinning wide under the dark sunglasses that have become his signature.

The building isn’t much different from Jonghyun’s own apartment block, but there is something lighter about everything. It feels… nicer. There are planters with pretty flowers along the corridor. The lifts are clean and fully functional. The walls are devoid of posters and advertisements. TV sets can be heard outside some of the doors, as can the whistle of pressure cookers and the nagging of mothers. The atmosphere is homely, welcoming. He doesn’t feel like he’s intruding on anything, so he continues to walk in confidently.

He reads the numbers on each unit as he passes by, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings and wishing Taemin were accompanying him.

When he’s at the door he was looking for, he rings the bell and waits.

The woman who answers him is somewhat recognizable. He remembers seeing the straight jet-black hair, the round jaw, the parrot-hooked nose, the no-nonsense stare. Even if he has never before glimpsed her puffy lips or heard her soft voice, he remembers her from the fan-meeting—and possibly from other occasions, when they bumped into each other at the publication office.

Nobody can tell she is one of the most popular writers in the country.

“Ah, hello,” he bows low and his sunglasses slip off his face to clatter to the ground. He scrambles to put them back on, but simply pockets the disguise when he notices the turn in her mouth. “M-my name is—”

“You must be the person who writes as Grapefruit,” she guesses correctly. Her diction holds a soft lisp. Barely there, unlike Minho’s often baby-like pronunciations. He blushes and nods at the floor in response to the question.

“Come in,” she invites him, the grille door swinging outwards.

Other than the ordinary-looking furnishings, her home is full of photos. As he pulls the surgical mask to his chin and wanders through the apartment, Jonghyun cannot help but study them all, turn by careful turn. All over the walls she has displayed pictures of herself, her family, her friends, and another woman. A sister, he guesses at first, before correcting himself when his eyes go to a shockingly intimate polaroid.

He doesn’t realize he is staring until he hears his host pointedly clear her throat.

“Some juice?” Eonsook offers the glass on a tray. He accepts and stands awkwardly for a few minutes, shifting from foot to foot.

“Y-you have a very nice place—” he begins.

“So,” Eonsook cuts him off, showing him a seat. “How can I help?”

“H-help?” he blinks, his thoughts clouded.

She raises her eyebrows, wets her lips, digs her teeth into the lower one. “It’s a polite way of asking why you’re here,” she clarifies. He can tell there is laughter waiting to bounce out of her throat. In everything she does, there is an underlying strain of confidence. She exudes it in waves that come off her and lap at his own chest, nearly pushing him back with their force.

“R-right! Yes, of course,” he jumbles with the glass in his hold, looking around for a moment before accepting the proffered seat. “I—I came to ask you for… for advice.”

She follows his example and sinks into an armchair, crossing her legs and watching him for a moment. A long and entertained moment. “Oh?”

“Y-yes…” he insists. “You see. I’m—I’m currently working on this book, and. And I’m at this part that I need to research before I write it. So…”

“What kind of part?” her interest is immediate.

He tries to think of a way to describe it, nervously scratching the back of his neck and fumbling with the collar of his tee shirt. He feels unreasonably nervous, cognizant of the sweat beginning to stream down his back. “W-well…” he tries.

“Is it a sexy part?” she asks.

“N-not really.”

“Hmm, I guessed as much,” she leans back into her chair. “I’ve read your work. You’re not much of an erotic writer, are you, Grapefruit ssi?” she sums him up with narrowed eyes. And yet, there isn’t any sign of malice in her observation. He glance is approving, in fact. Admiring. “Your stories are very different. Emotional. They’re for a very… cerebral audience. Is that always your intent?” she asks with some fascination in her gaze.

He blinks up at the ceiling, thinking of a genuine answer, not wanting to disappoint her for some nameless reason.

“No,” he concedes after a while. “I think it’s just… because of the kind of person I am. I think it requires me falling in love first before… before my characters fall in love.” He runs a finger over the rim of his condensate-covered glass, nodding contemplatively for a moment. “W-what about you?” he asks. “What is your intent? When you write, I mean.”

She hums, crossing her arms across her front. “Intent…” she hisses a breath in. “There doesn’t always have to be one, you know?” she says conversationally. “Like you said, we can feel very strongly about something, and then write about it. Tell a story around it. I think that’s possible,” she accepts. And when she smiles, he feels an odd sense of solidarity with her.

“What… what does Eonsook ssi feel strongly about?”

The woman smirks. “You were staring at her just now,” comes the simply reply. Accompanying it is the smooth motion of a hand coming up to support her chin, a ring glinting on its third finger.

Jonghyun bumbles an apology.

“There is nothing else I feel as strongly about,” she reveals. “There is no one I love as much, no one I care about as much, no one who matters to me as much. And so,” she holds out a hand between them. “I write about her. About us. I suppose…” she finishes with a grin, a clever gleam nestled in her eyes. “I suppose you can say she’s my muse.”

“A muse…!” Jonghyun’s heart runs on a treadmill at the words. “Do you think…” he begins, shifting forward in his seat. She mirrors the movement. “Do you think you could teach me? How you find the courage to tell your stories?” he requests.

“Courage?” Eonsook chuckles. “It doesn’t take courage to make people happy, Grapefruit ssi,” she shakes her head. “Because that is what we do. We ultimately make people happy with our work. They read it, they smile, they feel good. Maybe they forget about it after some time. Maybe some of it stays with them for years. Who knows?” she shrugs. “As long as we get them to smile.”

He feels awe at that. “As long as they smile…” he nods again, this time in understanding.

------

With every jump of his hips, he is filled with a murder of crows that flutter to the far edges of his body—to the villages settled in his fingertips and the townships developed in his toenails. With every jump of his hips the leaves inside him quiver from the force, as birds take to the skies between his stomach and lungs.

When they travel, when they journey through him, his sighs tell the tale of that journey. They sing like bards, reciting how the crows travel carrying messages tied to their feet. The sighs paint pictures of beaks pecking at his outer edges, his boundaries, his geographical territories. With every jump of his hips he is breaking those boundaries, violating the treaties that hold those borders sacred. With every jump, he is less self-contained, less of an uncontested dominion.

He secedes. He surrenders his independence. He lets himself be taken captive by the thrum of the man below him. Inside him.

With every jump of his hips, he abdicates the throne of his identity. He makes the other king. Gives his crown to another head. And the crows carry news of this shift in power to all the lands that were once under his reign. They carry the news, propelled by the sighs, released at every breath, every hitch, every gasp. Every jump.

In his own kingdom, he is now a pauper.

To have meaning, to be defined by a name and description—all this no longer applies to him. The other man has changed his definition. The other man has made him… not him. But if he is not himself, who is he? If he is not who he was born as, if he is no longer the man he introduced himself as, who is he? What is his name, now? What can he call himself? How will he present himself to strangers, if he is a stranger to his own self? If he looked himself up online, what would the results be? Would they just become strange unreadable symbols?

If he is not himself, then he does not exist: or, at least… this is what he has always thought to be true.

But now his hips jump, and his voice breaks, and he calls out a name that doesn’t belong to him. With every jump, he becomes a blurry existence.

------

They grow close, Eonsook and Jonghyun. They become friends.

She talks to him often, sometimes on the phone, other times over dinner. On a second visit to her apartment, he learns the other woman from the photos is Gwiboon, who talks a mile a minute and laughs like an erupting volcano. The two of them accept Jonghyun like he has always belonged in their life, always had a place in their home and their hearts. They are kind to him. They are kinder than most others have been.

Perhaps because there is nothing to hide from them. He doesn't have to lie about what he does for a living, doesn't have to make up stories about how he spends his free time. He doesn't have to shut his doors and draw his curtains with them. There is nothing to be ashamed of, in their company.

It's freeing.

Jonghyun continues to write, faster and longer than ever before. He writes like he breathes. He enjoys how uninhibited it makes him feel. He finds himself feeling more and more confident about this story, even going back to the rejected manuscript and making edits with a red marker. He meets Taemin at a café and spends most of the time scribbling in a notepad as they hide from other patrons in a corner booth.

With every page he writes, a mass of pride grows in his ribcage.

“So, what now?” Taemin asks him one afternoon, having finished the latest draft and giving it his seal of approval. “Where does the story go from here?”

“Hmm...” Jonghyun nurses a cup of coffee. It is early in the morning. He has been organising his books and wardrobe and even his thoughts while the other read. He has been carefully making his way through all that needs to be settled—in his writing and outside it.

“I could write some more about the way the characters feel. You know, build more plot buffer. Or,” he gives half a shrug. “I could. Resolve it in a certain way.”

“A certain way,” Taemin raises an eyebrow. “What way?”

“Well. They could. I don't know. Fall in love, and—” the other is vehemently shaking his head before Jonghyun even finishes his sentence. “What? Why not?!”

“Too forced,” Taemin disapproves. “It would just be pandering to your readers, when the story doesn’t naturally flow that way. Consider everything that’s happened. There is no justification for them falling in love. All they've done is meet a few times and exchange... banter.”

“Sometimes that's enough!” Jonghyun defends, then softens. “Is... is it not?”

“You tell me.”

“No, you tell me!” Jonghyun insists. “Is it not enough for them to know each other? To enjoy the company? To... to feel comfortable with each other? That should be enough sometimes, right? Wouldn't that be enough for you?”

“Is that the real question—?”

“Yes! Yes, it is!” Jonghyun shouts, and as he does, he is painfully aware of the fact that this is not how he had planned for this conversation to ensue. He is conscious of the fact that he has made it a confrontation rather than keeping it within the bounds of an emotional exchange. There is a feeling of being put under an unannounced spotlight, its glare harsh against his face. He breathes hard, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter before him, doubling over in preparation for the rest of his episode.

“Yes, it is,” he repeats in a quieter, gentler tone. When he straightens up, he stares at the other with pleading eyes.

“What am I to you?” he repeats with some desperation.

Taemin looks satisfied at the question, like he has been waiting a long time for it to emerge. He remains relaxed despite the friction, despite the anxiety in his host. He continues to smile like an illusionist, continues to watch like a judge. “Before I answer that,” he begins in a calm, collected voice. “And I will answer it. But before I do, I need to you to tell me first: what am I to you?”

The reaction enrages him. “No,” Jonghyun warns. “No. Enough games. Enough running around in circles. You’re never honest with me. You only talk about this… this shit!” he angrily motions at the tablet the other had been reading from. “You can’t avoid this anymore. You have to answer me now.” He holds a hand up between them and counts. “Who are you? Why are you helping me? What do I mean to you?”

“Hmm,” Taemin rocks back and forth. “You really want me to tell you?”

Jonghyun makes wide, aggravated motions. “Who else will—?!”

“You want me,” Taemin clarifies. “To tell you. Who I am,” he raises his eyebrows. “You really don’t know? Have you really not known? All this time?”

“That’s why I’m asking—!”

“No, you’re not,” the protest is cut off. “You’re asking because other people are asking: what does he do in there all day, who is he with, who is this muse he’s talking about all of a sudden. You’re asking because you need to give them an answer. An answer that isn’t really the answer,” the corner of Taemin’s lip turns up. “Isn’t it?”

“Wh-what…?” Jonghyun shakes his head, the hair on his arms standing on end.

Taemin skips off his stool, meanders around the counter, advances on him.

Jonghyun’s breath sounds like an elasticized gong. His inhales are like rubber bands, stretching on for hours and hours. He is buzzing, like he sits inside something alive. Inside a heart and the lights decorating Namdaemun at night are made of lamps that glow soft and warm as if someone is holding him in an embrace and showering him with solace while their eyes are speaking to him in a different tongue in a speech of a foreign land where jinn live and grant wishes and there is nothing to see for miles except murders of crows carrying messages on their feet telling the world that the empire has fallen the world is coming to an end and the—

------

Mapo bridge.

It talks to him. It asks how he is, if he’s eaten yet. It tells him to turn his head up and look at the blue sky once. It tells him it loves him. It tells him that the brightest moments in his life are yet to come.

Jonghyun cries hard enough that his body shakes from the force. Minho stands very close, looking worried and reaching out for a hug. But he is told to wait. Not yet. He is told to wait, Jonghyun will need him soon.

Words are everything he is. Words are his life and soul. His bone and sinew. His drifting days and sleepless nights. Words have created him, penned him down—not the other way around. They have built him up, bound his loose pages and given him a spine. They have made him Kim Jonghyun. They have made him a writer, a poet, an artist. They have made him what he is. And he would never have realised this, were it not for Taemin.

Were it not for himself.

“I write for myself,” he claims to the sad and bloated waters of the Han, knowing the other is listening. Somewhere. From within the crevasses of his mind, Taemin is listening. “I write for myself.” It is a heavy claim to make. It is heavy as lead. It is tied to Jonghyun's feet as he trains to run his ink across a coastline. The claim is heavy enough to need lugging around on his hipbone. It is heavy, it is full. Like an earthen pot spilling its contents.

His face is drenched when he speaks those hefty words, when he acknowledges them. He sobs and his fingers tighten on the rails of the bridge, the place he would often visit when he felt sad and alone. But he isn’t alone. Minho is here for him. Eonsook and Gwiboon wait in a car nearby. And Taemin.

Taemin exists in the beats of his pulse.

Behind him, traffic swishes past. In front of him, the river hushes his crying. “I write for myself,” he lets go of the full pot and watches it splash, watches its shards rock a little on the ground, after they've separated from the whole.

많이 힘들었구나

He touches the words of the bridge and nearly answers out loud. He nearly says yes. Yes. It was tiring. It was terrifyingly easy to give up on my dreams. He rocks a little in place and finally Minho gathers him into a tight hold, stroking circles on his back.

It was awful, Jonghyun wants to say. But I found him. I found myself. I found contentment. I found it. And now I can walk away from you saying yes. Yes, it was tiring. It was hard. But now my breath comes easily. My heart beats easily. My life runs easily. I am alive. I am free. I am happy.

I love myself.

#jongtae #long fic #shinee

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starlightsruby · 5 years

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MASTERPOST OF FUSIONS (PART 1)

Ohh my god so yesterday I went on a drawing spree to not only do full body designs (and some edits) to fusions ive already created, but also managed to make three new ones! I’ll be making more fusions in the future for sure but for now i thought id post all the ones i have with a lil description for all of them in order under the post:

Taglist: @notveryglittery @quantumducky @ajdraws0430 @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 @spacedouterri @warnadudenexttime @sanders-sides-rebloger@emospacegeekvirgil @colorfulcollectordragon-2f8ee55c @theultimatemomfriend(message me if you wanna be apart of the list)

Logill (logan/virgil)- Logill is sorta the frantically nervous type who will check his car 10 times over because oh my god the statistics of me leaving something in that car is way too high- With Virgil’s frantic energy and Logan’s expansive knowledge on everything he tends to be someone who walks (if not hugs) the safe side. He also acts as a mum friend in the kind thats like please wrap up when you go out because the temperature could very well go to- (and proceeds to then pull up a weather report telling you what time it will get cold ect) if hes not a worry wart hes sassy and snarky as hell. Likes to be called Gill.

Detcon (deceit/patton) stealing this from the original post here- I went with the idea that since patton hides his sadness with jokes and smiles, then this fusion is basically the idea of lying to yourself that nothing is wrong and blocking out the world to live in your own fantasy. The two pupils means that both sides are always aware of whats going on, which ever however is the bigger one is the one your talking to/is in control. the sleeves are now arms and can speak, they act as deceits way of making sure that all that Patton hears is nothing but positive words and will even cover his ears to censor anything that decit doesn’t want Patton to hear. While patton might be the one your always talking to upfront, decit is ALWAYS monitoring what your saying to him and when he needs to step in.

Rotom (roman/patton) yes i did base their names off the legendary pokemon rotom, i couldn't pass the joke afnbkjasfn. Rotom is a very energetic fellow, loves to give people bear crushing hugs and in a good summary is the one who screams parkour and jumps from a table onto the sofa crashing into everything. He is so bubbly and excited and is eager to do any challenge. He’s also super compassionate and loves to show affection to others making sure they’re always ok- even if he gives them a heart attack by backflipping off of something dangerous-

Rocetton (roman/deceit/patton) this chaotic fusion hoof. they are sort of simular to detcon with the idea of protecting themselves but sort of the idea with them is, instead of taking something by force because they need it to survive or to keep safe, they just do it because they can. The thing with Rocetton that makes them so chaotic is that you have two sides who are clearly impulsive and the only one who is the ‘sane man’ of the trio reallllly has some backward morals. So you’re going to get quite a handful of this fusion. They might be happy and all expressive but they will get m a d if you do anything to stop their fun. They fuse mainly for themselves as a comfort and while for them they feel safe and looked after for, for everyone else its a real struggle to keep on par with them.

Virton (virgil/patton) this cutie is someone who keeps to himself and bundles himself in blankets to feel safe. While they speak softly and politely to everyone around them, the monster mouth on their neck is the one that is more cautious of strangers and will respond negatively. Virton takes a while to trust people but when he does he will cling to you like a koala and love you to peices.

Virmon (roman/virgil) copying again from the original post- Virmon is a fusion between roman and virgil but with virgils personality being more dominant out of the two. Mainly inspired by ouran host club with the whole ‘lonely prince’ act tamaki had to do.Virmon is still a dramatic boi but a bit more guarded, He has a presence to him that screams i am in control dont mess with me. However if he gets close to someone he shows his more bratty/i need attention side (virmon: i-its not because i want your attention baka *kicks leggy up in the air) He doesnt like being around too many people but is a great actor so you’ll never see his nervousness. Also he has two hands on both wrists, most of the time the two hands are always entwined as both roman and virgil use it as a comfort that the other one is there.

Creviet (roman/deceit) OHO this boi is also a handful, but more that creveit acts like a child, he loves to have the attention on him. He loves to dress up and put on a show for others, he also loves to show his affection to others like rotom (especially to patton) the cutie has self esteem issues however and can feel nervous if people are bored of him or dont want to be around him. He can sulk and throw fits at times but he generally means well and just wants to be loved. Also he’s got so much energy in him that everyone else tire out trying to keep up with his pace. He can be a bit bratty at times and be too much but a kiss to the cheek or a pat to the head can calm him down, even if for a few seconds before jumping back up like nothing happened.

#Drawings #Sanders sides #Sanders sides fusions #fusion #logill #detcon #rotom #rocetton #viruses #virmon #creveit #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #deceit sanders #body horror #i had so much fun drawing these #fusions masterpost

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elleberquist6 · 6 years

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Play Upon Me Like This Piano - chapter eighteen

Summary: In many ways, Phil’s life is perfect: he loves his life in London, he has a wonderful brother and parents, and he has a great job as a radio DJ for BBC Radio One. There’s only one thing missing in his life… A rumor reaches an executive at the BBC about a talented local piano player named Daniel. The executive decides that Daniel would be the perfect guest on Phil’s radio show, so she sends Phil to speak with the evasive and mysterious piano player.

When they finally meet, Phil starts to think that he has found the person who will make his life complete. Unfortunately, Dan has a secret that will make getting close to him difficult.

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 1691

Warnings: Smut

—

Siren fact: Competition with the Muses: After some time, Hera came to visit the Sirens on their lonely island. She had heard praise for their songs, full of beauty and anguish, and she was not disappointed by the live performance! So the goddess decided to give the girls a challenge. She invited them to enter a singing contest against the nine muses. After consulting together, the Sirens agreed to enter the contest. Of course, they had heard of the Muses’ legendary music, but they also knew that the power of their own songs.

The competition produced some of the most haunting music that the Greeks had ever heard, with the Sirens pouring all of their arresting heartache into their music. Still, the Muses—goddesses of music, where the Sirens were mere mortals—won the competition. To celebrate, they plucked out the Sirens’ feathers and made crowns for themselves. The Sirens returned to their island in humiliation. [https://mythology.net/greek/greek-creatures/siren/]

By the time Dan finished his coffee, the pain killers had kicked in and he felt more like himself. After putting the empty mug in the sink, he walked to the bathroom to see if Phil had an unopened toothbrush he could use. He found one in a linen closet with the towels and tore open the package. When he was spitting foamy toothpaste into the sink, he heard Phil’s alarm clock going off in the next room. As he rinsed his mouth, the alarm stopped making noise and he knew that Phil must be awake.

Dan looked at his reflection in the mirror. There was a smile on his face, put there at just the thought of seeing Phil. Dan hastily combed his fingers through his tangled fringe, wanting to look good when Phil saw him this morning, but his fingers got caught in the dried blood he hadn’t realized was clumping his curls. He winced and the motion tugged at his sore scalp as he extracted his fingers from the knots.

Sighing, Dan gave up on the idea of looking good. It’s not as if fixing his hair would improve his looks much, since his forehead under the curls was black and blue around the cut. Really though, Phil had seen him at his worst last night. Hopefully the morning after wouldn’t come as a shock. Dan was startled from his thought when the bathroom door was flung open. Phil stood in the doorway, gaping at Dan for a moment before sucking in a shuddering breath. He had a funny look on his face as he continued to stare.

Dan asked, “What is it?”

“I didn’t know where you were.” Phil swallowed heavily before continuing, “I woke up, and you weren’t there. I didn’t know what had happened to you.”

“Oh, Phil, I’m fine.” He stepped closer to give Phil a hug, but Phil leaned in for a kiss instead.

Phil’s lips were warm and soft, and the kiss was gentle. When Phil leaned pulled back from the kiss, his eyes roved over Dan’s face. Dan was watching Phil carefully too, seeing how he had relaxed a bit but still looked worried. He lifted a hand like he wanted to touch Dan’s face, yet didn’t want to hurt him and his eyes lingered on the bruise. Phil asked, “How do you feel?”

Dan shrugged. “I woke up with a headache, but it went away after I took some pills and had some coffee. I feel okay.”

Phil bit his bottom lip. “Maybe I should call out from work? I’m supposed to leave soon, but I can…”

Dan smiled and shook his head. “Go to work. I’ll be fine. I’ll probably just take a nap, and when you get home…” Dan’s eyes widened as he realized he had made an assumption. Would Phil feel comfortable leaving Dan here in his home? This was only the first time Dan had spent the night here, so maybe not. If he couldn’t stay here, where would he go? Not to his own apartment, where the psycho might be waiting. Nowhere else seemed safe. Tentatively, Dan asked, “Is it okay if I stay?”

Phil leaned in to place a kiss very softly on Dan’s cheek. Then he said, “Of course. You can stay as long as you like. And it would make me happy to thing that you’ll be here when I get home from work.”

“I’ll be here,” Dan said with a smile.

After Phil went to work, Dan knew what he wanted to do – he located Phil’s game console in the living room and started playing Mario Kart. Whenever he felt frustrated, nothing helped him to relax more than kicking the asses of random strangers online on Mario Kart. As he joined an online race, Dan smiled. He was picturing the possibility that perhaps he and Phil had unknowingly crossed paths in this way before. Or they may have even been nearer than they thought before, since they both lived in London.

That’s not to say that they met before – Dan felt sure that if he had seen Phil he would remember him – but he liked the idea of them both moving around the city, perhaps standing in the same line at Starbucks, or sitting a row apart in the movie theater, or just randomly walking down the street. As they unknowingly passed nearer and nearer to each other, they moved like ships in the sea being pulled by the current until they finally came to this common destination. The thought warmed Dan’s heart. It felt like fate.

Dan’s phone rung, startling him from his thoughts. The game was on the menu screen, so he just muted it before answering his phone. He hadn’t bothered to check the caller ID, and his heart pounded as he realized it might be the police calling to tell him that they had caught the man who tried to kidnap him. In a breathy voice, Dan asked, “Hello? Who’s calling?”

“Dan! It’s me, Robert.”

“Robert?” Dan’s voice rose in surprise. While he had been forced to see Robert at the bar where they worked, they hadn’t spoken a word to each other since the day Robert accused him of not caring about music and Dan had flipped him off. Unsure why he was calling, Dan asked, “Do you need something?”

“Just calling to check up on you, man. The police knocked on my door this morning to ask me if I saw anything suspicious last night. They told me that someone attacked you! Are you okay?”

“Oh…” Dan’s eyes got a bit misty as Robert’s concern touched him. “I’m going to be alright. Thanks for asking.”

“I am so sorry. I wish I hadn’t let you go outside alone. I could have left the bar with you when you walked home. If I had, then you would have been safe.” Dan started to make a sound of protest because that was ridiculous, but Robert talked over him, “And the worst part was that I saw that bastard! I noticed him staring at the door when you went in the back. He was obviously waiting for you and it was suspicious, but I didn’t do anything! Dan, I’m so sorry. Don’t worry, I gave the police a good description – they’re going to catch this guy.”

“Thanks, Robert. And please don’t blame yourself. None of this was your fault.” Dan bit his lip as he thought about what he’d said to the doctor and Phil at the hospital, as he blamed himself for his attacker’s insanity. Phil had been horrified as he said, Don’t you dare think like that. Not for one second. You’re perfect and you’ve done nothing to deserve being treated like this. As he listened to Robert irrationally blame himself, Dan had to wonder if he had sounded the same way. Did that mean that Dan was wrong to blame himself and Phil was right? Was none of this his fault either?

“I’m just glad to hear you’re okay,” Robert said. “You’re not in the hospital? Are you recovering at home?”

“Oh, I’m at Phil’s actually.”

“Phil… wait, the BBC guy?” Robert laughed in surprise. “How did that happen? The last time I spoke to him he said you didn’t like him.”

“Yeah, the BBC guy,” Dan said, and he chewed on his lip as he thought about what he might have done to make Phil think that. Well, the answer to that question was obvious. He told Robert, “I was being an idiot. I realized that after I got to know Phil a bit better recently.”

“He’s seemed like a nice guy whenever we’ve spoken.” There was a pause in the conversation.

Dan could tell that Robert wanted to ask if he and Phil were just friends or more, but he didn’t want to be rude. Appreciating that Robert wasn’t being nosy, Dan offered, “Yeah, Phil’s a really nice guy. The nicest guy I’ve been with in… well, my whole life. He’s great.”

“That’s awesome,” Robert said with an audible smile. “He sounds like just the sort of person you need in your life right now. I’m glad you’ve got someone like him around, taking care of you.”

“I’m glad, too,” Dan said, thinking about how amazing Phil had been.

There was a pause before Robert said, “Listen, I’ve got to go. But give me a call if you hear from the police please? I want to know the second they catch this bastard. If it seems like they’re not giving your case the attention it deserves, they’re going to get a complaint from me.”

“I’ll call you,” Dan assured him. “And I’ll see you the next time I come to work. Bye!”

As Dan hung up the phone, his stomach squirmed at the thought of going back to work. He couldn’t go back until this kidnapper was caught. He couldn’t even go home. He didn’t feel safe and the only thing grounding him right now was Phil.

Thinking of the note on the calendar on Phil’s fridge, Dan resolved to ask him about it when Phil got home. He couldn’t be alone right now.

#phandom #phanfiction #phanfic #dan and phil #dan x phil #merman #siren #mermaid

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d-noona · 6 years

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BODYGUARD MISSION

SUMMARY: Y/N had teased him, insulted him, but still she seemed to be stuck with Park Jimin as her official chaperone. He'd been appointed to look after her during a crucial assignment in Korea, and he refused to leave her sight - day and night. Jimin was taking this bodyguard business far too seriously. Just because Y/N was pretty and petite, that didn't mean she isn't a force to be reckoned with. She would not be seduced by Jimin. At least, that was the idea. Until her twenty-four-hour bodyguard decided the safest place for her was his bed.

WORDS: 1719

Park Jimin x Reader

CHAPTER 02 - Coming Soon!

CHAPTER 01 – THE AIRPORT

“Damn!” Y/N thought angrily, and exclaimed, “But I won’t need an interpreter.”

“Do you speak Korean?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” she said triumphantly. But then she looked into her boss’s skeptical eyes, reluctantly added, “A little.” “How little?” asked her boss. She gave him one of her sudden smiles, her brown eyes lighting with mischief. “Enough to say no if I’m propositioned.” He laughed, wanting to be serious but unable to resist her smile. “But do you speak enough Korean to recognize a proposition if you hear one?”

“One could be deaf and dumb and still recognize that!” He shook his head at her and said, “I know you’re a capable career woman and all the rest of it, but I’m not going to risk letting you go in Korea without someone keeping an eye on you.” Y/N hated the sound of that; she had reasons, important and secret reasons –of her own for going to Korea that had nothing to do with the assignment she’d been given, and to have someone looking over her shoulder would be inconvenient to say the least. But it was important not to jeopardize the trip so, to keep the boss sweet, she smiled and said, “OK, leave it with me. I’ll find someone out there.”

“No need,” he said with a pleased note. “I already know someone based in Seoul. A family friend, I suppose you could call him. His name is Park Jimin and he works for a bank that’s opening up a branch over there. He speaks the language, plus he can communicate in English, and will give you all the help you need. I’ll have him meet you when you arrive.”

“Wonderful.” Y/N enthused, while inwardly cursing, and she determined to get rid of this extremely unwanted man at the first opportunity. She thought the opportunity would present itself at Seoul Airport. Surely in the bustle of a huge international concourse it would be possible to lose herself in the crowd, slip into a taxi and so free herself of her boss’s pal right at the start. There was bustle, all right. There was complete chaos, and that was even before Y/N got through the concourse. Everybody seemed to be flying in to Korea that August day, and they were all herded into a great crowd that gradually developed into long queues of passengers waiting to have their visas and passports checked, the officials’ achingly slow and letting only one person through at a time.

Y/N stood in the queue for over two long hours, weighed down by her expensive camera equipment that she didn’t dare rest on the ground in case it got kicked by people pressing all around her. A large man stood on her foot, and a fat woman with elbows made of steel tried to push in front of her, thinking Y/N a soft touch because she was so petite, but received a blazing look from angry brown eyes that stopped her in her tracks. The only compensation in all this, Y/N decided, was that Park Jimin would certainly have given up on her and gone home long before she got through. Once past this barrier she had to join another queue to change some money into Korean Won, retrieve her suitcase, and wait in yet another line to go through the baggage check, so that it was over three hours before Y/N eventually emerged, tired, hot and thirsty, into the main concourse.

She didn’t even bother to look for some middle age man with a very fed-up expression holding up a board with her name on it, but just headed for the welcome air and a taxi. There were a lot of taxis, all looking equally old and unreliable, but before Y/N could get a hand free to hail one, a modern silver grey Mercedes, large and sleek, pulled up at the curb beside her. A man got out, quite young, tall and lean and with thick dark hair. Y/N gave him a glance, made a mental note that Korean men were much better looking than she’d expected, the dismissed him as she tried to attract the attention of a taxi driver by standing on tiptoe to look over the roof of the Merc and wave.

“Miss L/N?

Y/N blinked, and slowly turned. The man from the Mercedes, in his immaculate dark suit, was looking at her expectantly. She thought of denying her identity but there was no way this man could be a buddy of her boss, who was not only well into his fifties but had the middle-aged belly to go with it. “Yes,” she acknowledged guardedly. He held out a hand. “I’m Park Jimin. Welcome to Korea.”

Slowly, with inner chagrin, she put her hand in his and had it briskly shaken. He was very businesslike, opening the passenger door for her, putting her case and camera equipment in the boot, ignoring the blare of an impatient taxi horn, getting in and driving away, all within a minute. “How did you know it was me?” she asked, looking at the lean planes of his profile with very mixed feelings. “I was given a description –and then there was all the photography stuff.” Fleetingly Y/N wondered how her boss had described her. Short, long black wavy hair, and sexy probably, knowing him. She had been given no description of the man beside her, and as she had no intention of using him hadn’t asked for one. But maybe it would have been helpful to know in advance that Park Jimin was both good looking and judging by his clothes, the Cartier watch on his wrist and the car, he is fairly affluent. His voice, too, was attractive, being smooth and with the unmistakable accent of a good school.

“I thought you’d given up on me after the hold up at the airport” she remarked. “What hold up?” he asked. Y/N gave a small gasp. “I was queuing in there for over three hours! I thought the officials had gone on a work to rule, or something.” Jimin gave her an amused glance. “No, it’s always like that. I didn’t bother to set out until long after your flight was due. Weren’t you warned?”

“No I wasn’t,” she said feelingly. To her annoyance, he laughed. “That sounds like Bang,” he commented naming her boss. “Is he a close friend of your?” she asked curiously. “No, but he knows my parents quite well. They have shared interest in horse racing.” So that explained the age difference, Y/N realized, guessing that Jimin must be in his mid-twenties, a whole generation younger than her boss. He hadn’t asked her where she wanted to be taken to, so she said “I take it were going somewhere particular?”

“To your hotel” says Jimin. “I haven’t chosen one yet,” she pointed out. “I know, so I’ve booked you into The Shilla Hotel. It’s a luxury five star hotel, modernized, and it’s handy for tours in Seoul.” Y/N frowned at Jimin “But I intended to stay at The Riverside Hotel,” Y/N said frostily, annoyed at his high-handedness. To her further annoyance he gave an amused, almost pitying look. “Believe me, you wouldn’t like it there. It’s where all the communist officials from out of town used to stay. And it’s still very basic.”

“Have you ever thought that perhaps I’d prefer to find out for myself?” she told him stiffly. Another amused glance came her way “Ah, you’re into this feminism thing, are you?” Jimin remarked with casual chauvinism. It was the kind of remark that immediately put her back. Y/N thought of telling him exactly what she thought of his attitude, but the shrugged inwardly and let it go; as she intended to ditch him just as soon as possible there seemed no point in setting him straight. But it made her decide at once that he was the sort of man she had absolutely no time for; one who was still trapped in the time-warp of gender stereotyping.

Lord, he probably even thought that the little woman’s place was still tied to the kitchen sink! Giving him a sideways prejudice glance from under her lashes, Y/N momentary thought that it was a pity he wasn’t her type, because she had to admit that his clear cut features under level eyebrows were more than attractive. And he had the kind of tall, broad-shouldered but slim figure that made clothes look good on him, even elegant. When that adjective came to her mind it caught her by surprise; it wasn’t one she often ascribed to a man but it fitted him exactly. However if there was one kind of man she couldn’t stand it was one who was narrow-minded in his attitude towards women. Y/N had come across it too many times in the past. At first she had fought it, but had come to realize that most of the time she was beating her head against a solid concrete wall. The poor creatures had chauvinism ingrained into them from the cradle and nothing she could say or do would change it. So now she employed a more subtle method, and where necessary used the chauvinism for her own ends.

And looking at Park Jimin, she decided to do the same now. To use him until she was ready to ditch him and go off on her own secret quest. Smiling inwardly, she turned to look out the window at this new country she’s read so much about. The road were full of cars that belted out choking exhaust fumes. Her thoughts were cut off when he suddenly heard Jimin speak. “You must be extremely good at your job to be given such responsible assignment,” Jimin commented. Flattery and condescension all in one sentence. It would almost be a pleasure to take him down a peg or two. Y/N thought tartly, and id all she’d had to think about was her assignment she might have taken the time to do so, just for the hell of it. But right now she had other, far more important things on her mind. The streets widened into broad thoroughfares, the buildings became grander, and Y/N gave a gasp of pleasure as she caught a glimpse of the beautiful place.

#park jimin #park jimin x reader #chimchim #mochi #bts #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook

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hydrus · 6 years

Text

Version 324

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I had a great week. The downloader overhaul is almost done.

pixiv

Just as Pixiv recently moved their art pages to a new phone-friendly, dynamically drawn format, they are now moving their regular artist gallery results to the same system. If your username isn't switched over yet, it likely will be in the coming week.

The change breaks our old html parser, so I have written a new downloader and json api parser. The way their internal api works is unusual and over-complicated, so I had to write a couple of small new tools to get it to work. However, it does seem to work again.

All of your subscriptions and downloaders will try to switch over to the new downloader automatically, but some might not handle it quite right, in which case you will have to go into edit subscriptions and update their gallery manually. You'll get a popup on updating to remind you of this, and if any don't line up right automatically, the subs will notify you when they next run. The api gives all content--illustrations, manga, ugoira, everything--so there unfortunately isn't a simple way to refine to just one content type as we previously could. But it does neatly deliver everything in just one request, so artist searching is now incredibly faster.

Let me know if pixiv gives any more trouble. Now we can parse their json, we might be able to reintroduce the arbitrary tag search, which broke some time ago due to the same move to javascript galleries.

twitter

In a similar theme, given our fully developed parser and pipeline, I have now wangled a twitter username search! It should be added to your downloader list on update. It is a bit hacky and may be ultimately fragile if they change something their end, but it otherwise works great. It discounts retweets and fetches 19/20 tweets per gallery 'page' fetch. You should be able to set up subscriptions and everything, although I generally recommend you go at it slowly until we know this new parser works well. BTW: I think twitter only 'browses' 3200 tweets in the past, anyway. Note that tweets with no images will be 'ignored', so any typical twitter search will end up with a lot of 'Ig' results--this is normal. Also, if the account ever retweets more than 20 times in a row, the search will stop there, due to how the clientside pipeline works (it'll think that page is empty).

Again, let me know how this works for you. This is some fun new stuff for hydrus, and I am interested to see where it does well and badly.

misc

In order to be less annoying, the 'do you want to run idle jobs?' on shutdown dialog will now only ask at most once per day! You can edit the time unit under options->maintenance and processing.

Under options->connection, you can now change max total network jobs globally and per domain. The defaults are 15 and 3. I don't recommend you increase them unless you know what you are doing, but if you want a slower/more cautious client, please do set them lower.

The new advanced downloader ui has a bunch of quality of life improvements, mostly related to the handling of example parseable data.

full list

downloaders:

after adding some small new parser tools, wrote a new pixiv downloader that should work with their new dynamic gallery's api. it fetches all an artist's work in one page. some existing pixiv download components will be renamed and detached from your existing subs and downloaders. your existing subs may switch over to the correct pixiv downloader automatically, or you may need to manually set them (you'll get a popup to remind you).

wrote a twitter username lookup downloader. it should skip retweets. it is a bit hacky, so it may collapse if they change something small with their internal javascript api. it fetches 19-20 tweets per 'page', so if the account has 20 rts in a row, it'll likely stop searching there. also, afaik, twitter browsing only works back 3200 tweets or so. I recommend proceeding slowly.

added a simple gelbooru 0.1.11 file page parser to the defaults. it won't link to anything by default, but it is there if you want to put together some booru.org stuff

you can now set your default/favourite download source under options->downloading

misc:

the 'do idle work on shutdown' system will now only ask/run once per x time units (including if you say no to the ask dialog). x is one day by default, but can be set in 'maintenance and processing'

added 'max jobs' and 'max jobs per domain' to options->connection. defaults remain 15 and 3

the colour selection buttons across the program now have a right-click menu to import/export #FF0000 hex codes from/to the clipboard

tag namespace colours and namespace rendering options are moved from 'colours' and 'tags' options pages to 'tag summaries', which is renamed to 'tag presentation'

the Lain import dropper now supports pngs with single gugs, url classes, or parsers--not just fully packaged downloaders

fixed an issue where trying to remove a selection of files from the duplicate system (through the advanced duplicates menu) would only apply to the first pair of files

improved some error reporting related to too-long filenames on import

improved error handling for the folder-scanning stage in import folders--now, when it runs into an error, it will preserve its details better, notify the user better, and safely auto-pause the import folder

png export auto-filenames will now be sanitized of \, /, :, *-type OS-path-invalid characters as appropriate as the dialog loads

the 'loading subs' popup message should appear more reliably (after 1s delay) if the first subs are big and loading slow

fixed the 'fullscreen switch' hover window button for the duplicate filter

deleted some old hydrus session management code and db table

some other things that I lost track of. I think it was mostly some little dialog fixes :/

advanced downloader stuff:

the test panel on pageparser edit panels now has a 'post pre-parsing conversion' notebook page that shows the given example data after the pre-parsing conversion has occurred, including error information if it failed. it has a summary size/guessed type description and copy and refresh buttons.

the 'raw data' copy/fetch/paste buttons and description are moved down to the raw data page

the pageparser now passes up this post-conversion example data to sub-objects, so they now start with the correctly converted example data

the subsidiarypageparser edit panel now also has a notebook page, also with brief description and copy/refresh buttons, that summarises the raw separated data

the subsidiary page parser now passes up the first post to its sub-objects, so they now start with a single post's example data

content parsers can now sort the strings their formulae get back. you can sort strict lexicographic or the new human-friendly sort that does numbers properly, and of course you can go ascending or descending--if you can get the ids of what you want but they are in the wrong order, you can now easily fix it!

some json dict parsing code now iterates through dict keys lexicographically ascending by default. unfortunately, due to how the python json parser I use works, there isn't a way to process dict items in the original order

the json parsing formula now uses a string match when searching for dictionary keys, so you can now match multiple keys here (as in the pixiv illusts|manga fix). existing dictionary key look-ups will be converted to 'fixed' string matches

the json parsing formula can now get the content type 'dictionary keys', which will fetch all the text keys in the dictionary/Object, if the api designer happens to have put useful data in there, wew

formulae now remove newlines from their parsed texts before they are sent to the StringMatch! so, if you are grabbing some multi-line html and want to test for 'Posted: ' somewhere in that mess, it is now easy.

next week

After slaughtering my downloader overhaul megajob of redundant and completed issues (bringing my total todo from 1568 down to 1471!), I only have 15 jobs left to go. It is mostly some quality of life stuff and refreshing some out of date help. I should be able to clear most of them out next week, and the last few can be folded into normal work.

So I am now planning the login manager. After talking with several users over the past few weeks, I think it will be fundamentally very simple, supporting any basic user/pass web form, and will relegate complicated situations to some kind of improved browser cookies.txt import workflow. I suspect it will take 3-4 weeks to hash out, and then I will be taking four weeks to update to python 3, and then I am a free agent again. So, absent any big problems, please expect the 'next big thing to work on poll' to go up around the end of October, and for me to get going on that next big thing at the end of November. I don't want to finalise what goes on the poll yet, but I'll open up a full discussion as the login manager finishes.

#release

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ramshariraut · 3 years

Text

Glucose Biosensors Market Growth Cycle to Mitigate New Business Opportunity

Global Glucose Biosensors Market, Geography (North America (United States, Canada and Mexico), South America (China, Japan, Korea, India and Southeast Asia), Europe (Germany, France, UK, Russia and Italy), Asia-Pacific (China, Japan, Korea, India and Southeast Asia), Middle East and Africa (Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Nigeria and South Africa)) Industry Trends 2021-2028

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Company Name - Statistify Market Research Office Address - 156, Sector 9 Vasundhra Aptts Rohini, New Delhi 110085 IN Telephone Numbers - (+44) 162-237-1047 (+44) 162-237-1047 Email ID - <a href="mailto:[email protected]">[email protected]</a> Contact Us – <a href="https://www.statistifymarketresearch.com/contact-us/">https://www.statistifymarketresearch.com/contact-us/</a>

#Europe Glucose Biosensors Market France Glucose Biosensors Market Germany Glucose Biosensors Market Italy Glucose Biosensors Market Japa

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the-master-cylinder · 4 years

Text

SUMMARY Keneely and Farrell are detectives with the LAPD vice squad. Although they show great talent for breaking up prostitution and drug rings, many of these enterprises are protected by crime boss Carl Rizzo, who exerts his influence throughout the city and the department. Evidence is altered before trial, colleagues refuse to help with basic police work, and the detectives are pushed to pursue other cases—mostly stakeouts on gay bars and public lavatories. After personally confronting Rizzo, Keneely and Farrell are brutally beaten while investigating one of his prostitutes. Frustrated but without any legal options, they resort to harassing Rizzo and his establishments, warding off customers and following his family around the city. Soon, Rizzo is rushed to the hospital for a heart condition. Realizing that he also used a medical emergency as an alibi during a previous drug sale, Keneely and Farrell head to the hospital and discover that drugs are trading hands there, hidden in flower pots. Rizzo escapes in an ambulance, while Keneely and Farrell make chase in another. The chase ends when both ambulances crash; although Keneely holds Rizzo at gunpoint, Rizzo laughs that the evidence against him is circumstantial—and, at most, will result in a light sentence.

The film ends on a freeze-frame of Keneely’s face as Rizzo dares him to shoot. In a voice-over, Keneely applies to an employment agency, claiming that he doesn’t know why he left his job at the LAPD—finally concluding that he “needed a change.”

DEVELOPMENT/PRODUCTION Robert Chartoff wanted to make another film about vice cops after The New Centurions. They hired Peter Hyams to write and direct one off the back of the success of his TV movie, Goodnight, My Love. “I’d made a TV movie of the week that people had liked, and people started coming after me,” he recalled. “The producers Robert Chartoff and Irwin Winkler came to me and said they wanted to do a film about vice cops. I said okay, and spent about six months researching it.” Hyams later said “like a journalist, I went around to New York, Boston, Chicago and Los Angeles and spoke with hookers, pimps, strippers and cops and DAs. Every episode in the film was true.”

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In February 1973 Ron Leibman was cast as Gould’s partner. However he was soon fired. Hyams says, “It turned out the contrast between Ron and Elliott Gould was not the same contrast between Robert Blake and Elliott, so it was suggested we go with Robert and I listened.” Gould says that while he respected Leibman as an actor it was he who suggested Leibman be replaced. “I just had a sense that I don’t know if he’s the right partner for me.”

Filming started in February 1973. The film was shot over 35 days.

“United Artists was a dream studio,” said Hyams. “Once they thought the script and the people making the film were good, they really didn’t intrude. They were very encouraging, and fabulous for filmmakers.”

https://abcnews.go.com/video/embed?id=60298033

Gould was cast here after writer/director Peter Hyams saw him and his attitude on The Dick Cavett Show. He wore Converse low-tops and for some reason took one of them off mid-interview. “He [Cavett] sort of made a joke with the audience that my feet had an odor, which they didn’t. I was really taken back and so I insisted that Dick Cavett take his shoe off.” The host declined, but Gould pressed saying that he was offended and wanted them to be on equal footing. Ron Leibman was originally cast as Gould’s sidekick – “a fabulous actor, one of our finest and best actors” – but Gould had him replaced. “I just had a sense that I don’t know if he’s the right partner for me,” he says. He went to see David Picker, the head of United Artists, and softly suggested as such, and Picker replied “I knew it! I knew it! When Ron Leibman plays tennis with my 11 year-old daughter he hits the ball back to her like a rocket!” He went on to suggest either Peter Boyle or Robert Blake.

Hyams suggested Garry Marshall for the character of Carl Rizzo, but the idea apparently fell on deaf ears – including Gould’s. It was nixed, but in retrospect Gould sees his error. “Garry Marshall in that part would be genius, would be a total fucking surprise,” he says. The role instead went to Allen Garfield, “and Allen, bless him, Allen is such a good actor but completely predictable.”

Peter Hyams Directing Busitng

Interview with Director Peter Hyams

Do you think your first theatrical feature BUSTING benefited from your documentary and journalistic experience? Peter Hyams: It came in handy in terms of my years of research. Before I wrote BUSTING I spent six months on the road going to L.A., Boston, Chicago and New York, talking to cops, hookers, pimps and the real people. The fact is that every single episode in BUSTING was based on something that actually happened. Whatever training I had as a self-impressed asshole reporter, the most important thing I learned was research. There was a great satirist called Tom Lehrer who wrote very funny and perverse songs. One of his quotes that I always remember was about Nicolai Lobachevsky. He said ”I’ll never forget the time I met the great Lobachevsky. It was he who taught me the secret of great writing -plagiarise. Only don’t call it ‘plagiarise’, call it ‘research’. ” My approach to a story is always research, and then try to make drama out of it.

What fascinated you about the world of vice cops to make the film? Peter Hyams: An esoteric and artful thing – I was asked to write a movie about vice cops. The producers were Irwin Winkler and Robert Chartoff, who had done a very successful film for Columbia called THE NEW CENTURIONS (1972). They caught me at that point where I was about to break into features. GOODNIGHT, MY LOVE had gotten more attention than it deserved and was incredibly highly praised. Irwin came to me and said ”We would like you to make a movie for us. ” Irwin was spellbinding and terrific, the greatest film school a young filmmaker could ever attend. The charter was to make a movie about vice cops.

Was it difficult to cast the leads? Peter Hyams: Elliott Gould was at his apogee, and he wanted to do it. He had made MASH (1970) and GETTING STRAIGHT (1970). United Artists was a dream studio. Once they thought the script and the people making the film were good, they really didn’t intrude. They were very encouraging, and fabulous for filmmakers. David Picker was head of UA at the time.

How close did Ron Leibman come to playing the Robert Blake part? Peter Hyams: Pretty close. We weren’t sure if it was going to be Ron or somebody else. It turned out the contrast between Ron and Elliott Gould was not the same contrast between Robert Blake and Elliott, so it was suggested we go with Robert and I listened.

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Was the shoot-out in the market a learning curve for you? It’s one of the great action scenes. Peter Hyams: I spent a lot of time plotting that thing out. This was not the days of Steadicam, where you could run around and do what you wanted. You had bigger cameras and all those movements on dolly tracks where things were upstairs and downstairs. I just drew out the way I wanted to do it.

How long did you spend filming the scene? Peter Hyams: The whole film was a 35 day schedule. We spent maybe a day or two on the shootout. The more you’re prepared and the more everyone else is prepared, the quicker things go.

CONCLUSION The film was criticized for homophobia on the grounds of its depictions of gay characters and the attitudes of the lead characters towards them. In an essay for The New York Times, journalist and gay rights activist Arthur Bell condemned the film for derogatory language used by characters to describe homosexuals, as well as a scene in a gay bar that he called “exploitative, unreal, unfunny and ugly” for its presentation of gay stereotypes. Hyams defended this on the ground it was accurate to the milieu depicted.

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CAST/CREW Directed Peter Hyams

Produced Robert Chartoff Irwin Winkler

Written Peter Hyams

Elliott Gould as Det. Michael Keneely Robert Blake as Det. Patrick Farrell Allen Garfield as Carl Rizzo Antonio Fargas as Stephen Michael Lerner as Marvin

CREDITS/REFERENCES/SOURCES/BIBLIOGRAPHY money-into-light. Wikipedia

Busting (1974) Retrospective SUMMARY Keneely and Farrell are detectives with the LAPD vice squad. Although they show great talent for breaking up prostitution and drug rings, many of these enterprises are protected by crime boss Carl Rizzo, who exerts his influence throughout the city and the department.

#70scops #70sFilms

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sugas-kookies · 7 years

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House of Cards (Pt.2)

Summary: Being a new transfer cop from a small town to a crime ridden city, you never expected your job to be easy. You are assigned as the partner of a man named Kim Taehyung, who is young, handsome, and a little bit too curious for his own good. Before you know it, what started out as a simple homicide investigation turns into a full blown war against the local syndicates. You learn the hard way that life isn’t always in black and white, and soon find your morals and beliefs tumbling like a house of cards. All because of one man with a simple name: Jeon Jungkook.

Mafia!JungkookxReaderxDetective!Taehyung

Angst/Drama/Some Fluff

Word Count: 1.8k

Part [1] [2] [3]

A/N: This series is a prequel to my other mafia!au series, Cosa Nostra. You do not need to read one before you read another, both are their separate cohesive stories, taking place roughly two to three years apart.

There are descriptions of a murder scene in this chapter, so if bothered by descriptions of mild gore, please do not read

The red and blue flashes of police lights and the large stretches of police tape were a little foreboding to you, to say the least. Nonetheless, you found yourself getting out of Taehyung’s patrol car and walking with him through the gathering crowd, making your way to the crime scene.

‘On the other side of this tape, there’s a dead body…’ You thought to yourself as you approached the tape border, nerves collecting in the pit of your stomach, ‘I can’t be squeamish now. I got to get used to this at some point, since it is my job now.’ You and Taehyung flashed your badges to the officer standing guard of the scene. He lifted the tape wordlessly, the blank look on his face was very telling on how much experience he had with this sort of thing.

You followed Taehyung into the back alley, where you could see a handful of officers busy putting markers around the crime scene and taking pictures. It was hard to see past the crowd of people, but you could distinctly tell that there was a limp body of a woman lying on the cold, hard pavement. You were already feeling sick and you hadn’t even gotten close to the body yet.

One of the officers that was marking the layout of the scene looked up when you and Taehyung approached, “Ah, it’s good that you’re here, Detective Kim. Who’s with you, a rookie?”

Taehyung nodded, “This is (Y/n), and she’s my new partner. (Y/n), this is Officer Brooks, one of the toughest women on the force.”

You would have reached out to shake her hand, but she had turned back to her work, “We don’t have an ID on the Jane Doe yet, but she seems to be in her mid to late twenties. There’s reasonable evidence to suggest involvement with one of the local syndicates, but that’s why you’re here to confirm our suspicions. No one knows the syndicate’s work quite like you do, Detective Kim.”

Taehyung hummed in response, then stepped forward to examine the body closely. He cursed under his breath when he got a closer look at the victim’s face, “Fuck, no, why did it have to be you?”

“You know who this is?” You asked, your eyes fixated on Taehyungs back so you wouldn’t have to look at the girl’s body.

He nodded solemnly, “Unfortunately, I do. Her name is Kim Taeyeon. I had spoken with her just a few weeks ago…I can’t believe things ended this way,” Taehyung sighed before shaking his head, “Alright, let’s get to work on analyzing the scene. Tell me what you see, (Y/n).”

You blinked at him, a little taken aback by his sudden transition. ‘If he knew this girl, wouldn’t he be more shaken up seeing her dead in the street?’ You thought to yourself, but soon mentally shrugging it off, ‘He is a veteran, he’s probably seen worse things happen to closer acquaintances…’ You took a deep breath before kneeling down next to the body to get a closer look.

Even in death, you could tell that this girl was very beautiful. ‘She probably had a whole life ahead of her…’ Just the thought made you want to hurl on the spot, but that would contaminate the crime scene, and you were determined to do a good job and show Taehyung you were cut out for this case.

“The victim was shot three times,” You began softly, “One time in the head, most likely execution style since the entry hole appears to be at the back of the head. The other two bullets went into the right and left side of her chest, but I don’t see why that was necessary. If the murderer shot her in the head, why would they feel the need to shoot her two more times?”

“Good, you hit some of the bigger points,” Taehyung hummed in approval, “The two shots to the chest is a calling card of sorts, signaling a mafia kill, and a particular organization at that. There’s more to this crime scene that you’re missing though, (Y/n).”

He paused, giving you a moment to try and catch your mistakes before he continued, “There’s no sign of the bullets, not even in the chest wounds. That implies one of two things: either the bullets went cleanly through the body, which they did in the case of the head, or they were dug out of the wounds on purpose. Most likely to prevent ballistics from being able to trace a gun later.” Taehyung paced around the body, biting his lip in thought, “It seems like a high caliber weapon was used, possibly some kind of powerful handgun. And from what I can see, there doesn’t appear to be any physical damage on the victim, save for the gunshot wounds. Given that, it’s fair to deduce that she didn’t put up a struggle, so she either met her murderer willingly or they snuck up on her.”

You gaped at his rather brilliant deconstruction of the crime scene. It was like something out of some clichéd crime show, but here Taehyung was rattling off facts based on the smallest shreds of evidence. You understood why everyone seemed to have such a high regard for the detective.

Taehyung looked up from the crime scene at your gawking face and gave a small smile, “There’s no need to be surprised. I didn’t get this job by not paying attention to details.” Upon you blushing in embarrassment, Taehyung let out a chuckle, “It’s fine, (Y/n), don’t worry about it. For your first day, you did really well.”

“So, you said this was related to organized crime?” You asked, eyes drifting back to the two gunshot wounds on the woman’s chest, “If you know which people did this, why not go there right now and arrest them?”

Taehyung sighed and stood up, typing away on his phone before putting it away and looking at you, “If taking down crime syndicates were that easy, they wouldn’t be a problem. They do a good job of covering up their tracks, especially the group that I’m pretty sure was behind this murder.” He began to walk away from the crime scene, and you followed, albeit puzzled that he was leaving the scene so soon.

“So if we don’t have any evidence to tie them to this crime, how are we supposed to take them down? Shouldn’t we stay at the scene of the crime and see if there’s anything forensics can uncover first?” Even though Taehyung was your superior, you couldn’t help but question his method. It just seemed too strange to leave the crime scene after only looking at it for five minutes.

“Forensics isn’t going to find anything useful,” He began as he continued his way to his patrol car, “These guys know how to kill, and they know how to kill well. They wouldn’t be careless enough to leave any useful evidence.”

You frowned as you got back into the patrol car, “But if we don’t wait to see what evidence they uncover, how are we supposed to get any information? We don’t have any leads so far, since we just IDed the body like two minutes ago.”

Taehyung smirked a little as he started up the car, “It’s simple, really, we’re going to hunt for information the old fashioned way: asking around. From what I knew of that girl, she was a nice, popular girl that had a tendency of getting pulled into the wrong crowds. I have a few people in mind to question, but we’re going to start at the bottom of the ladder first.”

‘If he already has a list of suspects, then just how well did he know this Taeyeon girl?’ You thought to yourself, looking at Taehyung out of the corner of your eye, ‘He’s almost going about this like he knew it was going to happen…’

“You’re looking at me suspiciously, (Y/n). What are you thinking about?” He asked suddenly, almost as if he was reading your mind.

You pursed your lips, wondering if it was worth potentially making him angry over your accusations. Eventually you felt that you couldn’t keep these thoughts to yourself without them eating you alive, so you began to question him, “How is it that you seem to know so much more information that everyone else doesn’t?” You turned to look at him to see if he had any changes in his facial expressions, “By the way you’re acting, it’s almost as if you had already suspected that Kim Taeyeon would be murdered. I can’t help but wonder if you either had a hand in her murder or if there’s something else fishy going on with you.”

He grinned as you finished your thoughts, “Great, you’re starting to think outside the box now! I was wondering if you would find my info to be suspicious, which you have every right to.” Taehyung scratched his head before continuing, “Kim Taeyeon was a lead I had been following for a while on another neighboring group called the Min Syndicate. I had met with her about three weeks ago to question her about her relation to the group. She had agreed to divulge some information on the group as soon as she got her hands on some information, but it seems that someone got to her before I could.”

“Do you think that the Min syndicate found out about her deception, or did another syndicate somehow find out about the information she was gathering and stole it from her?” You were glad that Taehyung didn’t seem to have any involvement in the girl’s murder. Needless to say, your suspicions were pretty baseless, but you couldn’t help but entertain the possibility. ‘This doesn’t completely clear him just yet though,’ You thought to yourself, ‘Anyone that has such close interactions with local mafias should be watched closely…’

Taehyung was silent for a moment, deep in thought before he said, “The evidence suggests that a rival group called the Jeon Syndicate were responsible for the murder of Taeyeon, but I have a nagging feeling that there’s more to this than what we’re seeing. Regardless, we’re bound to get the answers we’re looking for by asking the right people the right questions.”

You nodded silently, repeating the details of the crime scene and the information Taehyung had just told you in your head. ‘What kind of information did Taeyeon have that would be worth killing over?’ You mulled over the possibilities, but when it came to a mafias the list of reasons to kill it was almost endless. There was no other option but to do as Taehyung suggested and ask around for information. ‘It can’t be safe to go around asking about information on crime organizations…Just what does Taehyung plan to do?’ For the brilliant mind Taehyung seemed to have, you felt that maybe he wasn’t making the best decision by immediately questioning people about a murdered mafia member.

#bangtan bookclub #bts #bts scenario #bts imagine #bts fanfic #v #jungkook #jeon jungkook #kim taehyung #taehyung #bts scenarios #bts imagines #mafia!au #taehyungxreaderxjungkook #love triangle #taehyung x reader #jungkook x reader #reader insert

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hoseokmylovesworld · 5 years

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Picture of Love | 07

Pairing: Photographer!Hoseok x OC x Producer!Yoongi

Genre/Warnings: Hoseok AU/Yoongi AU/Includes strong language.

Words: 3,330

Summary: Charlotte Galloway is the leader of the up and coming girl band, “She-Bang”, with a side hustle as a photographer for anyone who will hire her. She meets a fellow professional photographer named Jung Hoseok who helps “She-Bang” realize their dreams and Charlotte to make a love connection along the way.

I knew better than to think that the girls would be keeping to themselves, sleeping or doing anything other than pestering me as soon as I walk through the hotel room door. So when I am greeted with exactly that, I am not surprised whatsoever.

"How was it?"

"Did you have fun?"

"Did you fuck?"

Is all I hear on my journey through the hotel room, hanging up my jacket and slipping off my shoes on my way to my bed. I send a glare in Leyah's direction, knowing where that last question came from, before I sit at the head of my bed. The girls proceed to get comfortable around me, awaiting details of my date with J-Hope.

"So?" Carrie begins the interrogation. I sigh humorously and call back tonight's events.

"Okay...well basically we just went to dinner at Gary Danko." I pause for collective oo's and ah's heard around the bed. "Yeah." I comment with a smug smile. "We just talked...and flirted. A lot." I laughed and the girls follow suit.

"We just got to know each other...yeah." I say still dazed by how amazing tonight was and satisfies with my description.

"Awwwww!" Squealed Carrie causing the rest of us to roll our eyes and eventually laugh at her.

And I thought I was the softy. "What?! That was cute as fuck." She defended. I just shrug.

"But Gary Danko. I thought this kid was a photographer." Leyah chimed in.

"He is." As far as I know.

"Must be dealing on the side or somethi-"

"Leyah!" I chide her. She snickers at me. "Sorry. I'm sure he's not Char...doesn't seem like the type anyway." She murmurs the last bit under her breath. "Okay." I say signaling that this conversation is over. The girls and I sit in silence for a few before Vicky's curiosity gets the better of her.

"So you really didn't do anything?" she asks with squinted eyes. I can only assume she meant sexually because Leyah adds "I know right?! That's what I'm saying.", incredulously. "Yeah." Carrie adds. I literally drop my face to rest in my palm at their lack of faith in my will power.

"Guys, come on. It's not like I'm fighting myself not to jump J-Hope whenever I see him." Although I am. "...We did kiss though." I finished looking down at the bed awaiting judgement.

"WHAT?"

"When were you gonna tell us this?!"

"Was he good?"

I nod in shame. "Yeah. Sorry, I kinda forgot, somehow. And yes, he's amazing." I smile at the memory of it. The girls oggle me. I suspect they took pity on me in my transformation into a lovesick fool and decided to lay off because they stopped teasing me.

"So are you gonna see him again?" Vicky asks gently. "Yes." I answer immediately and she smiles brightly at me. "Good" I hear Leyah say as she leaves my bed to find her own. "You deserve this Char." Vicky an Carrie find their way to the other half of the suite.

I just nod in thanks, not knowing how to respond. "Okay guys, don't get all soft on me now." I try to pull myself together and get things back to normal.

"No, I believe you're the soft one." Leyah shot back. "Wahtever, I-" I start with her, but am interrupted by my cell phone ringing in my pocket. Looking at the caller ID, I say "Oh that's him now.", sweetly and picked up the call a bit too quickly. Stupid, stupid Char.

"Hey Jay." I greet him in the sweetest, most alluring voice I can muster at the moment, ignoring the gagging noises Leyah is making next to me.

"Hey there. I'm just getting in, wanted to let you know and see what we could work out about this photo shoot."

"Oh yes! Give me a second." I press the reciver of the phone to my chest and turn to the girls. "When are you all free to do the photo shoot with J-Hope?"

"I'm free whenever." Leyah droans.

"Yeah, me too." Vicky says.

"So I'm hearing tomorrow? Carrie?" I ask to make things official. Carrie doesn't speak for a couple moments and then utters "Um...I have a date tomorrow." Her eyes are everywhere, but on the girls and I start to get confused by her behavior.

We just gushed, literally gushed, over my date with J-Hope. We abolished our ban on romance and we are allowed to date again. So what's making Carrie act so preserved about it?

The silence passes as I congratulate her, not knowing what else to do I say, "Carrie, that's great!"

"Yeah, bro it's okay. We'll do it another time." Leyah adds. But Carrie still has that deer caught in the headlights look frozen on her face.

"So who is this guy, what's his name?" Its my turn to be nosey.

"...Her name is Roselin."

"Oh." Is my immediate reaction to her words. After that the girls are all silent. Not because we disapprove of her choice, but because we never knew Carrie was remotely into girls.

"That's great!" I say, awkwardly breaking the silence once again. "I'm so happy for you." Leyah and Vicky are quick to murmur in agreement.

Carrie gives a hint of a smile. "Thanks guys." she whispers, still looking down. "So I'm hearing Monday at noon?" Each of the girls nods and I relay the message to J-Hope. "That sounds perfect actually. I'll send you the address and details tonight. Oh and bring your equipment if you can."

"Okay, yeah sure. We can do that." Making a note to tell Kyle and Darren they actually had to do something in two days.

"Cool." J-Hope answers smoothly.

"Hey, thank you so much again for doing this, the girls and I really appreciate it." I stressed over the phone.

"Hey, don't even worry about it Char. I'm happy to do this for you." He assured "...and maybe your band too." He finished, making me chuckle. "Like I said, I really appreciate it Jay." I say dragging out my words in, hopefully, a seductive manor. Maybe I will repay him for his generosity in some other way, who knows. I can hear him let out a huff of air and I can just see his smug smile. "Oh. Ha. It's nothing." "Well, I'm gonna turn in now, so I'll see you on Monday?" I ask. "Yes you will. Goodnight, Charlotte." His sweet, deep voice drawled. "Goodnight, Jay."

+++++++++++++++++++++++

J-Hope had given me the address to an apartment building full of lofts that were apparently for sale. We were instructed to take the equipment to first floor of the building. We drug our instruments through the corridor that lead to the first loft in the complex and I was so impressed with and in awe of the scene we were met with after walking through the unlocked door that lead to our photo shoot.

The structure of the loft itself was beautiful. It was a spacious warehouse style with hard wood floors, concrete walls, a high ceiling and was only made up of the one room apart from the bathroom. The room was incredibly spacious and had a high ceiling to accommodate the fire escape-like steps that lead to the second-half-floor. I'd never seen anything like it in person. Not to mention the glorious sight of multiple white backdrops and lights in every corner with people to man them.

"Whoa." Is all I uttered as I walked further into the room, my friends behind me. "Yeah." Leyah weighed in.

I spot J-Hope talking to a pretty lady in a suit who looks to be in her mid-thirties, that beautiful camera in hand. He notices me at nearly the same time, smiling that blinding smile immediately in greeting. He looks breath taking in all black, bomber jacket, ripped jeans, pumas and all. His black hair parted down the middle, barely exposing his forehead and drawing attention to adorable glasses resting comfortably on his nose. God, is anyone else seeing this?

"Charlotte!" He approaches us, the lady he was talking to following behind him. "Jay!" I return his enthusiasm. Letting his camera hang around his neck, he leans in to peck me surprisingly on the cheek and grabs my guitar case from my hands in one fluid motion. I'm officially frozen to my spot in embarrassment and shock. He doesn't seem to notice as he greets the rest of the group.

"Hello everyone. This is Janice Bailey, this is actually her building." J-Hope explains. I unfreeze and promptly reach for Janice's hand to shake it. "It's nice to meet you. Thank you so much for letting us use this space. I'm Char." I say shaking her hand a little to wildly. "It's nice to meet you all as well. And I simply owed Hoseok a favor, this was him calling it in. I only wish to observe today's events." So that's how you say his name.

"If that's okay with you all." J-Hope looks over the group for objections, as do I. "Yeah, of course. It's fine." I assure them. "Great! You guys can set up whatever you need to against that backdrop over there." He said pointing to the largest backdrop of them all. I gently grip J-Hope's jacket before he can help She-Bang, Darren and Kyle to set up the drum set and keyboard. "What is all this Jay?" I whisper to him. "What?" He looked down at me with a clueless expression on his face. I just tilt my head to the right and lift my right brow. "This."

I gesture to our surroundings. I start to count the people in the room that seem to be helping with the shoot. There are six. One man is helping the group put together the instruments, one man is finishing setting up the backdrops, a woman is checking the lighting, another man seems to be already editing test photos and the last man and woman are stood at the back of the room talking over coffee. The woman excuses herself from the conversation to search through a crate of some sort that looks chuck full of makeup products. That's when I notice the coffee, donuts and other goodies along the wall near the bathroom. My jaw drops.

"Is that a makeup artist?" I ask incredulously. J-Hope pauses before responding. "I just wanted to be prepared." He sighed. "But you all showed up looking beautiful as always." He brushes the back of his fingers against my cheek and I deflate, all feelings of anxiety vanishing from my body at once. I sigh as well.

"You really didn't need to do all this." I remind him, wondering why someone would do all this for me.

"I wanted to. It's nothing really." He shakes his head drops his hand down to my arm before giving it a gently squeeze. I glance up at him in awe. "Thank you." I say for the thousandth time. He just nods and leads me to the rest of the band at the larger backdrop. As I turn around my eyes meet Darren's focused ones, he immediately looks away with a clenched jaw and furrowed eyebrows.

Right. Almost forgot about Darren's pure hatred for J-Hope. Please God, let this go well.

J-Hope carefully took Bruce, my guitar, out of it's case and handed it to me and then handed the case to one of his staff...Friends? Employees? Is he paying them for this?! I feel uneasiness rise in me once again. This all too much. I know he said he wouldn't charge us, but I could never pay him back for this. On the other hand, as I look around I realize I've never had anyone go to this length to impress or even make me happy. Darren breaks me out of my trance.

"You okay, Char?" he asks, from the sidelines of the drop to my left. My head cocks in his direction and I sigh before replying "Yes.", trying to reassure myself as well. He just nods, unconvinced.

"Okay guys!" An energetic J-Hope grabs my attention next. "While Leyah is sitting at the drum set and everyone has their instruments, why don't we get some somewhat candid shots?" The girls and I nod in understanding. My hands fly to a familiar chord on my guitar so that I look more natural. We even have some amps set up in the front and back to look more authentic.

J-Hope starts taking pictures frantically from different angles and the girls and I look at the camera fiercely, kind of loving the attention after a few moments I look passed the camera to J-Hope in awe. It's downright impressive to watch him in his zone and easy to see why he's in his position.

He knows how to get a specific reaction from his clients and knows how to capture their best sides, even though there are four of us, going as far as instructing some of us to pose specifically to get a good vantage point.

We immediately lock eyes when he looks up from the camera to us to gather himself and his next approach. He smiles fondly at me and I'm forced to drop my gaze to the floor and smile stupidly. Dumb ass.

"Charlotte." My eyes immediately flip up to meet J-Hope's, awaiting further instruction. "Could you possibly tilt your head to the left and jut your chin out the slightest bit?" I ponder his request in my head with a confused expression and attempt the position he just described.

"More out." He demanded. Attempt #2. I try to follow the order I've been given.

"No, like more natural. He offers, even trying to pose himself to serve as example. Okay, attempt number three. "Uh...No." He gives up and approaches me. Modelling is hard. J-Hope reaches me with his arms stretched out towards me, but pauses.

"May I?" He asks with curious eyes. I can only assume he's asking if he can touch my face and I accept.

He takes hold of my chin with his thumb and index finger with a gentle grip and redirects my head to fit his vision. His attention goes lower and to my chest and my eyebrows sky rocket until I see he actually means to adjust my jacket caught under my guitar strap. It is then that I realize I would not give a fuck if J-Hope were actually checking out my cleavage right now and I'm actually shocked and kind of offended that he isn't. The fuck?

He then makes his way back up like he's studying me for any detail out of place. His eyes lock on the hair hanging against my face and he reaches up rearrange the strand, but as he finishes we make eye contact once more. We've only been this close with each other three other times and this time I really took the time to appreciate how actually beautiful this man is up close. What is his damn skin routine?!

I hear someone clear their throat off to side, breaking me out of my trance and I realize J-Hope and I have been staring at each other that entire time. Great. J-Hope clears his throat as well, but out of embarrassment.

J-Hope continues on with the shoot just as professional as ever before making a wonderful request to Leyah. "Leyah, can you actually play the drums for a little bit?" Leyah shrugs her shoulders and plays a simple groove and Vicky decides to add a fitting baseline. Carrie and I follow suit because we can't let half the group have a jam session by themselves.

After a few minutes I'm not even worried about the camera because this place has the best acoustics I've ever heard and I finally feel totally comfortable.

J-Hope then had us move to the second backdrop across the loft without the instruments to take group shots. Leyah took full advantage of this opportunity to annoy me to no end without the consequence of me beating her ass because we're in public, but it made everyone else laugh and J-Hope wouldn't stop snapping photos so we must be doing something right.

Soon J-Hope ran the photos by us and we deemed the shoot successful and done. He's even agreed to spread the word about us to his celebrity friends. Not sure how seriously the rest of the group took that statement, but I held fast to that promise and am incredibly thankful. One of J-Hope's staff saves the pictures on a flash drive and the girls go to get the instruments packed up along with Darren and Kyle as I approach J-Hope.

"Jay, thank you again. This means so much to us." I say for umpteenth time. He just smiles at the floor before gazing up at me with kind eyes. "Don't mention it Charlotte, really. I actually had a lot of fun today. I actually took some video too, of the jam session if you're interested in that." he offers.

"Thank you. Yeah, no kidding. You were...amazing today." Damn, just suck his dick right here, why don't you?

J-Hope looks genuinely humbled by my compliment. "Thank you so much Charlotte. Maybe the roles can be reversed in the future." He proposed suggestively. "Whatever I take wouldn't be able to touch this, but sure." I accept, as I would any opportunity to learn from J-Hope. He pulls a face and says "I'm sure they would be incredible." He grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. This kid is really into skin ship, which is more than I'm used to, but I can't see myself complaining.

Just let it happen Char.

"Hey, what are you doing for the rest of the day?" He brings his hand to wrap around my waist and rest on my lower back, only his camera between us. Hopefully you.

"Nothing, why?" I look up at him with hopeful eyes.

"How about an early dinner?" He invites licking his lips.

"I would love that." I answer more to his lips than to him. I assume I've been caught because he chuckles at my response and completely takes me by surprise when he pecks my lips. If I could blush I would, but instead I smile like an idiot as he lifts his hand to my shoulder and leads me over to my waiting group of friends.

"I'm gonna stick around here with Jay, you guys can go without me." Darren nods with a tired expression and exits the loft without a word, carrying the kick drum, symbols and one amp. Everyone looks at the exit for a few moments before returning our attention each other.

"Okayyy. Thank you for today J-Hope, you're a real one." Leyah says nodding and sporting a genuine smile. Vicky and Carrie follow suit and gives their thanks as well.

"It was no trouble at all ladies. You all did great work today." He responds, giving my shoulder a ginger squeeze. And smiling at the floor like an idiot becomes my permanent stance. How can someone make someone feel this stupid and good about themselves all at the same time?

"We'll see you at the hotel Char." The girls and Kyle say their goodbyes on their way out the door and then its just me, J-Hope and his crew.

"Okay, I have to stick around for a bit and get everything packed up before we can go." He explains. "That's okay I'll help out." I reply. J-Hope gives me an appreciative look and then nods. "Thanks, Charlotte." I help Jay and his crew clean up the drops, lights, tables and stands and snack on the provided donuts. I even take some for the girls because there are still so many left. I thank the crew for all their hard work today and soon I'm being escorted into J-Hope's car on our way to dinner.

#j-hope fanfic #suga fanfic #junghosoek #minyoongi #bts #btsfanfiction #AMBW #kpop #humour #sugardaddyj-hope

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