#1 judee shipper

hi, i am a shipper with friends that i ship, mainly being:

- justin (science nerd with glasses)

- ardee/mathieu (rich computer nerd)

- maryone (math nerd with glasses)

faqs (by my friends):

Q. do they consent to this ?

A. yes they actively encourage it and give me fanfic ideas!

Q. is that them on the cover ?

A. yes !

Q. why do you do this ?

A. because i can!

so, what do i contribute to society?

bromances

semi adequate writing

a great personality

thank you for reading through this :) hope you enjoy my marjudee/musti/judee adventures

Ranch owner!Ardee x Cowboy!Justin

— western au.

— synopsis: of posies and engines.

(inspired by the power of the dog by savage hehe)

I

Ardee Aarons was a man of many promises and not enough dignity. Every time a man wanted something done, they'd go to him on his ranch, the Aarons Ranch down west, and borrow a cow, a horse — anything they could get their hands on, really — and then never return the darn thing. Yes, Ardee had little dignity for a man so rich. Despite owning the entire ranch and owning enough property and coin to buy every stable hand and their mother off the land, the appeal of gold never quite glimmered in his mind as the evening sun did when it descended on the lands.

It was a humble hobby. There was a hillside by the ranch that he tended to visit by, blooming with wildflowers, or as Ardee liked to call them posies, in the Indian summer. You could ask him which posies had certain off shades of blue and red for he knew all about the colors, could ask him which posies smelled of May and April and he'd direct you right to them like he knew the field as if it were the back of his own hand! But little he did know of the Latin names of each posie or what medicinal properties they had or how to tend to them properly. Ardee did not read many books, not like his friends that lived on this ranch who achieved the highest of accolades back in college. No, Ardee did not read those scientific books too much, and he was not fond of novels. He still reads, however.

He found his reading solace within the newspapers they send from the upper town every Sunday, all about the new technology and locomotives. There was a new engine, a Pierce, but he'd never admit to wanting an engine in front of his pals, who all liked steam and locomotives that rang out flame and smoke from the little pipe out one end that Ardee just never was able to remember the name of, although he had very good memory when it counted. He'd sit in the tall leather chair covered with a fur blanket passed onto him by the Old Gent and lean back as he flicked through the pages in the privacy of his living room against the warmth of the fireplace. Above his fireplace was a collection of vases full of flowers he plucks from the field, though most of them withered and dropped their petals into the fireplace because they weren't watered well enough. He'd have Mrs. Barrette handle the logistics of posies while he looked at them and let men take horse and cow from the stables like loose change off a wallet. On the days Mrs. Barrette, that kind old widow was not there to look after the flowers, he'd write to his younger brother Arden and ask him to come over under the excuse of family time when really he just wanted someone to keep the posies from passing away and getting cremated.

His younger brother's car rolled onto the dim porch, headlights illuminating the dead air and the small fruit flies that came alive from the dirt. The wheels scratch against the soil, coating them in a thin coat of brown. After a moment the engine whirrs down to a stop and the red car door clicks open, welcoming the sight of a boot.

“Arden!” Ardee calls out with a wide grin. “You made it. I was startin’ to think you'd just’ve passed on me.”

“If I could, I would. I was busy haulin’ this cowboy over, from east, says he's lookin’ for work. And a good man can't leave another man in the dark when I'm out already on my way to yours, figured he could find some good shit work on the ranch,” Arden explains as he chews on the end of a hay stick.

He gestures to the passenger car door that opened, and out stepped a man in starched jeans — like any good cowboy — and a hat a little bigger than necessary. On the bridge of his nose stood square a pair of glasses, gleaming from the white, sharp front glow of the car. He travels his way towards the Aaron brothers, stopping just short of them.

“Evening; my name is Justin Coleman, sir,” Justin greets, hands shuffling until they find their place in the loops of his denim. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

“No, it's alright.” Ardee waves off. “I've had many men like you drop by ‘n’ find some work here, on the Aarons ranch. They all come ‘n’ go nicely, they do.”

“You still have work to give,” Justin remarks with a slightly raised brow.

Ardee’s arm lifts, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “Well,” he pauses, selecting his words, “big ranch,” he concludes sufficiently.

There's a lingering silence amongst them that leaves them simply shifting in place. Arden scratches his leg, slapping a mosquito off his thigh.

“Well, let's head in,” Ardee clears his throat, opening his arm towards the porch.

“Yes, that's an idea.” Arden nods.

The three men enter the house, finding their places inside. Ardee invites his brother and the guest over to the main room to chat, though Arden excuses himself to go take a leak out first. The elder Aarons brother resigns with a shrug, grunting as he takes his seat in his leather throne. Arden's always been the awkward kind around new companies, like his older brother — it was a miracle he even brought someone along with him, someone he barely knew. A swell of pride bubbles up in his chest at his younger brother's kindness for this stranger, who continues to stand across him stiffly. Justin makes little move to sit until Ardee directs him, to which he sits rigid and straight.

Justin's eyes travel the tall expanse of the living room’s walls, staring at the shelves of trinkets and the photos that decorated them. There was a distinct photo of the Aarons family, near picture perfect, sitting in a brand new car with Ardee's smaller arms bundled up with posies and Arden's face caught in a half-sneeze.

“I remember that one,” Ardee's voice breaks Justin out of whatever train of thought he had as he attempts conversation, something he wasn't much accustomed to. “Bought a fresh car, one of the first models released in our area, this area I've lived in for thirty-six summers.”

Justin leans forward in his seat. “Thirty-six summers? You're about a year older than me, sir.”

“Really? ‘n’ you're a taller lad,” Ardee chuckles, loosening the collar of his shirt. Justin's eyes train onto the action for a split second before riding up to meet his gaze once more, warmed by the spit of the fireplace. It crackles and bites at the brick walling around it.

“I've been told,” Justin simply replies.

There's another silence now — not still, like the previous one — it's comfortable, breathable, like just two men that are learning to keep each other better company. Ardee adjusts himself in his chair, his focus drifting away from Justin and towards anywhere else in the room, searching for something to talk about that won't lead him directly into a wall. He decides against the posies, afraid Justin will think him a sissy, and glances down at the newspaper resting on the coffee table. He'd read it earlier that morning, news on cars and the new moving picture cinema that's been built a little further away from the ranch.

“You like moving pictures?” he asks, looking up at Justin who was fingering a dent in the arm of his wooden chair. Justin lifts his eyes at Ardee again.

“Some,” Justin answers, “others, not as much, sir.”

Ardee lets out an amused breath. “Drop ‘em formalities. Just call me Ardee.”

Justin's face flushes a soft pink, illuminated by the orange glow of the fire. “Alright — Ardee.”

The moonlight kisses the earth, dawning the fields outside the window in a gentle, caressing light. Magpies — the little tourmaline things — sang a nightly whistle, wishing to harmonize with the away of posies below them. This view was able to be seen through Ardee's bedroom window, this view that now had to be shared with the cowboy that came to visit. You see, Arden was not fancied to the idea of sharing a bed with anyone, and took the spare room for himself, while Justin was supposed to be left to sleep with the other ranchers in the back since the other spare rooms were undergoing maintenance and it was just more sensible to let Justin sleep with the others. However, Ardee didn't feel comfortable with this idea. Justin was a lanky man, and without proper introduction, the other ranchers would surely torment him. The only reason they didn't already, upon Justin's arrival, was because of the Aarons brothers unsociable presence; and the reason they haven't tormented the Aarons brothers yet was simply because they were Aarons and the trouble just wasn't worth the risk. That's how Ardee ended up inviting Justin to sleep in his room with him, a pillow barrier separating them for an ounce of privacy.

“You ain't uncomfortable, or nothin’?” Ardee turns to glance over his shoulder at Justin, who was loosening his clunky belt.

Justin hums, looking over his own shoulder at Ardee. “No, Ardee. You have a soft bed.”

Ardee's lips sport an upward quirk at the words, shifting to rest his neck on his forearm. “Aye, see. You're calling me by name,” he chuckles.

“I suppose I am, Ardee.” A similar smile forms on the cowboy's face.

“You are, Justin.” Justin’s face crawled a shade of posie unlike anything that Ardee’s ever seen before on the wildflower field. Almost makes him want to reach out and pluck and keep in between the pages of pristine pressed books that he’ll never touch.

The thought vanishes from his mind like a cloud of smoke. Get human, he tells himself. No such thing as a man beautiful as a posie — that title was reserved for the little ladies they call flowers by the bar on the border of the ranch, the one Ardee led his men to every special occasion, which they took great joy in making nearly every weekend a great special occasion. He clutches his thumb, clenching his fist at the thought. How could a wealthy man like him be so weak to the will of others, after all? He was no sissy, for goodness sake. Ain’t a single sissy thing about him! His clothes were starched, always starched, car fast enough to drive away every single misconception that could’ve occurred to anyone looking too closely.

“Ardee?” A voice, quiet as the night, mutters.

“Yeah?”

“I like engines, too.”

A slow heat crawls up Ardee’s neck, settling on the tips of his ears. Justin had seen the folded pages of the newspaper on the table, and had paid close enough attention to notice that. And, he liked them, too. A rarity in the rugged anachronistic town, with most of the men liking power better. To hear someone else other than himself or his brother enjoyed them was like finding a needle in a haystack.

“Really?” His eyes soften a moment before they narrow suspiciously. “You ain’t just sayin’ that to butter me up, are ya?”

Justin laughs. “No.”

Ardee turns to lay on his side, facing Justin. “Say, Justin.”

“Hm?”

“Say, if you like ‘em as much as you say you do — ” he thinks for a second — “then I think you’d be a mighty fine fit on this ranch with me. What’d’ya say?”

Justin’s eyes widen ever-so slightly, a faint shine in them from the moonlight. He opens his mouth to speak — closes it again, like taking back the words he planned to say — then nodded steadily. “I think I’d like that, Ardee.”

A posie blooms on Ardee’s face.

Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

i wish i had some more time to work on mar/judee. :(

however! i do have many concepts in the works as i dream of it! my personal favorites in the list of my aus (in no particular order!!):

(IN PROGRESS) #5: BARREL

Mafia boss!Maryone x Spy!Justin

— spy / mafia au.

— synopsis: your identity is my ego.

Agent #12. His identity is a number that's given him his whole life. What happens when he takes on a new identity for a mission—and what happens when he feels more at home in his false name than the one he's had forever?

okay, so, ive actually wrote a bit of this one, i forgot if i posted it. probably, LOL. well, there's that. mafia boss maryone comes in a little later! it's def one of my favs since i really love experimenting with themes of identity and such. though, not sure if I can execute the spy/mafia bit, but ill try.

(UNRELEASED) #22: BLUE RIBBON

Pageant Queen!Taken!Genderbend!Ardee x Pageant Queen!Genderbend!Justin

— pageant / homewrecker / genderbend au.

— synopsis: worse than rivals.

Justine (Justin) and Arabella (Ardee) have been rival pageant queens of their country for years. Years of drama, competition, and rivalry. But when Arabella finds a boyfriend? Justine might have another competitor, but for a different prize.

this one ive been totally obsessed with since i conceptualized it. specifically, to homewrecker by sombr. im not particularly fond of sombr, but i really do like this song of his!! and i recently saw online the two pageant queens who ended up falling in love while competing, but I just can't remember their names. anyway, shout-out to them!!

(UNRELEASED) #3: LIMINAL

Timeloop!Justin x Backrooms!Monster!Ardee

— backrooms au.

— synopsis: you're as stuck as i am.

The same yellow walls. The same wooden floors. The same rooms. The same day, over and over again. Justin has been trapped for God knows how long—stuck in a bloody timeloop. He knows where the monster is. Always. He doesn't get close. Doesn't want to. Because once the sun sets, it's as stuck as he is.

this au is the one my friends called me insane for. but, like, hear me out!! so what. eldritch entity x timeloop. that's freaking sick. +the pain and insanity of timeloops +angst? hell yes. im picturing it in my head right now, and good lord, tears. tears. if only i could write it LOL!!!

(UNRELEASED) #19: BRAINZ

Zombie!Justin x Survivor!Ardee

— zombie apocalypse / established relationship au.

— synopsis: a heart with no mind.

Ardee and Justin are in a cute, committed relationship—#loyal. Oh, there's an apocalypse? Doesn't matter. Oh, Justin was bitten? Eh, he's into that. Oh, Ardee's dating a zombie? ... Well, that can be dealt with. Ardee quite likes his brain (and Justin also likes Ardee's brain), but he can always give him his heart. Hopefully not literally.

i thought of this after asking ardee if he would kill justin if justin turned into a zombie, and he said no, so! yeah! and that one song that goes like: "if I were a zombie, id never eat your brain; i just want your heart, just want your heart" or something like that.

goodbye !

Mafia boss!Maryone x Spy!Justin

— mafia / spy au.

— sypnosis: your identity is my ego.

When someone holds a title for their entire life, they begin to provoke the question: would they be anything more?

Agent #12 was the twelfth best in Belphegor Communications Agency. He graduated from training at age twelve, became the twelfth valedictorian of said training, and was assigned the number he holds today on his badge.

The number was branded onto his skin like a butcher does on a piece of meat—12 tattooed across his lower back as if it held more weight than his own name—and in the eyes of the agency, it did. 12 was his name and status. His title. The path to recognition in a competitive industry that devoured and crushed those who couldn't rise to the top like he had.

In a way, the agency was all he had. All that gave him his worth as the twelfth of everything that mattered. Which is why Agent #12 lost his words when he heard the chance that he might lose that number.

“What do you mean by that, ma'am?” Agent #12 leans forward on the chair, hands clasped on top of his lap. The fluorescent lights of the skyscraper office shines down onto him, casting the angles of his face into shadows.

Across the mahogany desk was a woman of sophistication, the image of strictness. Her posture was relaxed, a sharp contrast against the sudden rigidness that had collected in Agent #12’s spine. The buttons of her suit shined “wealth” in every sense of the word, each piece costing more than a poor man's life.

She sighs, a cloud of smoke exiting her lips as she holds a cigarette between her fingers. “Listen, 12. Your performance is consistent. And that's exactly why I'm demoting you.”

Mrs. Moreno looks upon her bewildered agent, who was still dumbfounded by the whole ordeal. With a shake of her head, she pulls out a folder with a picture of Agent #12 attached to the cover.

“Here—” she slides the folder across the desk, rolling a pen to the side in the process— “these are your statistics.”

Agent #12’s hands stutter for a moment before they reach out for the folder, fingers lingering on the picture of his face before flipping it open. Mrs. Moreno was right—he was consistent. His results were predictable, which is why he was chosen for missions often. Why he was in the top 12.

“I don't see the issue.” He finally raises his head from the documents, brows pushed together in a furrowed arch.

“Mediocre.”

The words echo through the large glass office like a cruel chant. Agent #12 pauses, freezing in his seat, jaw clenching tight as he feels the city beyond the windows grow dimmer with the night. A chill runs down his skin.

Mediocre?

Mrs. Moreno clicks her tongue at his silence. “Subpar, average, lackluster… Do you need more synonyms, or do you understand my point?” She leans forward. “You're falling behind, 12.”

“I'm not falling behind,” he quickly defends himself, somehow sitting more upright than he already was, shoulders rising almost to his ears.

“Sure you aren’t.” The woman sighs, adjusting her own glasses. She brings her cigarette to her lips again, taking an awkwardly long drag of the nicotine, holding it in her lungs. Much too nonchalantly for Agent #12’s liking.

Mirroring her actions, he lifts his glasses as well, pushing them further up his nose. “I can prove it, ma'am. I give predictable results because you offer me predictable missions—challenge me, and I'll show you results.”

Skeptically, Mrs. Moreno squints her eyes at him, folding her arms. Agent #12 gulps.

A beat passes by before she relents. “Fine. I'll give you a mission.” She pulls open a drawer, and he releases a breath he didn't know he was even holding.

Underneath her desk, she unlocks a drawer with a swift twist of her wrist, pulling the silver handle towards herself. Grabbing a classified file, she drops it in front of him.

As the man opens it and skims through, Mrs. Moreno leans back in her chair. “Your mission is to kill this man. Renowned mafia boss of the Ilagan Syndicate down West, but they have eyes everywhere. He has some dirt against us, so I need him eliminated.”

Agent #12 pauses on the picture of the mafia boss. Wavy hair, light skin, and the dangerous eyes of a predator hiding behind an unsuspecting pair of glasses. He trails over the target's name. Maryone Dane.

“Got it.” He meets her gaze once more. “How long do I have?”

Mrs. Moreno hums to herself for a few moments, taking the opportunity to spin in her chair as she does so. She stops to face the large window behind her, observing the city lights and roads.

Her shoulders shrug slightly, almost amused as she speaks. “How about 12 weeks, hm? Fitting, since...”

His fists tighten at his sides, gaze flickering with a hint of irritation. What choice did he have, after all?

With a solemn nod, he gingerly pulls his chair back, standing from the authentic leather cushioning. The legs creak against the polished floors, causing Agent #12’s neck to cringe inwards. He picks the file off the table as his boss dismissively waves him off.

He'd need hidden weapons, more connections, a new identity—an easy name, like Justin.

As he makes his way to the exit, his dress shoes click against the ground in a fast-paced rhythm, eager to get to work. He needed to begin preparations, and he needed it now. He couldn't go walking into a mafia blindly.

This mattered to him. He couldn't lose the title he's held his whole life.

First Prince!Ardee x Royal Counselor!Justin

— historical au.

— synopsis: dancing is a feeling.

The marble floors stretched horizontally across the wide room, stopping at the walls of the empty ballroom. Each tile was carefully smoothed and placed in its designated position to bring the opulence to its peak in the magnificent building that was placed on a high hill, enclosed by thick towns and even thicker forestlands. One would wonder how the architects had the patience to place each tile, a great deal of it required to be so invested in every piece. Long, winding rivers as well as giant mountains that appeared like green sleeping giants could be seen from the tall towers connected to the ballroom, each tower twice the height of the central structure. It provided a generous view of the geography that made up the Kingdom of Bayelle, a kingdom that had flourished since many generations ago.

The Kingdom of Bayelle was a permanent spring field with flowers of various colours and hues spread across the territory. The sunlight dipping into the horizon was a staple of the land—for though it only set and rose twice a day, the view was a sight bestowed upon the lands by God himself with how the grass flowed through the evening breeze and the flowers bloomed under the gentle gaze of dawn. The people of Bayelle say that during these times, the plants look even more beautiful, as if they only felt safe after the last breath of sunlight. As if they hoped for the day to end. Even with the darkness of evening, the sinking moon brightened the scenery around it, changing the atmosphere to one of mysteriousness and anticipation as one approached the town located near the center of the kingdom.

The town near the center of the kingdom bustled with civilians running about their errands even in the deepening nighttime. A few guards remained on high patrol near alleys that housed the beggars of the shadows, guns attached to their hips and hands. They stood straight and rigid, military training on the borders of the kingdom having long taught them so. On the other hand, playful and energetic children running along to play and jump across cracked pavements had paved the way for wagons pulled by people and horses alike, looking to set up stalls or reach their destinations. They, the citizens of the kingdom, operated in a harmonious peace that served them well to maintain a fair cycle.

Banderitas and banners of reds, blues, and greens scatter between buildings, marking the first week of the Bayelle Kingdom’s foundation celebration. It was the three hundredth celebration since the founding and establishment of the kingdom, promising great performances and cheers. Bright lanterns were scattered about as the thumping music endlessly went on, further fueled by the encouragement of the audience. Dancers near the city hall were performing, their members of their dance troupe numerous enough to be reaching the large castle which was the station of the grand ballroom mentioned earlier.

Painted a pale beige were the high walls of the castle, detailed and slightly mossy pillars cascading to form the entrance of the royal monument nearly the same age as the kingdom itself. The moss circled the tall columns, the structures deeply embedded within the kingdom's nature as it was embedded within the kingdom's rich and deep history. Three hundred years of existence was a notable feat for any small kingdom, especially with the heavy drive of enemy factions and empires not too far away from Bayelle.

As we enter the ballroom once more, it is almost empty, illuminated by the warm light of the large chandelier shining overhead. In the center of the room, we see two figures moving together, pressed against one another in a dance that was claimed by silence and class, contrasting the loud and energetic performance just outside.

Clacking against the marble floor were the two pairs of polished black dress shoes, moving in synchronization along to a melody left to the imagination. One figure wore a deep red cloak with another silk velvet vest to match, dressed in black every other necessary place. A pair of square glasses sat upon the bridge of his nose, the young man's gaze piercing through the lens of the glass. His fingers were covered by sleek white gloves, contrasting against the generally dark scheme of his attire.

The other figure was slightly shorter than the one across from him, yet he wore a pale pink suit with golden epaulettes that had decorative tassels hanging from them gracefully. His dark hair was slicked back while his tanned skin gleamed a faint tangerine under the warm lights, a smooth hint to it that only was exhibited in the highest class of individuals. Finally, as if to nail in the coffin to the assumption, a thin golden crown rested atop his head, shimmering with every movement from the eldest prince of Bayelle.

Their legs moved together in a satisfying, repetitive motion. It was a graceful waltz, yet it was devoid of any real music aside from the synchronized press of heel against the floor. As they moved, their bodies were flush against one another for the sake of the dance, the prince's eyes trained on his feet in a desperate final attempt at not stepping on the other man's feet for the hundredth time that evening of their dance practice for the upcoming party that the nobles would attend to celebrate the kingdom anniversary.

“Don't look away from me,” the man in red’s voice catches the attention of the prince. He exhales with a hint of exasperation, taking a step back. “How does one expect to learn this dance when he cannot even meet my gaze? Are my eyes attached to my feet, and that is why you focus more on them rather than my own face?”

“Counselor, I do not see how your critiques help my case. Although I do admit I have been focused on the movement of lower areas, it is only for your sake. I cannot embarrass myself at the ball due in weeks by stepping on a lady's shoe, sire. I would be made a sudden bastard by the kingdom for my ignorance and disrespect to not only the lady and her bloodline, but also to the entire craft of dancing.”

His Highness, Prince Ardee Matheiu was the son of Bayelle to soon inherit it once his father steps down from the throne. It was an undeniable fate that all the nobles of the kingdom had long anticipated, yet the future king found himself with two left legs despite his head on right. Their reflections appeared on the polished marble beneath their feet.

“That is true, but you cannot say that and ask I, of all people, to tutor you in ballroom etiquette. His Highness could have just simply asked His Majesty for a qualified woman, rather than begging his father's counselor for tips.” The counselor shakes his head.

Prince Ardee Matheiu looks upon his father's counselor curiously. “Sire, I've heard great things about your knowledge of dance. Why are you so adamant on denying your talents?”

A deep laugh rises up from Sir Justin's throat, one that belied his young years. It was a mocking laugh—though you'd be unsure whether it was directed to himself or the royal standing across him. “‘Talents?’ Has the Devil told you that, or a humorous conman?”

“Do not speak ill of your abilities, I command. I'm sure that you cannot be as unskilled as you say—I am learning lots from you during our evening practices,” he argues, moving a step closer to the counselor.

In return, the counselor steps forward as well, meeting the regal figure eye to eye. His gaze narrows by a fraction as he observes the expression on Prince Ardee Matheiu’s face. Wide-eyed, he mentally notes. Naive. He silently wonders to himself how he would fare in the future under such a ruler, one so opposite from the current one he worked under and advised.

“Thank you for your… generous words, Your Highness,” Sir Justin pauses, contemplating his next words, “but you needn't flatter me. Diplomacy is of importance, yes, but this is not the manner of which one uses it in their experiences. You must use it in places such as meeting rooms and negotiations, not empty ballrooms with a mere counselor.”

“It is not flattery,” he says plainly.

With yet another sigh, Sir Justin's gloved hand lifts up to adjust the glasses on his face. “Do not be so stubborn with me now. Come along, we must practice once more if you do not want to be ‘bastardized’, yes?”

The prince moves forward against the counselor, offering his hand to the other man. As they begin to pace through the silent dance once more, their shoes click against the ground melodically. A silent orchestra. He murmurs the countings under his breath as they move, gaze instinctively glancing at the pair of feet below them every now and then before the counselor calls him to attention. The words pull his eyes to meet with Sir Justin's, the pair of glasses acting as a protective barrier between the view of each other's souls.

so, what the hell is a judee? simple! it's the ship name between my two friends, justin and ardee. marjudee is the ship name between maryone, justin, and ardee. (will be posting marjudee content soon!)

also, musti (often spelled as musty) is maryone x justin. this will be more rare and exist mainly in au's i'll be posting soon!

anyway, im kind of obsessed with their chemistry. so, here's my essential plan for CHANCE (part 1 is already posted!):

[IN PROGRESS] Part 1: CHANCE

Gambler!Justin x Casino Owner!Ardee

— in which a casino owner, ardee aarons, is going bankrupt because someone (cough, justin) keeps winning. he needs him out.

>> yes, ardee will get his money back. and, yes, he will almost certainly fall in love.

justin coleman is the luckiest man in the world. he wins every poker game without cheating. he wins every lottery he's been in. he's never stepped in poop, nor has he ever tripped over a stone.

the one thing he isn't lucky with? people.

and it just so happens that there's a certain way he can get one to stay. (cough, ardee.)

here's the deal without me spoiling too much of my plans (or not revealing that i actually don't have anything detailed out): ardee and justin are the main couple and will end up together. you'll have to wait for the next parts of CHANCE to release to figure out the whys and hows.

however! there's more.

you know how ardee is still bankrupt financially, despite finding love? and justin still has to pay taxes, even if he won them through gambling?

cue: the debt collector.

[UNRELEASED] Part 2: FORTUNE

Debt Collector!Maryone x Gambler!Justin x Casino Owner!Ardee

— ardee's casino owes some debt, and justin hasn't paid his taxes. unlucky for them, a strict debt collector has been assigned to both their cases: maryone dane.

>>> will they end up poorer than before or will they find fortune in another?

stay tuned. stay shipping. and stay marjudeelicious. peace

Gambler!Justin x Casino Owner!Ardee

It all started with a simple bet. A game of chance, probability—it was a gamble that nobody dared to test.

Except for a particular bankrupt casino owner.

Glass buildings stood tall within the dim of the night, the moon rising above the clouds. Cars rushed along the streets, as if guilty for a crime uncommitted, hastily on a getaway to god-knows-where.

In the streets of New York City, the concrete jungle, stood the Aarons Casino. Large neon signs, red carpet, slot machines everywhere; the whole shebang. The place was packed every night until the rise of dawn met the windows, where anyone who was crazy enough to stay for the whole night stumbled out with empty pockets.

The Aarons Casino was a place for the hopeless and the rich, searching for a purpose in a world of opportunity. Though, oftentimes, the lines between the two classes were blurred by a mutual greed.

Ardee Aarons had thought that this cycle of wins and losses were to fuel the casino’s income until he would retire. Keyword: thought.

In a matter of just three years after the highly successful opening of Aarons Casino, customers were leaving, complaining about a particular man that kept participating in card games—and kept winning every time.

The casino owner runs a hand through his hair in irritation, rolling backwards in his office chair. “All the customers are complaining, yet..” he sighs, looking at the CCTV clips. No tricks. Nothing at all. “It's almost like he's just.. lucky.”

His monitor plays the clip over and over again on a loop. The same man. Winning and winning and winning and—

“Damn it.”

It should've been impossible.

The lucky winner, every single damn time: a man with a certain kind of risk to his demeanor, a stiff walk with an uncomfortable amount of confidence for someone with a hunched back. Black-rimmed glasses stood square upon the bridge of his nose, gleaming under the warm lights of the casino.

A man by the name of Justin Coleman.

The Gambler.

From the side of the room, Ardee's secretary leaned against the wall before pushing herself forward with an exasperated huff. She crosses her arms, looking down at her boss seated at the desk with her chin raised.

“Lucky?” Noreen scoffs. “Lucky doesn't even cut it. The man hardly looks at his cards when he plays, and he uses eenie-meenie-miney-moe to pick how much he wants to bet—and that asshole still wins.”

With a shake of his head, he runs his tongue across his dry, nervous lips. “Shit. If he keeps winning, we'll go bankrupt—but we can't just kick him out.”

Kicking the gambler out would mean risking the casino's reputation since Coleman wasn't cheating, but keeping him in would have even worse consequences.

A thick moment of silence envelopes the office, the smell of coffee hinting at the nights gone unslept. Noreen approaches a painting on the wall, hovering her fingers over the dried paint.

Noreen's nails drag against the landscape, her gaze softening as she remembers how this was the first non-monetary prize Ardee had won from a bet.

Her fingers abruptly halt as she turns around to face Ardee. “Why don't you bet against him?” She suggests.

“Another bet,” Ardee raises an eyebrow, “do you hear yourself?”

With a frustrated sigh, Ardee stands from his chair, approaching Noreen. He stands next to her, looking down at her through furrowed brows. Carefully placing a hand on her shoulder, he speaks. “As much as I respect your judgement, Noreen, this is just too much. He already wins enough.”

“And that's exactly why you should challenge him. What, you think a gambler like that isn't going to get off on a casino owner making a bet with him? Whoever wins gets a wish granted. If you win, you can kick him out fairly.” She proposes, shrugging off his hand and jabbing a finger in his face with a smug look.

He leans back in his seat, shaking his head and sighing for the nth time. “Yeah, like that's going to take us out of debt…”

A bet where the loser has to grant the winner’s wish. If Ardee set the odds right, even if it meant bending the rules a little, it wouldn't matter because... well, he's the owner. All he needs to do is get Justin to agree.

The casino owner blinks in realization. Stroking his jaw, he falls into a thoughtful silence. Maybe this would be his way out of the rabbit hole of debt—a chance at salvation.

A chance.

Of course.

His eyes gradually begin to glimmer with satisfaction, the corners of his lips moving upwards. “Oh, that's smart.”

“Why do you question me, again?” His secretary deadpans, facepalming in exasperation. Ardee sheepishly rubs his neck, retreating to his chair and plopping down.

“I'll challenge him an hour after his arrival,” Ardee places his feet on his desk, earning a look of disapproval from Noreen. Nonetheless, he continues. “And that damn gambler will fall right into my hands, and right out of my casino.”

Drifting his attention back to the monitor, the screen displays a crowd immediately rushing out of the building. That could only mean one thing.

Ardee smirks. “Jackpot.”

The crowd hastily parts like the Red Sea, splitting into two waves as a black Rolls-Royce rolls in front of the red carpet entrance of the place. The vehicle comes to a halt.

A chauffeur exits the driver's seat, making their way towards the passenger seat. The chauffeur pauses, hesitant from the expectant gaze of the crowd, then opens the car door, taking a step back.

The atmosphere was charged with anticipation and silence, breaths held in their lungs, frozen in time. A shined black shoe steps out of the vehicle. And then the other.

Within moments, the casino is turned into a lightshow of camera flashes and clicks, the people beginning to shout for the man's attention, pleading for a glance in their direction.

Reporters push against the barricades, bodyguards struggling against the chaos. And yet, the cause of the mayhem nonchalantly steps out of the car, strolling leisurely along the red carpet that led to the revolving doors of the casino.

“Mr. Coleman, how do you do it?” A reporter brings a mic to the man's face, shining with the hunger of the media.

A bodyguard next to Justin pushes the mic away. “He isn't taking questions!”

“A smile to your left, Mr. Coleman!” Someone shouts in the distance, voice quiet amongst the bustle of the crowd.

Another reporter is held back by a different bodyguard, attempting to reach the man. “Mr. Coleman, how do you feel about your overnight wealth?”

People scream his name, calling for his attention in vain, their shouts echoing across the streets. Passerbys stop to watch the havoc in curiosity, the crowd only growing. Mr. Coleman sighs.

He raises his head, turning to the paparazzi. The paparazzi goes quiet, the lightshow of cameras ending. Raising a brow, he tilts his head to the side.

Justin smiles briefly, a picture of finesse compared to the starving reporters that were eager for the latest story. “I’m busy.” He waves his hand lazily, turning back around and entering through the revolving doors.

Behind him, the reporters rush after, but they're held back by the guards.

The gambler adjusts his cuff sleeves, turning his attention to the people he's played against before, greeting him with empty praises and flattery. A particularly boisterous man half his size moves with purpose towards him, face breaking out into a grin.

“Justin, my friend!” Henry approaches him, voice booming yet lacking authority over the room. “You're so famous now, huh? How about sharing some of that with me?”

“.. No.” Justin replies straightforwardly, looking down at Henry's shorter frame with confusion. Shaking his head, he strides past the stunned man easily, making his way to his favourite area—the poker table.

He seats himself at a random table that hasn’t started a match yet, unfazed by the wary glances shot in his direction as he begins to bet. Playing against Coleman was like boarding the Titanic—no matter what you do, the ship is going to sink, just like the numbers in your bank account.

“Yipee,” Justin cheers under his breath after looking at the hole cards he was given, the rest of the players freezing in sheer nervousness. Luck seemed to always be on his side, regardless of whoever was trying to cheat.

The game begins—flopping, folding, calling, betting. Everyone sat stiffly in their seats, trying to read each other. Unlike the others, Justin leans back, as if he didn’t bet his and his grandmother’s entire net worth on this game.

In spite of the bluffs of the players, the cards spoke for themselves. Another royal flush from Justin.

He pulls the pot towards himself in satisfaction with a resonating chuckle, “How about a second round?” the winner suggests with a casual tone, dismissing the fact that he put nine other people in soul-crippling debt. At his question, the players quickly stand from the table.

One woman claims her husband is waiting at home, a man supposes it’s time to take his fish for a walk, and another person leaves the table without an excuse. It was difficult to blame them—after all, there was no chance that they’d win against the Justin Coleman.

As everyone quickly stands up to leave, Justin sighs as he checks his silver Rolex for the time.

As if by fate, the hands hit exactly at 10 PM, marking the start of the next hour. He stretches his arms up, almost tempted to go to a gambling machine instead of remaining at the table, when the buzz of the casino suddenly pauses.

“Huh?” He lifts his head in interest, sensing someone looking. His gaze flickers to a figure standing on the interior balcony.

The figure’s tanned skin gleams under the warm lights of the casino, eyes carefully scanning the ground floor. Finally, they land on Justin.

Aarons leans against the railing as he makes eye contact with Coleman. A smile slowly forms on his face, and he descends. With every step down the flight of stairs, he commands respect. Patrons and staff nod at him with reverence as he passes.

10 PM sharp, just as planned.

Ardee’s eyes remain on Justin, whose gaze doesn’t shy away either. He stops just a few feet before the gambler.

The casino owner looms over the table, smiling down at Justin. “Evening, Mr. Coleman. Enjoying another game of poker? You’ve earned yourself quite the reputation around here, or so I’ve been told. The lucky winner.”

“Thank you, Mr. Aarons. The owner, right?” Justin stands, shaking hands firmly, the touch simultaneously warm and ice cold, devoid of any real familiarity. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

“Haha... only for you, Mr. Coleman.” Ardee chuckles, his backhanded comment seemingly flying straight over Justin’s head.

Coleman clears his throat, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “So.. you came here to talk to customers?”

“Not just any customer—” he places a hand on Justin’s shoulder with a professional smile— “you. Actually, you’ve been causing quite a few issues here which have been.. concerning the other customers.”

“Oh.” Justin stiffens.

A laugh is elicited from Ardee at his awkward reaction, finding amusement in the other man’s demeanor. “Don’t worry. I don’t hold grudges,” he reassures, causing Justin’s shoulders to relax.

He clears his throat before resuming. “I see the table’s empty. Nobody wants to challenge your throne, hm?” The shorter man gestures to the poker table Justin sat at.

“No, they all just had something to do.” Justin shakes his head.

“How.. convenient.” Ardee trails off with a smirk, musing to himself for a moment. Snapping away from his train of thought, he speaks again. “Well, I can’t be complaining. After all, I’ve been wanting to have some.. one-on-one time with you. I heard your playstyle is quite vigorous.”

“.. I’m straight.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Reganing his temporarily lost composure, Ardee straightens himself with a sigh. “Ahem. What I meant was, would you like to play with me?” The casino owner flashes him a smile.

A casino owner, suddenly offering to play with a VIP—it wasn’t entirely implausible or alien, yet Justin felt as if there was an ulterior motive. One that would set him off his winning streak—not that he was particularly concerned about losing, though.

In skepticism, the man with glasses rubs his neck. “Uh... okay.”

The chair's legs scrape against the intricate carpet floor as they both seat themselves. Heads turn in the direction as people naturally gravitate towards the pair sitting at the table. A croupier takes the cards, nervously glancing at Ardee.

“Well, go on,” Ardee encourages the croupier, gesturing for them to begin shuffling. The croupier nods and begins to shuffle with precision.

Justin adjusts his glasses. “What are we betting?” he asks.

With a smirk, the other man responds. “How about this: whoever has the most chips by the end of the game wins. If I win, you’ll grant me a wish. If you win, I’ll grant you a wish. Deal?”

A hand extends out to Justin. Justin’s eyes flick between the owner’s face and his hand in contemplation. His own hand twitches in excitement, tempted to reach out and eagerly shake on it, but he stops himself.

“If I win…” Justin starts, “let me play against you everyday. One match.”

Ardee’s hand falters slightly. “One match a day? I don't have time for that.”

Justin takes his hand, grabbing it just before it falls. “Then make time.”

Make time.

The words echoed in his head. Simple, straightforward. Like the Ardee Aarons could easily set aside time for a game with the one man killing his golden goose, the casino.

A series of whispers echo around them, overpowering the jazz band playing in the background. The dealer gives the casino owner a hesitant look as they shuffle the cards, purposefully grown nails leaving an indent on a card.

Mr. Aarons looks back at the dealer, nodding at him. Then, he turns to look at Justin again, firmly shaking his hand with newfound confidence. “Alright. I'll take you up on your deal.” He smiles.