#I must say his glasses are top tier

[erineas]

Thinking about possibilities...

Butch belongs to @sans-guy

#There's so many people to blame for this #But I have a top three #You know who you are #Or maybe not #At least just one of you knows #Also their crooked smiles 💞 #I'm learning to love Butch #I must say his glasses are top tier #He looks HAWT with them on #Srry if I end up brainroting #Already did like three sketches in two hours #Butch #Horror Sans

[danikamariewrites]

Could I possibly request a Modern! Rhys x reader decorating for the holidays with their daughter and doing little holiday traditions like building gingerbread houses, making cookies for Santa, or going to see Christmas lights? Their daughter coming downstairs cause she heard “Santa” and she sees “Santa” kissing her mommy🤭

In my head, whether it’s a modern au or the canon universe, Rhys absolutely LOVES the winter holidays and will gladly go all out for those.

Holiday Preparations

Modern!Rhys x reader

A/n: I also think Rhys loves the winter holidays (especially since Feyre’s bday is solstice) and loves to make them special

Warnings: none

December 1st Rhys is pulling the decorations out of the attic and playing Christmas music

He’s always the one to get the family in the holiday spirit

While you and Rhys handle the bigger decorations you guys let Isla put out the smaller ones

Isla loves hanging the stockings herself, it’s so cute how proud of herself she is. Rhys lifts her so she can reach the hooks on the mantle and when he puts her down she stands back with her little hands on her hips smiling, “wow, good job everyone.”

Tree shopping is the last big thing to do

Rhys always gives Isla a piggyback ride as you look at trees

When you find your perfect tree Isla gets so excited. Rhys makes sure he picks her up so she can inspect every inch of it putting her on his shoulders last to make sure the top is perfect for the star

When it’s to to decorate You put the lights on while Rhys opens up the ornament boxes. Isla has more ornaments than the two of you combined

You and Rhys happily hand them over to your baby girl who loves each and every one of them

When it’s time for the Star Rhys puts Isla on his shoulders and you hand it to her

Sometimes you send Rhys and Isla out for new decor and baking stuff or for small gifts for friends and family throughout the month

Rhys bought a santa hat for him and an elf hat for her for running errands

She always giggles when Rhys puts the hat on her head and says, “let’s go little elf! Mrs. Clause needs stuff to make Christmas happen.”

Making gingerbread houses is the second most important tradition after decorating the tree

Isla loves sticking any and all candy she can on hers while you and Rhys compete to see who can make the better house

Decorating sugar cookies for Santa is another family favorite

“Not too much frosting, Santa doesn’t like them too sweet.” You roll your eyes at him since he’s doing this for his own good

You like baking and keeping the house smelling Christmasy all month. You love making sure there’s a Christmas treat for your family everyday

On the weekends you take Isla to do different holiday activities like looking at the lights, ice skating, and her favorite, the Christmas village and seeing Santa

You and Rhys help her write her letter and list (mainly so you guys know what she wants without having to decipher her handwriting)

You and Rhys wrap gifts while Isla is asleep and enjoy a few glasses of wine

The few glasses of wine lead to you two making out under mistletoe that Rhys holds above your head

Movie night on Christmas Eve is always a must. And you guys have matching Christmas PJs. You each pick one movie and you have to watch it. This year Rhys picked the newer version of the Grinch, you picked Home Alone, and Isla picked Beauty and the Beast the Enchanted Christmas (top tier movie go watch it)

When you two tell Isla it’s time for bed she insists on staying up to catch Santa, “No! I need to see him and ask him what he wants for Christmas!” “That’s very nice of you sweetie, but santa has so many houses to get to. Maybe when you’re older.”

She begrudgingly lets you and Rhys tuck her in

The next morning when she comes down stairs the look on her face is priceless! Rhys hugs you at the sight of your daughters excitement

“Merry Christmas, darling.” He whispers as Isla starts picking out gifts to open. “Merry Christmas my love.”

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar reader fic #acotar reader imagine #acotar imagine #rhysand fanfic #rhysand headcanon #rhysand headcanons #rhysand x reader #rhysand imagine #acotar rhysand #rhysand acotar #rhysand #rhysand x you fluff #rhysand x reader fluff #rhysand x you

[mr-m-murdock]

REQ!! jealous nat x flirtatious r ?? reader that makes nat jealous on purpose.

fuck around and find out

warnings: idk. possessiveness?

a/n: jealousy? god tier. thank you anon (free beefy!nat crumbs for ya too)

The drink that the bartender sets down in front of you is pink and yellow, and there's a pink straw and a tiny cocktail umbrella lolling against the edge of the glass.

"Uh..." you say. "Don't think I ordered that, thanks."

"It's from the lady at the end, blue dress," he replies. He shrugs. "I can tell her to back off if you want." He can probably see Nat glaring at you from across the room. Or maybe he saw her making out with you on one of the couches less than ten minutes ago.

You shake your head. "Nah, thanks." You lift the glass in the direction of the woman at the other end of the bar, and she watches you take a sip with a smile on her face. So it's gonna be one of those kind of nights. You've already made up your mind, anyway - Natasha's been irritating you all evening. Taste of her own goddamn medicine.

You take a sip as the woman sits down beside you. It tastes strongly of pineapple. “Fruity,” you say, and you look her up and down. Her dress is stunning.

She laughs. "I've got an intuition for that kind of thing," she replies, and she shifts closer to you.

"You come here with anyone?" you ask. You don't usually play it deliberately obtuse, and she gives you an odd look.

"No," she says. "All alone." She's tall, all legs, and she's looking at you like she wants to take you home. You consider, if this were happening four months ago, would you let her? She's your type: confident in her dominance and ready for anything the second she set eyes on you.

Maybe.

She's still looking at you, not perturbed by your silence, and loose hair has fallen from behind her ear. You take another sip of your gifted drink.

You can see reflections shift in the mirrored bar top - time's almost up.

"So where are you from?" you ask, leaning forward, forearm on the smooth bar top. The woman grins at you.

"Chicago," she says. A shadow rears in the reflective counter.

"Oh really? Is it cold there?" You might as well be batting your eyelashes at her, but you can see the exact second the woman realises who's stepped up behind you.

Natasha's hand lands on your shoulder firmly.

You tilt your head back a little and look up at her: you can see the gold of her necklace glinting against her collarbone and a curl of red hair, but the rest of her face is lost in the bright overhead lights. Her shoulders are tight. "Hey, babe," you say. You lay your hand on top of hers and squeeze.

"Hi," she says. Her voice is masterfully clear and casual. "Who's this?" You can hear her eyebrows raise.

"I'm making friends," you reply, cheerful as what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it can be. The woman, in the corner of your eye, looks like she's about to on-god pass out.

"The taxi's just pulled up," Natasha says. You look up at her and she looks down at you: undecipherable. She's so good at it. You have such an urge to make her crack.

You frown. "It's barely past midnight, I haven't even-"

"I'm tired." She cuts you off - not sharp, but firm. She's situating herself in control, where she always is. Up in her seat with your head on her knee.

The woman turns away awkwardly. Natasha thumbs at your cheek, and it would be a sweet touch if you couldn't feel the edge of her nail dragging against your skin. Oh, she's so bored of you getting on her nerves. You want to push her further.

You shrug and detach yourself from her grip, turning to the bar and taking a careless sip of your drink. "I'll join you at home."

She laughs, out loud: and she must not mean to, because it's quiet and restrained. But she takes it in her stride. "Don't be an idiot, you have to be up tomorrow morning." She tugs at your hair affectionately.

"I'm a big girl," you say, feigning annoyance, and you pull your hair out of her reach and take another sip of your drink. It's intensely sweet.

When you look up at her again, straw still halfway into your mouth, she's searching your face. It's possible that she can't tell whether you're being deliberately obtuse and annoying, or whether you're more drunk than you seem and are actually insisting on staying. She must come to a conclusion: her expression closes off.

"I'm going home, then," she says. A test. How exciting.

"Okay." You pluck the paper umbrella from your drink and reach up to tuck it behind her ear. Then you give her a smile and you pull the straw into your mouth and suck.

She gives you a murderous look that slides quickly off her face.

Then she turns away and walks out.

You give it ten seconds before you can't do it any longer, unable to stop from grinning to yourself, and then you slide off your seat and make after her, leaving your drink at the bar.

She's already in the elevator; fuck, but she's fast in heels.

"Nat!" you say, quickening your pace. For a second, as she turns in the elevator to look at you, you think she's not going to hold the doors. But she does, waving a lazy, reluctant hand between them, and they bounce back open. You stagger in, a little windswept, and she crosses her arms at you.

You wait until the doors slide closed again.

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all. "I was joking." You're not even trying to hide your smile now. "Are you really going home?"

"You're really fucking annoying," she says, through gritted teeth. All pretenses dropped. "I was having a nice time, for once."

"You didn't have to storm out," you say. Your smile is splitting your face now. She's so jealous. You step up to her and link your arms around her waist. In her heels, she's taller than you, and you can feel the muscles in her back when you twist your fingers into her dress. She looks down at you blankly. "Did you get a bit possessive?" you tease.

Natasha doesn't answer for a while. She just stares at you, mouth working ever so slightly. Then she steps forward, so forcefully you have to move back, and she backs you up against the wall of the elevator without even putting a hand on you. You feel the whine of machinery against the back of your skull. She presses her forehead down against yours and sets her palms against the wall either side of your head.

"You're very brave," she says, "to be playing games with me." Her teeth flash. You grin up at her, holding her close, relishing in the excitement her voice elicits in your belly.

"You're such a big bad wolf, huh?" you say. You run your fingers down her back and feel her shudder in response, her eyes momentarily closing. "So big and bad you won't even let your girlfriend talk to other women?"

"I'm not stopping you from doing whatever you want," Natasha says. She kisses your cheek, the promise of something worse beyond her lips. "I'm just reminding you that there are consequences." Those last words are spoken directly into your cheekbone.

"Big bad wolf," you say again, a whisper this time. "Woof, woof."

Natasha's lips move from your cheek to your neck, kissing you over the chain of your necklace. She takes it in her teeth and moves it aside. She presses another kiss, open-mouthed, over your pulse, then laughs when she feels the quick-set beat beneath your skin. You can't help it. She drives you crazy. "Oh, baby," she murmurs. "Do you get such a kick out of embarrassing me?"

"Yes," you breathe. The chrome of the elevator is hazy now. "You're so pretty when you're angry."

She doesn't answer you. Then you feel her teeth on your skin. More, more, until it's painful. She's right up against you, and one hand drops to creep up your thigh, bunching up your dress.

You take in a huge breath of air, but the vertigo of the elevator and the feel of her mouth at your neck is dizzying. "Oh, fuck," you whine. "Nat, we shouldn't do this here." You make a reluctant attempt at pushing her away and she growls into your neck. The other hand pushes at your breastbone, pressing you hard to the wall.

The bell goes for the first floor and she pulls away, leaving you panting against the wall. She inspects the side of your neck, ignoring the pitiful look you're giving her. The side of her mouth lifts up.

The realisation hits you. "Are you fucking kidding me?" you exclaim, as the elevator doors slide open.

Your head whips round. Tony Stark, with four other Avengers at his shoulders, stares at the two of you. "Oh," he says. He takes in your face, where you know a bright flush has spread, and the crumpled fabric of your dress, and the hickey Nat just gave you, and he starts to grin. "Romanoff, you dog," he says.

Words fail you. You're not sure they would have made anything better, with the way five superheroes are gaping at you. Bruce Banner is almost as red as you.

Nat takes your hand and tugs you forward. "Excuse me," she says, and she drags you right through the little crowd, purposefully shunting Stark aside, and into the bright foyer.

You follow, your burning face to the floor, and you wait until you're sat in the safe, dark confines of Natasha's passenger seat to turn and glare at her. You're still blushing, and that probably detracts from how angry you're trying to look.

"You look cute in that dress," she says, conversationally. The streetlights flicker over the smirk that's growing on her lips.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you exclaim, your voice hysterically high. "You asshole!"

"I don't think I know what you mean," Natasha replies, making a smooth right turn.

"Don't know what I mean my ass," you growl. "You marked me up and then paraded me past all your friends!" She grins at the windscreen and you groan and sink your face into your hands. "Oh, god, that was mortifying." Bruce Banner's face swims in your mind's eye.

You feel her hand, warm, land on your thigh.

"You are so making it up to me," you grumble.

Nat's laughing at you, quiet, just a triumphant little snicker. She fingers the hem of your dress, then pulls her hand away to flick on her indicator. "I'm not making anything up to you," she says. You glare at her through your fingers, and she's grinning at you. "You started it, sweetheart. This is how it ends." And with deft hands, she makes another turn. True to her word, she doesn't make it up to you. In the end, you make it up to her: and you're not sure how that exchange happened.

But really, it was your fault. You should have picked a less sadistic girlfriend.

requests | masterlist

taglist: @when-wolves-howl @fayhar  @maggieromanov  @transbi-spidey @romanoffscottage @blackxwidowsxwife @lizlil @screechcat @maddess @mellxa @haeva @diaryoflife @natashasilverfox @vicmc624  @strangegardentaco  @phantomvael @lorsstar1st  @blckrwidow @ima-gi--na-tion @paryl @picnicmic   @smalls-words @lainjupi  @d1s0nym @meimei-a @the-v01d @kqmui @s1ut4nat @btay3115  @natblackwidow2 @lokisjuicyass @mmmmokdok  @thorya22  @olicity-boo @iliketozoneout

#natasha romanoff x reader #fic! #m answers #anon cuties #written fic for anon #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff

[javiddenkins]

Javid Denkins is not interested in answering questions. 

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across from Denkins in a conference room at the AMC Studios offices. Denkins declined to meet anywhere more personal than this beige and glass room, impersonal Muzak buzzing through the speakers, windows overlooking an empty studio lot. There are posters on the wall but none, strangely, for Blow the Man Down, the runaway hit Denkins conceived, writes, and now showruns. 

Blow the Man Down, or BTMD as it's frequently referred to by fans and journalists alike, is a workplace comedy set in the Golden Age of Piracy. This unusual premise would be interesting enough even without the top-tier leads brought on by AMC to play opposing pirate captains Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur—Oscar Issac and John Boyega light up the screen and bring surprising comedy chops to the pirate-filled stage they share with such talents as Michelle Yeoh ("Zheng Yi Sao") and Sam Neill ("Captain Benjamin Hornigold"). 

But beyond that, BTMD seems to be that rare thing in mainstream media: a slow romance between two middle-aged men finding love for the first time. The first—and so far, only—season ends on a cliffhanger, our heroes separated by an ocean but determined to reach one another, and their love story—if it is one—stays unresolved. 

Usually an interview like this—between seasons, after renewal and filming but before advertising—would be the perfect opportunity to delve into the mind behind the magic and attempt to tease out hints about what's to come. 

But Denkins seems determined to ignore Hollywood's traditional playbook. 

Whether this is the standard conference room used for interviewing reluctant showrunners, or if Denkins picked it especially for the purpose, I'll never find out. I've already been waiting half an hour, uncertain if Denkins intends to join me at all. When he does finally arrive, he makes his position clear. 

"I'm only doing this because you agreed to my terms," he says. 

I'd describe what he looked like, if he had a coffee or a snack or a smoker's twitching nerves, if he sounded tired or amused or angry—but I can't. If you see a description here, it's because Denkins decided, for whatever reason, to approve it. Otherwise, sharing my impression of Denkins is off the table, one of many terms and conditions my editorial team and I had to agree to before Denkins would accept this meeting. 

Denkins doesn't want to make my job easy. Photos of him do exist from the few red carpets he's attended; enthusiastic interviews with the cast, writers, and production team of BTMD definitely paint a picture that belies Denkins's apparent efforts to avoid perception. But here and now, in the oppressive air conditioning of the AMC offices, I am contractually obligated to interview a cipher.

If he can be all business, though, then so can I. I hit a button on my phone's recording app, set it down between us, and ask what made him decide to tell the story of an obscure pair of pirates like Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur.

He shrugs. "Why does anyone write anything? This is my job." 

It's not the kind of answer I was expecting. Something must show on my face, because he follows with, "That's unsatisfying, isn't it. No definitive answer."

"It's not what I expected," I hedge.

"What did you want to hear?"

I try to gather my thoughts, but I'm definitely stalling, uncertain that this is what Denkins intends. "I did a little research," I say. "Not as much as I imagine you did, but I found some of Bellamy and Levasseur's history together and, later, apart. Bellamy's ship is the only fully authenticated Golden Age shipwreck in the world, so it makes sense that the wrecking of the Whydah is an important turning point in season one. Levasseur, on the other hand, is best known for the mystery of his encoded treasure map, flung into the crowd at his hanging and only ever partially solved, which you seem to have used as a foundation for the coding and decoding motifs throughout. But for a show that seems determined to discuss the consequences of fame and reputation, it's fascinating that you've chosen two men most casual viewers have never heard of."

"Outside the narrative they built for themselves," Denkins corrects. "Is there a question in there?"

I remember again that Denkins isn't here to make this easy for me. "Why not choose one of the more well-known pirates of the era? Henry Morgan, Captain Kidd, and Blackbeard are all arguably more famous both now and when they were alive. What made you choose Bellamy and Levasseur for this story?"

"I think," Denkins says, "I just answered that. There's a difference between how you perceive yourself, and how the world perceives you. Those famous pirates retained their notoriety even after death. Sam and Ollie did have reputations when they were alive, but if people today know them at all, it's typically for reasons completely unrelated to whatever little fame they achieved in life."

"And that fascinates you?"

Denkins looks irritated. "It doesn't matter what fascinates me. That's the story, that's—look, I don't know how to write a puff piece like this," Denkins says. "I don't know if it would really sound like this, if anyone would bother caring enough about what I want to get this far."

"Excuse me?" I say.

"Do you honestly think," Denkins says, "there's a single journalist out there that would actually agree to these interview conditions? This is a fantasy, a what-if, and it still doesn't work."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," says Denkins, "I didn't even give you a name."

And that's true, I realize. I don't have a name. 

"Right," says Denkins, as if hearing my thoughts—and I suppose, in a way, he does. "And you don't know how you got here, and you don't know where you'll go after. I made you up. I made all this up."

I look at my recorder, which isn't a recorder. I look at the room, which isn't a room. 

"Okay," I say. "So what did you want to happen?"

Denkins taps my phone's screen to stop the recording. Denkins imagines me noticing that he taps the screen, and so this must have meaning. There is no room for junk words and actions in prose, and even less in television. Whatever's on the page has to have meaning, or it's wasted space, wasted time, a moment that could have been useful now gone and never coming back.

Denkins shoves my phone back to the center of the table and says, "I wanted to see if I could just talk about the story without making it about me."

"But you're part of it," I point out. "You have to be. It came from you. It was something you thought was important, and then you put the effort in to create it. The story exists because of you, in relation to you. That's why people, why fans, want to know more about you. They love the story, and you made it, so they want to love you, too."

"I don't like that," says Denkins. "Rephrase it."

"They love the story," I say, parroting back at my creator, "and you made it. They want to know about you so they can know more about what the story means."

Denkins's chair creaks as he pushes it back, puts his head in his hands. I wonder if he's doing that in the real world, too, in the place where he's imagining this interview that will never exist. 

(Except I'm not the one wondering. He is. He's wondering what an interviewer would think of him if he allowed himself to show this weakness. Rephrase. Show this ache. Rephrase. Show this.)

"I'm not a story," Denkins says, face still hidden. The Muzak piped into the room seems too loud, too discordant now. Maybe that's what the world sounds like to him. "I'm not imaginary. I'm not a specimen to study under a microscope until every part of me is uncovered and connected one by one to every part of the show." He drags his hands back down and I think I can say that he looks very, very tired. 

"Yes, maybe I put some of myself in Blow the Man Down," he continues. "Maybe I did in season two as well. Maybe I put something in The Gang, and maybe I'll put something into whatever else I make for the next fifty years. And what I put there is—will be—has to be—my choice. All things I chose to share. But this?" He waves a hand at the nonexistent conference room, at nonexistent me. "This isn't a choice. It's a demand. I'm being held hostage for answers, as if me keeping my boundaries somehow ruins the show, ruins the story."

"Because you're not a story," I repeat back, watching for confirmation. "Because what you choose to reveal is the only story the audience should need."

"Yes," says Denkins. "That's it."

That's not it, though. I know this, because I'm him, talking to himself. Thinking all this through. 

"So you cut yourself off," I say. "No one can know anything about you, because they're already clawing for what you're not willing to share—so how much worse would it get if you gave them a chance to come closer, right?" 

"To take, and get it wrong anyway," he says. "Or get it right, but not like it. Not like me. How I'm perceived might change how the story is perceived. And even skipping over the whole art of it all—this is a business. How the story is perceived affects dozens, if not hundreds of people and careers. And all of it can get destroyed in an instant if there's some aspect of me that the audience decides is wrong."

Denkins pushes back from the table, stands up as if to leave. I'm not done yet, though. He's not done yet.

"Sounds lonely," I say.

"Sounds like something a fan would say," he shoots back, and I shrug.

"Blame yourself for thinking it and making me say it, then. It sounds lonely. It is lonely. It's lonely to think there's no way that you could open yourself up, talk about who you are and what your art means to you, without feeling like someone, everyone, will take advantage of that vulnerability."

I pause, and in that pause I find something to latch onto. "You've imagined me," I say. "You've imagined this scenario, where you stay cut off and oblique and hidden." I pick up my phone from where it's placed between us, and I shut it down completely—not because it exists, but because it's a symbol he understands. "What would happen if you imagined being part of the story?" I ask. Rephrase. "What would happen if you imagined being free?"

We look at each other. The tinny music of this artificial space comes to a sudden halt.

Denkins leaves the room. 

I am—

Denkins comes back. He sits down. He looks at me.

Time doesn't exist in the beige and glass room. But behind him, now, there is a poster of Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur, a drilled coin on a cord stretched taut between them. And the Muzak hasn't restarted.

Denkins looks different. Or maybe he just feels different. Those things are functionally the same, here.

"You know the old movie trailers?" Denkins starts, not really a question. "The ones that start with 'in a world…'"

I nod. 

He smiles a little. "Okay. In a world where Blow the Man Down doesn't exist. Let's say there's something else instead. Let's say it's called Our Flag Means Death. It's a workplace comedy, it's the Golden Age of Piracy, the works. They even manage to kiss in the first season, though the cliffhanger is worse. And in that world, there's a different guy who runs it, a guy named David Jenkins, who seems nicer and more outgoing and shares a lot more of himself than I do. And I think it goes mostly okay for him, except he has to scrub his social media, delete most of his Instagram, and never gets to name his wife anywhere in case a fan might notice and start following her around."

"Sounds grim," I say.

He shrugs. "It's another way of handling it. David, in that world, has made a choice to draw the enemy fire toward himself, instead of hiding away and letting it scatter at random. It seems to work okay for him, and maybe it would for me too, but, you know. Maybe that's a little of myself I gave Ollie. Because I also like the idea of testing something first, all the way to destruction."

A little of myself. This—this is personal information. Something that, in the negotiations that never happened, he said he'd never give me.

My phone, with its blackened screen, is right there. I keep my hands still, folded together, decidedly not reaching for the phone. Denkins watches, sees. His shoulders loosen; neither of us, I think, realized how tense he'd been.

"In that world," he says, "there's a second season coming that no one knows anything about and there's a fandom going feral. Echo chambers that feed off their own theories because there's nothing new to add to the pot. Just like our world, right? In the absence of good data, overwrought ideology works just as well.

"And in the middle of this, to provide a distraction, maybe, or to draw that enemy fire like he so often does, David Jenkins says he'll get a Tumblr—you know, one of those not-really-social-media internet places. And maybe he does. He doesn't tell anyone his username, so it's a mystery whether he really did it or not. But someone opens an account. And someone says they're definitely not David Jenkins."

Javid Denkins is holding a cup of coffee. So am I, now. We take sips, mirrors of each other. The coffee tastes like it has seven sugars in it.

Denkins swirls his cup gently, not looking up at me. "When you're trying to figure out something that's terrifying," he says, slow and careful, "and enraging, and so big and so much that it feels like you'll collapse under the weight of it…sometimes you need to find a way to conceptualize it more abstractly. Make it manageable. Put it in bite-sized chunks. 

"So instead of me, dealing with all this fame, and these expectations, and these pulls to turn me from a person into a plot point…maybe there's this other guy. In this other universe, with this other pirate show. Another writer, who says he's definitely not David Jenkins. But—he could be. He could be. And either way, there's enough uncertainty that the fandom can't tell right away."

"Schrödinger's showrunner," I say. 

Denkins tips his mug at me. "Yeah, that gets pointed out, too. Because either it's really him and the fandom will eat at him—death by a thousand needy bites of demand, and something that feels like connection but by its nature can't be—or it's not him, just a fan pretending to be him, attention-seeking, scamming, stealing unearned laurels to crown a meaningless triumph: successfully mimicking the concept of David Jenkins."

"Pretty binary."

Denkins shrugs. "You saw the first season. I'm a sucker for duality." 

He hums and looks out the conference room's window. The AMC lot is gone. More accurately, it was never there. Outside the window is an ocean. The water is green-screen perfect, and there are two tall-masted ships in the distance: Bellamy's Whydah Gally and Levasseur's La Louise. They float angled toward one another, counterpart to their captains on the poster behind Jenkins, missing only the drilled coin between them.

"Except," says Denkins, slow and musing as he watches the distant ships, "in the vast multiverse of imaginable possible outcomes, it turns out that there is the very slimmest possible chance of a third thing happening."

There is another ship floating now between the Whydah and La Louise. It's freshly painted, poorly rigged, and its figurehead is a unicorn. Instead of one flag, it has half a dozen. And I know, because Denkins knows, that instead of gunpowder in its hold, it carries jars and jars of harmless marmalade.

"So," I say, "David Jenkins—"

"Oh, definitely not David Jenkins," says Javid Denkins, amusement lighting up his face. He keeps his eyes on that third ship.

"So the person who is definitely not David Jenkins," I say. "He comes and starts a social media account. He answers questions."

"Sort of. Nothing specific, really. Just…narrative likelihoods. Enough to dangle hope. But the fandom wants more. There's a Richard Siken line he sees, that if he'd chosen to stay anonymous maybe he could've actually posted: 'but monsters are always hungry, darling.' It's like that. So he backs up a little, and considers how to hold off the inevitable. The season two hints are vague? Make them vaguer. Add some smoke and mirrors to hide how little substance they have. There are only so many general pirate tropes around? Stretch out how long it takes to get the ones he has. Add steps. Add puzzles. Make the fandom work for it, and maybe they won't notice how little there is to find. Give them an interesting enough box to open, and they'll ignore the fact that there isn't an answer on the inside, just another, smaller box." He tilts his head and looks at me. The light outside is now luminous pink and yellow, flashing off the water and highlighting his face like a duotone painting. "Then he…" Denkins sighs. Puts down his mug. "Then I sit back and see what happens. I see if it's as bad as I think it would be if I did it here, in the real world."

"And is it?"

Denkins reaches out with one hand, tugging my phone over to his side of the table. He starts fiddling with the buttons, attention on it instead of me. "To start with? Yes. And no. It didn't matter that the one thing I promised was that I wasn't David Jenkins. They—the fandom—found me anyway. They assumed I was him. And I was right, of course I was right, they asked me questions. Hundreds of them. Like that was the only reason I existed, like I couldn't just be a regular person like the rest of them, just on Tumblr to read about the Carpathia and get taken out by the color of the sky."

"For better or for worse, you're a public person," I say. "They think they know what it means when a public person breaks down the barrier between themselves and the fans. Even well-meaning people make assumptions."

The recorder is no longer a phone and app; it's an old cassette player with thick plastic buttons like I, or more accurately Denkins, had as a child. It matches the ones his elementary school classrooms had, which in turn looked like the device Mr. Spock carried at his hip to record and interpret data from strange new worlds. 

Denkins, in the here and now, half-presses the play and record buttons, which would trigger the record function if pushed down completely. He holds back. Riding the edge of commitment. Over and over. 

"Yeah," he says. "Yes. That's true. And I could've been completely anonymous if I wanted to be left alone entirely. I suppose I wanted to prove that everything I believe—everything I'm afraid of—is true, and that I'm justified in hiding away, refusing to be 'known' by anyone I haven't specifically agreed to. Hence the thought exercise. And when I was done, and I had my proof," he says, leaving off the recorder buttons to raise a pointed finger at me, "I wouldn't have to see you again either."

We look at each other. "But here you are," I say.

He laughs. It's rusty, but sure. "Here I am," he agrees.

"So what happened?"

"Turns out," he says, "that in that infinite universe of possibilities a writer can dream up, there's a world where, yes, all my worst fears are confirmed…but that's not all that happens."

He stops, and we are both silent for a long, long moment. His fingertips brush over the recorder buttons, repetitive and soothing, like he's calming something feral and unused to human touch.

"Would you believe," he says at last, hushed and small in this glass and beige room floating on a digital sea, "that there is a world where fans—people—don't ask for more than I want to give? Who see the box I'm in, and instead of ripping it open to grasp for whatever good thing they think they can find inside…they give something back. 

"I played it all out, you see." He waves his hand over the recorder. Now there are two of them, sitting side by side, each with a row of thick black plastic buttons along the edge: one to play, one to rewind, one to record, and one to pop open its lid so that the cassette can be changed. One of the recorders is a little bigger than the other. "If I can imagine it," he says, "it has to be possible."

He looks at the two recorders; he's quiet now, talking to himself rather than me. I don't think I'm as necessary as I was before. I think maybe this is just him. Just Denkins in this lonely little room. He moves the smaller recorder so that it's lined up with the larger one, like he's lining up Matryoshka dolls as he reveals them.

"It started small," he says. "There were people who saw my puzzles, and made puzzles back for me, just to play along. People who saw my puzzles, and shared what they knew about them, just to help others play too. Small things. Little things. Possible things. I liked it. I didn't expect it. I…wanted to give back, too. Not just in the story, I mean. It was me who wanted it. Wanted to add to a world, to a community, where that sort of giving could happen. So I went further. I didn't just try to hint at common story beats this other show might hit—I started listening, following, asking what would be most welcome, and then gave that instead. And it grew. It grew until it wasn't really just an experiment anymore. It stopped being an adversarial proof. It started being…something else."

Denkins reaches out, and now there are three recorders on the table. The newest one is the smallest. He lines it up with the others.

"I'd already made David Jenkins," he says, "and in turn he'd made his own Javid Denkins. So why not do it again? This other Javid Denkins, this me who's me but not me, goes deeper. He uses the tools at his disposal. Our Flag Means Death has pirates named Edward Teach and Stede Bonnet. OFMD has a fandom like BTMD does, where people write stories about the characters, for themselves and—for others. Fan fiction. A thing that can be a gift, if you want it to be. So I started to write one."

One by one, Denkins hits the 'play' button on each of the recorders. The cassettes whir, a steady background hum. Each starts playing a part of some orchestral piece. Not the individual instruments, but something stranger. It's as if each cassette contains the whole work, but with fragments missing that the others complete. There are still some gaps in the playback.

Denkins waves his hand over the collection again, and a fourth recorder, smallest of all, appears. He presses play on it too, and the music fills in. It's a pretty little melody. Simple, if you know how to hear it.

Denkins hums a little of it before looking up, seeing me again. "That was it, really. That's what finally made all this small enough for me to understand. Made it small enough, far enough away from my actual world that I could finally let myself feel it. In this story that I'm telling, here is Edward Teach." Denkins touches the smallest recorder very, very gently. "Teach lives in a world where he's not the main character; he's just a fan of a gay pirate romcom called Blow the Man Down. He's tired, and he's angry, and he doesn't know how to deal with the world the way it is, with the fandom as he perceives it. He makes a Twitter account, anonymously, to prove that what he fears is real."

Denkins covers the recorder with both hands, only muffling the music a little. "Here's Edward Teach, made up of all my fears and saying them out loud."

He raises his hands, and now there are two little recorders, the same size, both playing the same parts together. He touches the new recorder with his fingertip, as if it's a bubble that could too easily break. "Here's Stede Bonnet," he says, "made up of all my fears coming true. And then having to live through it anyway." He stares down at this new recorder; the same as the Edward Teach one, but evidently special in some way to Denkins. He says, to me, to it, to the room: "It's a hell of a thing, to need to go so far away just to see what you've been carrying on your back the whole time."

After a moment, he looks back up at me. "In my story," he says, "Stede survives the disaster. My disaster. He survives it, because he has Ed—a love interest, yes, but not just that. He's someone he opened up to. And more than that, I saw—because I could imagine it, and so it must be possible, it has to actually be possible—I saw the fandom become…people."

With both hands, Denkins presses a button on each of these two small recorders.

Their lids pop open.

And from the walls, from the ceiling, from the glass windows and the limitless sea, there comes a multiverse of music.

"These people," says Denkins, tilting his head to listen as the swells of unseen instruments add to the gentle overture of his pocket worlds and turn the piece into something greater than the sum of its parts. "They're not some nameless collective made up of their worst impulses. They're just people. People are complicated. You can never know them completely; they can never know you. All you really get is what they—we—choose to do. 

"And I saw people try to help Stede. People, strangers, who didn't know who he was, not really. And they felt compassion anyway."

After a long moment, just taking in the music, Denkins sighs and carefully closes the lids on the two small recorders. The singing universe becomes just a recorded orchestral piece once again—though no less beautiful for it. He gently pushes the two recorders together until they're touching, side by side, and covers them with his hand. He says, "Ed got to see this. He got to know that even if his worst fear happens, he'll be okay on the other side of it. And he won't be alone." 

He lifts his hand; the two are now one, still playing its little melody.

Denkins picks up this amalgamated recorder and sets it on top of the next largest. He puts his hand over the stack he's just made. "Move it up a level," Denkins says. "David Jenkins, or someone who is definitely not David Jenkins, runs a Tumblr with games and puzzles and digital tools that stretch the boundaries of the narrative. He sees the reactions to his story. Sees fans who know it isn't real, who know that Stede and Ed are characters in a narrative—and nevertheless, these fans, these people, see that these characters are hurting. They try to help. They don't know who's behind the masks labeled 'Stede' and 'Ed,' not really. But they feel compassion anyway."

He lifts his hand. The little recorder atop the larger is gone. The music is different. Not lessened, but changed. It's come closer. 

Once more, Denkins moves the smaller combined recorder onto the last one—or, I suppose, the first of all of them. "So move it up one more time," he says. The music isn't audible in the room now; but I hear it anyway. It's in me. Us. The last little notes coming from the final recorders just a reminder of what the world could sound like.

He covers the top recorder with both hands. His touch is aching and very, very soft. "Here's me. Javid Denkins. I don't know if there's a world where I could open myself up and not have everything burn down in flames. I don't know if it could ever be possible for me to leave this room, open my laptop, and start something, somewhere, called 'definitely not Javid Denkins,' and have it be as beautiful and awe-inspiring as it was in my thought experiment.

"But God," he says, "I want it."

He lifts his hands, and all that's left is the final recorder, the one that was my phone to begin with. The music dissipates completely. But the feeling of it remains. Denkins rests his hands on either side of this solitary recorder. He says, "I don't know if all of that—all of them, my fans, my friends, all of what we made together…I don't know if it already exists for me in the real world. Just waiting for me to be brave enough to look. I don't know. But I think I have to believe that it does. That they do. I have to believe that it's possible not just to imagine that kind of grace, but to live it." 

Denkins brushes his thumb over the last recorder's play button. "I think that's what it means to be human," he says. "To try anyway. To unlock yourself despite your fears, and find hope there waiting for you."

He closes his eyes. I close my eyes. We take a deep breath together.

We open our eyes.

After a moment, I smile at Denkins, a little crooked. I've got one last question to ask, and it's one he might even answer. 

"Who are you, really?" I ask. 

It's something we all have to answer about ourselves eventually, and it seems particularly relevant now.

Denkins shrugs, and his smile mirrors mine. "Does it matter?"

"It feels like it does."

"How about this," he says. "Who are you, really?"

And knowing what I know now…if I'm anyone at all, then I suppose I'm Javid Denkins. An aspect. A reflection. A dream.

And so, in these universes he's imagined, is everyone.

"So," Denkins says. "You think I can start over?"

I smile wider. It feels good. "I'd love that."

He pushes the recorder back to me, and in my heart I hear his laughing request for one last rephrase—

Javid Denkins has been waiting for me.

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across the table from a cheerful enigma. Denkins was already in the room when I arrived, a hot coffee by my seat and a box filled with fresh breakfast pastries and marmalade open and ready to be enjoyed. An advertising standup emblazoned with the unreleased (at time of writing) air date for season two of Denkins's Blow the Man Down takes pride of place at the head of the table. Through the windows opposite, bright sunlight bounces off the buzzing AMC studio lot, and I think I hear a certain pirate romcom's theme music playing quietly over the room's speakers.

Denkins grins at me, and it's easy to see why his actors and writers speak so highly of the experience of working with him. Because I can tell already: this is going to be fun. 

It starts when he leans forward, eyes bright, and presses the record button on my phone for me.

"Let's play," he says, and—we do.

#definitely not david jenkins #definitely not javid denkins #btmd #ofmd

[sirdindjarin]

Streetwise Hercules - (Sierra Six x F!Reader)

Sierra Six is paid to safeguard you. Too bad he's bossy and sarcastic and hot as shit.

A/N: This was supposed to be a 3k blurb and it is ... not. I'm so sorry lmao. I love this man and I want to hold him and never shut up about him.

This is a prequel, but - like Part One - I think you can read it alone. I think it's best to read Parts One and Two first since I wrote this last lol.

Shoutout to @crownofdecit for hyping me up 🥹

TAGS: Angst, Fluff, Lead Up To 👉👌, Snark, Six Being a Sassy Sexy Bitch, Idiots to (Eventual) Lovers

WARNINGS: None. Curse words? Sheer horniness without relief?

WORD COUNT: oh god I don't even want to tell you guys (it's 9.9k. I'm adding lil dividers and breaks because I know it's long)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

How exactly was this place designed to be a “safe” house? 

The house was a single story with more glass than wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the east side, while trees guarded both sides. The lot sits on a downward slope, a valley in the background. 

The amount of glass made it look insecure if anything. But, you had no say in it - if you wanted to be paid, you’d work here. You’d not given your employers a timetable on your project, and you had hoped they wouldn’t request one. They hadn’t. Unfortunately, that meant your stay here would be indefinite.

After a long ride across a border you hadn't been able to read, a mysterious driver had dropped you off in the gravel driveway. A single custodian had been sweeping when you pulled up, and he had been less than welcoming. You’d said, “Hello,” but the young man had simply inclined his head at you and continued his task.

In less than half an hour, you had found your room and unpacked most of your belongings into the rattan dresser. It was evident the money spent on this secluded hide-out was in its design and the protection detail, not the furniture. You notice there is no en-suite bathroom, and the nearest one is down the hall. 

That’s annoying. 

The only other room along this hallway must be the bodyguard’s room. It’s at the opposite end, facing yours. You suppose that’s so he can keep an eye on you, and you sigh. It’s hard to believe you could need all of this fuss. You’ve worked in high-security locations and needed top-tier clearances before, but having to leave your apartment to live in this place while an unknown man supervised you? That was not something you’d get used to quickly.

It was Sunday, so, seeing as you preferred to keep a regular work week, you decided you’d survey your workstation tomorrow. You tour the kitchen. 

A marble countertop complete with a coffee machine, stovetop, and hanging microwave mark the space. Next to the coffee machine, you notice a crystal vase filled with an amber liquid.

Don’t mind if I do. 

The whiskey flows smoothly into your glass, the smoky aroma soothing. You then take a seat at the island bar. The late afternoon light comes through the glass patio door, heating the space. Your head cranes to the right to study the view, mentally wandering through the hills, the trees, and the city far below. The whiskey is excellent, burning your throat pleasantly.

The hinged squeak of the front door opening rings through the house. You swivel counterclockwise on your barstool. A man in a dark gray suit steps over the threshold and into the living room, shutting the door behind him. It’s darker in that section of the house, so he flips the switch to his right. A ceiling fan blinks to life above him, and his blonde hair is highlighted. 

“Oh, hi,” you smile.

You hop off the stool gracefully and stroll through the large, open doorway between the living room and kitchen. Extending your hand, you meet him between the couch and the flat-screen television.  

You’re stunned by how handsome he is. His eyes are kind and brilliantly blue. His hair is parted to the side and lightly gelled, and his suit barely covers the fact that he is rather muscular. That last part you had expected given his job title. 

   “Hello,” he says simply, shaking your hand with the slightest grip.

His jaw is working, and you realize he's chewing gum. When he drops his hand to clasp them together, as if he’s at ease, you notice a tattoo of a palm tree and a sunrise on his left hand. 

“You weren’t supposed to be here yet. I haven’t had a chance to look around.” He chides. 

“Oh,” you’re taken aback by his directness. “I was just given the address and told to be here today. They didn’t give me a time. I wasn’t told anything, actually. Didn’t even tell me who I’d be meeting.” You laugh, hoping he’ll tell you his name without you needing to ask. 

“They didn’t tell you -?” He’s frustrated by the poor organization. Anyone could’ve met you here and you’d have believed anything they said. He decides to make further progress in his planning than he’d originally intended for tonight. “Alright. I’ll get to work. I’ll stay out of your way.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” you insist in reactive politeness. Taking into account his brusque, business-like manner, you amend quietly, “I’ll stay out of yours.” 

He nods once in agreement. 

Taking the hint that the conversation is over, you turn around and head back toward your barstool. The kitchen is dimmed in the growing dark, so as you walk through the doorway, you reach out for the light switch.

From behind you, you hear steps, firm and determined, which make you instinctively turn your head to face him.

“Actually, can you sit here on the couch while I…?” He trails off and makes a circling motion with his index finger. 

“Sure, yeah.” You’re getting nervous about how seriously he’s taking his job, so you sit as he requested. 

Is there an actual threat to me? Am I actually in danger? You eye your whiskey glass on the counter. 

As he steps into the kitchen, he sees the alcohol and quizzes, “Did you bring that yourself?” 

“No,” you answer, already knowing he’s about to tell you that you can't drink it. 

“Don’t drink it.” 

“I believe it was courtesy of my employer. I’ve already had several sips - it’s fine.” You assure, a touch annoyed.

You know caution is his job, so you’re mindful of your tone. His impersonal manners are disappointing given how long you'll be around him.

He doesn't reply. Instead, he looks blankly at you before grabbing the drink and delivering it to you. Your fingers close around his as you take the glass, and you smile in gratitude. 

Something tells him this is going to be a frustrating assignment; you don’t seem to feel at risk. And truthfully, you don’t. He’s here as an extreme precaution on part of your company. But this man appreciated better than anyone that life could change in an instant.

           

The next morning you’re awoken by your alarm. You silence the phone and grab a change of clothes. You crack open your bedroom door, hoping the bathroom is free so you can shower. Luckily, the man from last night is nowhere to be found. 

He never told me his name; that’s so weird, you realize. 

He had checked the house and found nothing of interest, then returned to the living room, motioning to you that you were free to go. He'd spoken no further, and you'd kept your word about staying out of his way.

After getting ready for your day, you walk into the living room to find your workspace. You open the only door you’d not been through: a nondescript wood-paneled barrier beside the kitchen. Sure enough, inside is an array of equipment and a desktop computer. Everything you’d need to perform your job is located in this garage-sized space.

You march into the kitchen to make yourself a pot of coffee. In a cabinet, you’re drawn to a mug with an artist-rendering of the sun. It’s a cloudy morning, so you find it appropriate. 

You stand in front of the coffee maker, waiting patiently for it to stop brewing, drumming your fingers on the counter in time with the song stuck in your head. The hair on the back of your neck prickles, so you turn your head to look around. Seated at the bar behind you is the man, dressed now in a bright blue suit, focused on his laptop. 

“Oh, my god!” You exclaim, nearly dropping the empty mug. “When did you get in here?” 

“You didn’t hear me sit down?” The man queries, his eyes jumping from the mug in your hands to your face. 

“Obviously not,” one hand presses over your heart. You can't help but notice that his eyes match the color of his suit.

He snorts once in levity at your misplaced distress and returns to his computer.

“I’m glad you find it funny, Mr. - ?” You prompt.

"You don't need to call me ‘mister,’” he says politely without looking up. 

“Okay, well, what do I call you? 'Chatterbox'?” You’re irritated by his lack of apology for scaring you and poor conversational skills. 

He looks up sharply, but his eyes are entertained. "I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot,” he states. “You can refer to me as Six.”

Given that this man is your only source of human interaction for an unknown length of time, you're willing to take the second chance. 

You reply, “Okay, Six. The right foot sounds good. We’re stuck in this house together. Let's not make it weird.”

“We’re on the same page, then,” Six observes drily, his eyes returning to his laptop. 

The coffee maker audibly spits out the last few drops into the pot, and you quickly pour yourself a cup; without speaking another word to the man, you disappear into your workspace to begin. 

               

Four weeks later, you’ve established a routine: each morning, you’d pull out the same mug, make your coffee, and wait for Six to make an entrance somehow. He was generally unable to form routines due to his lifestyle, but each morning he would enter the room from a new direction, laptop in hand, and sit. 

The first week, Six’s stealthy entrances had caused you to jump in alarm. He would be standing around the corner or appear behind you when you least expected it. On mornings when you’d slept well, you’d laugh. After that first time, Six started to kindly apologize when he scared you.

He didn’t speak much outside of a “Good morning,” unless you spoke first. Forcing an intimidatingly attractive man who doesn’t want to speak to do so was nerve-wracking. Sometimes you felt too shy to talk to him, but some mornings you were brave enough to ask him how he slept, or what he had planned for the day. He'd always respond with the fewest words in a courteous tone, but you found his patience in indulging your questions somehow charming. 

Six started to find the morning routine oddly compelling. He enjoyed watching you drink from the same mug, the same amount of coffee, and make the same well-mannered smile at him. Technically, it was something mundane, calm, and normal - but not to him. To Six, this was fascinating. He knew that letting himself enjoy the company of another person, however silent he remained, was dangerous for his psyche, but this wasn’t a permanent job - he could be reckless short term.

             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One Friday evening, you send out a week’s-end report to your company then wonder what you’ll do for the next two days. You’d spent the past three weekends working. It’s not a major problem considering your average time off was spent reading or watching your favorite movies on rotation, but you could go for a normal conversation with normal people tonight. 

Unfortunately, you’re not able to leave the house unless approved by Six, and you’re pretty certain that will never happen. He had been nice, but distant and a touch paranoid. Maybe you’d work for a couple of hours to get ahead instead - then you’d be able to go home sooner. 

You stand from the computer in your lab, powering it off. Exiting the room, you’re nearly run into by Six as he leaves the kitchen. 

 “Oh!” You exclaim. “I’m sorry.” 

You’re not surprised by the sudden butterflies in your stomach. He may be reserved, but his physical appeal was impossible to ignore.

"It’s okay,” his arms had gone up automatically to grab your shoulders, but he drops them before touching you. “I’m sorry, I normally hear you.”

“Huh?”

“I usually know exactly where you are because I can hear you. You’re not very quiet.” He speaks without a hint of scorn, but the accusation offends you.

“Of course you can hear me. This is a small house and we’re the only two people in it.”

“You don’t seem to hear me,” Six argues, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He pulls out a stick of gum and pops it in his mouth.

“Because you do your best to scare me to death at every opportunity,” you chastise.

“Scaring you to death would defeat the purpose of my being here."

You have no retort to that, so you brush past his sizable shape and laugh, “Touche.” 

You squat in front of the shelf beside the TV. If the only person you’ll get to be around is Six, you might as well try to make friends.

“Want to watch a movie?” After passing little pleasantries for a month, you figure it’s a normal enough thing to ask him.

You hear him question from behind you: “It’s Friday night; you don’t want to go somewhere?”

“Am I allowed to?” You don’t look at him.

“Not without me.” 

“As much as I’d love to go on a date with you, Six, I think I’ll just sit here.” 

He doesn’t respond, and you hear nothing, despite straining to make out his footsteps. If he is still there, you refuse to turn around and give him the satisfaction of knowing you regret your words, so you try to focus on the movie.

It becomes obvious that he did leave at some point as you hear the water running in the hallway bathroom to your right. You feel your body relax. 

When the movie ends, you pick up a book and retire to your room. As you close the door, Six leaves the bathroom in only a towel. He doesn't see you as he walks toward his own room. His bare back fills your vision despite the distance, and you find yourself staring. He's built powerfully. His smooth skin is broken on his left arm by a jagged, discolored scar. 

You inhale sharply at the visual representation of the kind of life he lives, and his head whips around at the sound. You slam your door shut, praying in vain he didn't perceive you. 

He stares at your now-closed door, one eyebrow raised. Did you just gasp at him being half-naked? Maybe you weren't expecting him to be there and he scared you again. Six decides to ignore it. Or to try to.

Trying to forget the moment yourself, you pull up some music on your phone and lay across your bed, your hands rubbing your eyes. Your phone’s low-quality speakers mean the Bonnie Tyler song you choose isn't loud enough for your liking, but it's so nice to hear something other than silence that you sing along. You sit up and start folding some of the clothes you'd washed the previous night, still singing along. 

A quick knock startles you into standing.

He never talks to me after I shut my door, you're curious as to what he wants and you hope it's not to tell you to stop ogling him.

You move to the door and pull it open cautiously. He's fully dressed in a gray t-shirt and sweatpants. You focus your eyes above his neck, but that doesn't help the blushing, either.

"What's up?" You successfully sound casual. 

"I can't hear."

"Can't hear what?"

"Myself think," he gestures toward your phone as the last notes of the eight-minute song begin to fade.

He just can't let me have a single shred of pleasure. Your embarrassment abruptly changes to frustration.

"Can't imagine there's much to hear," you snort. Then you grimace, reminding yourself again it's his job to be alert. You cover your eyes with one hand, "I'm sorry. That was not nice." 

But he laughs one, short chuckle. He actually laughs, and the shock of it has you drop your hand to gawk at him. He has a nice laugh; it's soft, ironic-sounding. But he isn't explicitly smiling. It's almost as though the sound escaped him at gunpoint. 

"Alright. Continue," he allows with an impassive wink, turning away from you. He leaves you standing there gaping after him.

A wink? What the fuck? This man's getting off on flustering me. When he shuts his door, you swear he's hiding a smile.

You can’t quite pin down your feelings. You’re not afraid of him, but he makes you nervous. Though he’s unsociable, you can see there's something soft behind his professional mask. Maybe it was the gentleness of his eyes or the warmth he unwillingly emanated, but it was impossible not to like him. 

Periodically, if he felt secure enough, Six would sleep during the night. He was able to get by with five hours' sleep, and he often took that around lunchtime, but tonight he'd let himself rest. After all, this contract was a farce. There'd been no credible intelligence; your company was paranoid. Six could get behind that, but after a full month with no issues, he was confident he'd be able to sleep.

Of course, he kept his laptop on, flipped multiple alarms, and set a timer for every hour. His reputation wasn't for nothing.

He sits on his bed, wondering why he knocked on your door. Yes, he could hear you - you honestly were not quiet - but it wasn't bothersome. Six found himself relaxing at the noise, at the knowledge that another person was nearby, untroubled.

Your openness, even your petty irritation at him, was fun. You were genuine, natural around him. Most everyone treated Six only two ways: with respect or fear. You treated him as if he were an average person. Was that why he found himself paying attention to you?

Six decides that he doesn't want to know why he sought you out, and he lies back, falling asleep nearly immediately.

                   

You spend the weekend alternating between watching movies on the couch and walking laps around the acre of land. It's boring, so you start working again late Sunday evening. While bent over your desk, you hear a rap at the door.

"Yeah?" You call, unwilling to walk away from your task.

"Are you staying in there much longer? You're typically in bed by now." 

"Oh, shit, what time is it?" You ask rhetorically as you pick up your phone to check. Eleven-thirty. "Uh, yeah, I'll head to bed."

You organize your materials for tomorrow, then open the door to see Six, arms folded, waiting for you. 

"Are you gonna escort me to my room safely?" You tease him, offering a conspiratorial eyebrow raise.

"Would you rather I got you there unsafely?" He rejoins, his brow imitating yours.

"I'd rather not need anyone to get to my room, but I guess I don't have a choice."

You traipse through the living room. You make it just past the couch before it hits you that he hasn’t done this before. 

"Why tonight?"

"Sunday Special," he deflects.

As he walks you the few paces down the hallway to your bedroom, you feel faint heat against your lower back, then a tingling sensation at the base of your spine. It feels almost like someone is touching your skin. Brushing it off as anxiety, you slip into your room and away from Six. 

"Okay, job well done. Goodnight, Six,” you remark, shutting your door without looking at him.

He makes no noise, but you can almost feel the nod of his head.

One of the cameras had failed. The other four were fine, but Six was nothing if not proactive. If someone was sneaking around, he needed you in your room. As soon as you are out of harm’s potential way, he pulls his weapon. 

Six carefully sweeps through the building, checking corners. All clear, he steps out the back door, utterly silent. The malfunctioning camera was the one overlooking the driveway, but if someone had knocked out only one camera, they likely expected him to check there first. He tediously makes his way to the front of the house.

Above the front door, pointed at the ground, was the camera. A small feather clung to the broken piece of tech. Six looks around for the poor bird who must’ve smacked into it, but finds nothing. He reaches up and unhooks the camera. He’d need to either repair it or find a new one. 

Satisfied you and he were not under attack, he returns inside. He won’t be going to sleep tonight; his body will remain alert. He begins to tinker with the camera, already looking forward to his afternoon nap. 

                 

Several days later, after having had to stop exactly zero intruders, Six feels comfortable enough to continue sleeping overnight. It’s a treat he enjoys too infrequently, and he wakes early Friday morning with energy to spare. He ventures out into the kitchen, enjoying the sun’s rays creeping over the trees. He retrieves his laptop and sits at his usual spot.

Having slept badly, when you walk into the dim room, you're startled by the shape of a man at the bar. Then you notice his profile silhouetted by the sun, and you exhale in recognition.

"I should really just expect you around every corner, shouldn't I?" 

He raises his eyebrows at you in jest and shrugs, “Might be best.”

His elevated mood lifts your own. Your smile lights your face. If only he could be this relaxed all the time. You breeze past him to your coffee pot to continue the morning ritual. 

Waiting for the machine to brew, you turn, leaning against the counter, and tilt your head toward the window.

"It's not a bad view, huh?" 

"I have noticed," he says honestly.

Though that sounds nearly sarcastic to you, to Six it's another slip in his exterior. He doesn't often get the chance to enjoy something for its beauty, but he has been taking full advantage lately. 

Your workday is long, but you take a break near lunchtime to find Six seated where you'd left him. You grab an apple from the stocked fridge, then pull a clear glass from the cabinet. In the shiny reflection of the stainless-steel fridge, you notice Six's head tilt to look at you. You fill the glass with water from the tap, then turn and set both items in front of the curious blonde. 

"What's that for?" 

"You. This is food and water." You grin. More seriously, you wonder, "Have you eaten? I don't think you have." 

Six was typically excellent about fueling his body, it was his livelihood as well as his life, but you were right, he had neglected it this morning.

He blinks for a moment, unsure what your angle is. "Why- are you giving it to me?" 

"Because I can," you state. "I didn't poison it." You smirk at him and make a face like maybe you should have. 

"A poisoned apple would be cliche. I'm sure you have something more creative in mind for me." He examines you, his eyes shining.

You can see his lips fighting a smile. It makes you want to try harder; you need to make this man lighten up.

"Nah, I need you, Six. Who else would I not talk to every day?" 

Six licks his lip and shakes his head in defeat. He huffs a short laugh, and you chalk up a victory. 

You slap the counter and cheesily announce, "Alright, see you around." 

The weight of his eyes on you as you leave the room makes you feel giddy. 

Been a while since I've had a crush, you laugh to yourself. From his wit to his patience, his profound eyes to his muscular build, Six makes your stomach twist.

Six is left sitting in turmoil. Why did you care? Do people normally look out for each other like that? He'd done it for his brother, often making him meals, but that was a close familial bond. Six is essentially a stranger to you, despite the month of small talk and close quarters. Worse than a stranger, he was a tool, a product… wasn’t he? Six feels something shift in his chest. A tiny pull, like a bond creating itself. He does his best to push the thought away.

You wake the next day much later than usual. After showering, you leave your room ready to spend the day similarly to last Saturday. As you exit the hallway into the living room, however, the housekeeper is walking out the front doorway.

"Hey! Good morning," you call, excited to see another person. "How are you?" 

The youthful-looking man acts flustered, but answers in an accent you don’t recognize, "I'm fine, thanks. You?" 

"I'm great. Do you mind me asking your name?" 

"Ma'am, I was told not to speak to the residents here. I hope you understand."

"Oh! I'm sorry to have put you on the spot, then." You feel deflated. 

"I restocked the pantry and the fridge, and the kitchen is clean," the kid reports. 

"Thank you. Can I offer you anything?" 

"No, ma'am, I'm on my way out for today." 

You thank him again and let him go. You're hidden away so thoroughly that you're not even allowed to speak to other people. The depressing thought makes you seek out your only source of relief.

You find him in the garage, messing with a black, foreign-looking car. Though the sunlight from the open garage door makes you squint, you notice he’s wearing a dark t-shirt and tactical pants today. Six makes your heart spasm when he looks up to greet you.

Goddamn him, you swear internally like it’s his fault you’re attracted to him.

“Morning,” his voice is rough as though he hadn’t spoken in a while. Probably not since the last time he spoke to you.

“Morning. Is this yours?” 

“It’s technically the house’s. ‘In case of emergency.’” He explains, disappearing from view as he leans into the trunk.

“Oh. Is it bulletproof?” You joke.

“Yeah,” his voice is muffled.

Your brow shoots up. Is he serious?

His head rises from behind the trunk lid. His eyes are full of amusement.

“You’re fucking with me,” you accuse. 

Laughing, you walk around the car, knocking on the windows. You can’t tell.

He chuckles once, then slams the lid. It echoes in the concrete space. Six walks around the opposite side of the car, so tall that the vehicle barely comes up to his ribs. He leans his forearms on the roof, hands clasped, looking at you.

“The windows in the house aren’t normal glass, either,” he smirks at your innocence. He doesn’t tell you they’re not completely bulletproof. He figures they’re close enough.

For your own health, you’re ignoring how seductive he looks propped against the car. 

Changing the subject, you tell him, “The housekeeper was here a moment ago.”

“He’s not just a housekeeper,” he corrects but doesn’t expound. 

“Ah. Okay. Is anything around here exactly what it looks like?” 

He turns his head to look out the garage door.

“You are,” he says after a moment. “I am.”

You tilt your head, "You know what - that's absolutely true."

"I have a question. Can we quit listening to 80s music?" He taunts. He must've heard you again last night.

"We don't. I listen to it, and you invade my privacy." You whip back. 

"Once you're singing over sixty-five decibels, it stops being private and starts being a neighborhood nuisance."

His left cheek pulls upward, and he shifts onto one elbow. The movement causes a lock of hair to fall onto his forehead, and you're disarmed - unable to form the scathing rebuttal you want.

Smiling, you do your best, "Well, the neighbors can fuck off. I've got to do something to stay sane."

You know you're barely loud enough to be heard. He was just hellbent on giving you shit for it and you had to admit, it was kind of funny. 

Your stomach growls. "Are you hungry? I’ll make breakfast.”

“It’s 11 a.m.” 

“... and I’m going to make breakfast.” You walk inside, directly into the far side of the kitchen. 

Six follows a few minutes later, shutting the garage door with a click. You’re in the middle of breaking eggs into a mixing bowl when he sits at the table - a rare move for him. He can’t see you well from this seat, and that’s intentional. He keeps his focus on the acre outside.

“Do you want any?” You call to him.

“No, thank you. I'll eat later.” 

You wonder why he’s sitting in here with you. You make extra, just in case. When you’re finished cooking, you sit at the bar to eat, feeling on edge about sitting at the table with him.

Six takes the hint and gets up to leave the room. As he passes the stovetop, he sees you’ve made him some anyway. His heart tugs at him once more. He changes direction and picks up the plate.

Without looking at you, he murmurs, “Thank you.”

You smile warmly, “Anytime.”

He takes the plate to his room.

                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That evening, as you curl up in a couch corner watching a mindless TV show, Six sits on the opposite end. You're cold but feel too awkward to grab the blanket from Six's end of the furniture. Feeling his mood, you wait for him to say something first. He never does. After several minutes, you break.

"Were you lonely in your room?" You rib him.

He looks over at you, and you meet his eyes with a quick grin. He shrugs.

"You get used to it," you tell him.

You look back at the TV and rub heat into your upper arm with your left hand. Maybe I should get up and turn the ceiling fan off.

He scoffs. You? Lonely? Compared to him? Then he thinks about it for a moment and realizes you haven't contacted anyone since you've been here. 

"You don't have people waiting for you to come home?" He means family, friends, anyone.

"Nope. I got nobody." You say it with lightheartedness, though it makes you sad.

"I got nobody, too." He mimics your phrasing with a frown. 

You turn to him again with a smile and offer, "Well, we can be nobodies to each other."

Six's mouth twitches and his eyebrow quirks up. You feel a rush of heat, embarrassment. 

But then he makes a soft, pleased grunt and he hands you the blanket.

               

That next weekend, in the kitchen, you find Six shuffling a deck of cards. Curious, you make a face at him.

"This was how we passed the time in prison." He begins laying out a game of solitaire.

There's so much about his statement that makes you sad, but you ask the obvious question: "Prison?" 

"I was in prison, yes."

"Violent offense, I assume?"

"Yes."

"Was it deserved?"

"The crime or the punishment?"

"What you did," you clarify.

"I thought so. Still think so." 

Needing nothing else answered, you climb up on the barstool next to him and take the cards. You pick up the few he'd already laid out for solitaire. You weren’t letting him play cards alone.

"Have you ever played 'War'?" You shuffle the deck and begin to deal.

He hides his astonishment at your nonchalance. He'd never told anyone who didn't already know. But to you, it wasn’t a surprise. Your employers had been sure to tell you they’d hired one of the most elite assassins. You’d never expected that person to have lived a privileged, easy life. And you'd always been an excellent judge of character - Six's character was as solid as they come. Whatever his crime had been, it was justified. 

"Yes, I've played War. Good way to get into a fistfight." He says, thinking of his long, terrible eight years.

"I could take you," you lie. 

Your challenging look is met by his intense eyes, and he grabs his dealt cards.

"Loser has to make dinner." 

"Deal," he agrees.

Later that evening, you stand at the stove top, cooking dinner for the both of you. After he beat you soundly in War, you'd insisted on a rematch, but he'd won a second time. Losing somewhat graciously, you told him you hoped he liked poorly made food. You weren't a good cook.

He'd done a perimeter check after that last game, but he was back in his favorite spot now, leaning forward on his elbows. As you flitted between the cabinets, the stove, and the pantry, he watched in near-awe. He didn't care how bad this food tasted. Watching you make it was enough. He didn't think he'd ever get used to how pleasant domesticity was. 

As you walk past the stainless-steel microwave, you realize it's reflective enough to see behind you, and Six is currently hyper-focused on you. The fierce look in his eyes sends butterflies soaring in your stomach.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Six is just bored. The poor man hasn't seen another woman in over a month. Of course he’s going to look at the only available one.

You plate the food, setting one in front of him, for which he thanks you sincerely. You take your own into the living room to escape the air between you two. You flip the TV on, hoping for some background noise to distract you from Six. It works as he remains in the kitchen. After finishing his food, he washes his dish, then retrieves yours and does the same. 

"Thank you, Six," you swallow thickly. 

"Mhm," he grunts. 

Why does the energy between us keep changing? 

"I have some things to do outside," he reports. 

Oddly relieved, you cheerfully tell him, "Okay, have fun."

He glances at you with a look you can’t identify, then exits through the patio door.

We're both going stir-crazy. 

After changing into a tank top and pajama pants, you figure the decanter had been left lonely for too long. You down a couple of shots and put a movie on. This time you pick something you're only vaguely interested in, knowing the alcohol will do the work for you. 

You hadn't seen Six since he walked out, but you know he's somewhere nearby. You'd love to offer him a shot, but it's hard to imagine him being willingly impaired.

After a few hours, another glass, and a consecutive movie, you stretch out on the comfy, tan couch. As you lay there, you feel the waves of drunkenness rocking you to sleep. 

You're awoken by a masculine voice calling your name. Your eyes crack open to see Six standing over you.

"Six! You wanna shot?" You sleepily propose despite having stopped drinking yourself hours earlier.

His voice is decisive, "No, thank you. Are you planning on sleeping out here?"

"Maybe. 'm I allowed?"

"No," he asserts.

"I thought we were friends, now," you grumble, glaring.

"We're nobodies, remember? And I'm not sitting out here all night making sure you don’t puke," he clears his throat to disguise a laugh.

"Why not? It'd be like a sleepover."

You snuggle down into your blanket and try to find unconsciousness again, but you feel his hand on your shoulder. Your stomach lurches - not from the alcohol, you're barely tipsy now - and your eyes fly up to his face. He's never touched you. 

He attributes the blush spreading across your face to the alcohol.

"Don't make me carry you," he tries to threaten, but the idea sparks an evil grin on your face, so he repeats himself, "Don't make me do that." 

His jaw clenches at the knotted pit forming in his stomach. Deep down, he wants you to make him.

You sigh dramatically. "Why can't you leave me alone out here? Is it really any less safe than my room?"

"Yes, actually." He doesn't elaborate. "Am I going to get to sleep myself or am I gonna stand here arguing with you until dawn?"

"Okay. Fine. So demanding," you sit up and fold your fluffy blanket as his hand retreats. 

He sighs. His biceps jiggle when he crosses his arms tightly.

“You really can’t stand me, can you, Six?” Your voice is sultrier than you intended. You look up at him through your eyelashes.

You watch with confusion as he blinks and swallows hard. He doesn't move or look away from your pouting face. His body heats up as he valiantly fights the temptation to look down your tank top. 

Shaking off his lack of response, you stand, and step over to the entertainment center. You then bend to turn off the TV. When the screen blackens, in the reflection, you see Six’s head cock to the side, then snap away from you.

Was he just checking out my ass? No way. I'm drunker than I thought. God, I'm a lightweight now.

Since you’re inebriated, you decide to push your luck, so you turn and brush your fingertips across Six's forearm as you walk by him, murmuring, "Goodnight."

You’re almost to the hallway when you hear his husky voice.

"’Night, sweetheart." 

Your theory is confirmed. You must be absolutely black-out drunk because there was no possibility Six called you "sweetheart." You curl up and pass out almost instantly on your bed, laughing at your love-sick, impaired brain's desire for him. 

Was he drunk? Six's jaw clamps shut as soon as the word leaves his mouth. He'd never called anyone a pet name. He didn't even know he knew any. He had been headed to bed, but now he couldn't face laying there in the dark with his thoughts. Six walks out the front door, intent on performing unnecessary checks. His thoughts follow him anyway. 

He's not sure what's happening to him. Six isn't going soft, he's still hyper-alert, still deadly. But he is softer, somehow. When he looks at you or thinks of you, he feels a protectiveness that has nothing to do with his paycheck. He feels like he could be happy if he could just keep looking at you.

And really what was the point of being freed from prison if he didn't take every opportunity to live before he died? He could allow himself to feel an attraction to you, as long as he didn't name it. As long as he didn't act on it. Six decided he wouldn't fight this, but he also wouldn't encourage any feelings from you. He wouldn’t drag you into this. He would let himself have a friend - no more - if only for a little while.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, you keep your ritual. You have no hangover despite being sure you’d drank too heavily the night before. As you reach for your mug, your fingers brush empty space. It's missing from its place in the cabinet. Groggy, you take a better look around you, and you blink when you see the mug next to your coffee pot. 

Weird - did I leave it out yesterday? Hm. Must have. 

The telltale squeak of the barstool echoes in the quiet room. 

Without turning, you greet him, "Morning, Six. I hope you slept well." 

"Oh, you can hear me now?" is his fond response. His tone makes your heart skip.

"I'm sure you're just being louder for my benefit."

A chuckle leaves his lips. You aren't wrong. 

Six watches you brew the coffee, imagining what it’d be like to have this view forever. He knows that’s a concerning thought, and he knows he’s torturing himself. It doesn’t stop him. It feels too good to let himself believe this could be his life, just for a moment. In some alternate universe, he could have a wife who loves him, a home, simple mornings, and peace. Six wants to imbibe as much of this as possible.

You finally turn after filling your mug. You peer out the window, but it's still relatively dark outside. Instead, your eyes dart to Six. He's focused on his laptop, so you freely admire him. Your gaze trails over him while you stir your drink.

A white t-shirt clings to him just enough to build pressure in your core. Since he's seated, you can't see his lower half, but you're sure it's some slacks that fit him perfectly. His hair is coiffed as usual, but his facial hair is scruffy. He looks good. If you were honest with yourself, you'd fuck him right there on the counter.

Six didn’t notice every single time you looked at him, but it was close. He didn't know why, but he marked each glance he caught. And right now, he could feel your stare as if it was a physical weight. The pleasure it gave him was electric, addictive. This base desire was easier to understand than the others you made him face, and he felt slightly more comfortable imagining it. This feeling could be partially alleviated.

Six would never act on his desires with you, though. You were under his authority, his protection. You had seen only one other man in over a month. He was new to the strength of these feelings, but he wasn't stupid. You were bored and lonely. He was more lonely, and he'd already let you in further than anyone else. That would be a problem. No, he would be content to let himself bask in your skin-deep attentions and your kindness, but he wouldn't torture either of you with physical complications.

During the silence, while the two of you thought about the same thing, the sun rose, casting you in a golden light. Six's back was to the window, but the sunshine catches his blonde hair, illuminating it. At the same time, both of you smile at each other - yours much larger than his, but no less genuine. He watches as your smile fades into your eyes, and you wet your lips. Nerves tighten in your stomach, and Six sees your throat constrict. Despite the distance between you, your eyes fall to his mouth. His do the same.

Registering the spark in the room, Six abruptly stands to avoid ignition. 

"Have a good day," he offers quietly. He heads toward his room, toting his laptop.

Too shocked to reply, you stand there staring after him in the morning sun. 

Holy shit, what just happened?

Over the next month, your morning routine is kept mostly the same, except your coffee mug is nearly always next to the machine when you wake. Six is civil, friendlier than he was at first, but you feel a wall returning. It's clear he's keeping some kind of boundary and you respect that. You could use a friend, and he does his best to be just that. 

Throughout the month, there are times he finds you seated on the couch and sits with you. He doesn’t speak much, only answering your questions or agreeing with a comment you make about a movie or TV show. It’s the bare minimum that you both need, but it’s not fully satisfying for either of you.

It settles in your mind that you want to tell him you care about him. Platonically and in the most casual way possible, of course. You get the feeling he’s never had someone to look out for him, and that makes you sad. 

On the last Friday of the month, you find the courage to say something. He’s seated on the opposite end of the couch, as far as he can be, in companionable silence as you let a comedy play. 

“Six,” you begin, your heart already racing. But as you look at his profile, you fizzle out. “Are you hungry?”

He turns to you, face grave. “As long as it’s not the rubber chicken you made yesterday, yeah.” 

“Well, maybe you should cook for a change.” Would you ever not be trading jabs at each other?

“I do cook,” he argues.

You roll your eyes. “Mac and cheese from a box for a week straight does not qualify as cooking.” 

“You’re alive, aren’t you? That’s all I’m paid for. Special cuisine is extra.” 

He’s joking, but the reminder of the nature of your relationship makes you cringe. You’ve let yourself grow far too attached to the handsome, quietly witty man, and knowing there was an asterisk on your friendship causes you more sorrow than you thought you’d feel. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One sunny morning, as you sit on the patio step, your ever-present coffee mug on the ground next to you, Six joins you. He doesn’t sit, instead, he stands behind you. Overlooking the valley, you ask him random questions that pop into your mind. You’re putting pieces of him together while trying not to pry any further than you know he'd like. 

"Favorite candy? Besides gum," you add at the same time he answers.

"Gum. Oh, Skittles," he edits.  

“Shoe size?” You turn to look up at him, shielding your eyes from the sun.

His lips twitch, “Eleven. You gonna buy me a birthday present?”

“When is your birthday, Six?”

He hesitates before responding, and when he does, you’re not sure it’s the truth. 

“November 12th.” 

You nod once and move on. "Ideal vacation?"

"A quiet beach." 

“Favorite song?"

He's stumped on that one, "I don't think I have one."

"What about a favorite band? Or a singer?" You ask more generally.

"Hm, Bonnie Tyler." He declares, a gleam in his eye. 

You laugh, "You're trying to rile me up, but I bet you probably are a fan of 'Holding Out for a Hero,' aren't you?" 

He quirks an eyebrow at you so you explain, "She mentions Greek mythology," you gesture at his left arm, "and I know you love the Greeks." 

You pause, then sing your own version of the lyrics to him, markedly offkey, "You're my streetwise Hercules -” Breaking off quickly in laughter at yourself, you bend forward to hug your knees. 

You're no longer looking at him, so you miss out on the way his cheeks fight a brilliant, natural smile. You miss the way he loses and has to turn away from you to let the adoration color his face. And he misses the triumphant shutter of a camera in the distance.

               

The following day, Six is surprised to feel his phone vibrate. Few people had his current number. 

Heard you got that cushy contract? I suppose you deserve it after saving my ass so many times.

Ah, it’s Denver, Six knows immediately. Not one for texting, Six leaves the message alone. The less he says about you the better - even to someone Six could almost call a friend. 

He mulls over the phase ‘cushy contract’ and frowns. Six was now two and half months into this job, and he knew it would be coming to an end soon. Apparently, you were making good progress because your employer had notified Six they’d be terminating his services shortly - probably at the end of the month. 

Two weeks until you were gone. Now that he understood exactly what he was missing, Six wasn’t sure how he would go back to his isolated murderous-errand-boy status. But what he felt didn’t matter - he would be going back to the existence he’d known for nearly twenty years. 

You stroll into the common area one afternoon to see Six standing on the patio, contemplating the horizon. His gray suit is bright in the daylight, and you watch as the wind tosses a lock of hair. You take the opportunity to soak him in, to think about how much you care for him.

You open the door and walk out to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. You follow his eye line to see fluffy white clouds amidst a deep blue sky. Curious to know what he’s thinking, you clear your throat.

“You see something?”

“The same thing you do,” he gives you a tiny smirk. A breeze wafts the scent of his gum and you smile at the essence of him.

He slides his gaze along the tree line. You can hardly take your eyes off him, though. Six fascinates you. The CIA’s deadliest ex-asset was standing out here, looking like that, enjoying the countryside. He was quiet and closed-off, but he was also incredibly funny and warm.

God, what I wouldn't do for him. A surge of attraction consumes you for a moment, and it leaves you feeling unsteady. 

Oh, he probably came out here to be alone. I’m interrupting.

“I’ll leave you be,” you say, your voice catching. You turn to go.

Six’s jaw clenches, and his lips part to tell you not to go, to tell you he prefers your presence to anything else on earth, but he doesn’t speak. Honestly, he doesn’t know how to say it - and he hears the door click shut behind him.

                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks later, Six is anticipating a text from your company telling him to stand down. He’s on edge all day, reigning in his thoughts. Trying to learn how to pack the pieces of humanity you’d given him into something he could carry with him. He can’t decide if it’s best to spend time around you or avoid you. 

Six’s phone vibrates for the third time since he’d been here. Fully expecting another text from Denver or your employer, he’s stunned by what he does see.

Three photos have been sent to him by a blocked number. Each one depicts the two of you; each one shows Six exactly how fucked he is. He stares at the last one and the mixed emotions nearly buckle his knees. 

Six had never seen happiness on his own face, but there it was. You’d sang to him, made a joke as only a friend could, you’d reminded him he was a man with choices and desires. It had struck him then hardest of all. Six wanted you. He wanted you in every way a man could want a woman, and in that moment he knew he’d never be the same. 

But seeing that moment now through the lens of a threat? Six’s body kicks back into the high-alert state he’d been in for two decades. He springs off his bed, grabs his weapon, and sprints out to find you. 

Because these photos are of Six’s reactions to you, he knows this isn’t about your work. Six knows exactly who this is and why. He also knows his adversary is probably running on fumes and therefore probably weak in resources. That means Six had some time. 

He knocks on your lab door, and you call out, “Yeah?” 

“Just checking,” he assures. 

He moves off to scan his cameras, then the grounds. He finds nothing, so he retreats into the kitchen, half-facing the direction that the last photo had come from. Six works at his laptop until the sun sets. Through connections and rumors, he figures out someone (he needed no guesses as to whom) had placed a decent sum of money on his head.

His theory had been right, his foe was broke. It was obvious that the guy had poured all of his remaining funds into the bounty on Six's head. Six estimated he had roughly three weeks until a team could be expected. At least he wouldn’t be saying goodbye to you just yet.

                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The end of the third month comes and goes, and another week drags by. No word arrives from your employer. Going home had become something you no longer wanted, so your research had intentionally slowed. You spent more time outside of your lab than in. As time wore on, your mornings with Six became longer. Instead of standing across the kitchen from him, you found yourself seated next to him at the bar more often than not. 

But Six had been strange lately. His brow furrowed constantly, he was as uptight as he was when you met him. Six became strict about knowing where you were at all times. And for the past two weeks, he had walked you directly to your room at night, hand hovering over your lower back. It was a weird mixture of familiarity and distance between the two of you.

This morning, you’re both sitting at the bar in comfortable silence. You're reading while he does god-only-knows-what on his computer. You both jump when his phone buzzes and violently dances across the counter. He snatches it up and sighs.

“Next week, some extra people are going to be hanging around.” 

“What?” You’re dismayed. The private bubble that had been suspending the two of you bursts.

He has to tell you. If not the whole truth, then part of it.

“There's been a- a threat. It’s not a definite thing, but it could be a problem,” he hedges. 

The world drops out beneath you. Not only is the intoxicating time you’d had with Six coming to an end, but it’s doing so because you could be hurt. You take a deep breath, willing your nerves to go away. Your eyes close and you place your palms flat on the bar. 

Six suddenly remembers that this isn’t your life, you’re not used to life-threatening events. He slowly, firmly covers your hand with his own. It’s rough and warm; your internal monologue gets derailed.

It’s terrifying to learn that someone will try to assault you. It’s something you never thought would truly happen. However, you know your work has led you into some high-risk areas, and you’re strong enough to hold the information, to accept it. And the appreciation that the person protecting you is Six? He was everything you could ask for. 

“You’ll be okay,” he promises, his voice aimed at your stampeding heart. It’s the one thing he knows he can give you, and he feels wildly territorial. He was damned if he let anyone near you.

He reluctantly removes his hand, and you take a second breath. You’re facing straight ahead, but you can feel his eyes reading your face. 

“I know. I trust you, Six,” turning to look up at him, you find the courage to tamp down your fear. You give him a sad smile.

Your eyes water, and Six begs them not to spill over. He won’t be able to stop himself from wiping away your tears - it’s his fault they’re there. 

Your childlike faith in him jars him with a realization: he would do anything for you. If you asked, he would do it. He was wrapped around your finger, and he liked it. His heart swells. And, for the first time in his adult life since his grueling training, he's overcome. 

···

You spend the next week anticipating the arrival of the anonymous men. Six had warned you that - like the housekeeper - these men were not supposed to speak to you. 

At the same time, Six divested himself of you as best he could. Once this immediate situation was dealt with, and the contract terminated, he wouldn't see you again. Six's lifestyle would not allow him to have you, and he couldn't change it. As badly as he wanted you, Six would never ask you to leave your career, your home, your life to be with him. 

He wrestled with it, though. Six often found himself thinking of scenarios in which he could show you how he felt. Maybe after he killed Lloyd he could come back for you. Maybe after the contract ended you would realize it wasn't boredom, it was real. Maybe your feelings were as strong as his. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The return of Six's coldness confuses you. You miss him despite him being in the next room. You knew why (or you thought you did), you knew he was being paid to be here for this exact situation. It didn't stop you from feeling rejected.

The day comes and a van pulls up in the driveway. Four large, armed men pile out. They all look similar, terrifying. You retreat to your room before they come inside.

Six greets them, instructing them in what he's had planned. He walks the grounds with them but doesn't divulge his personal plans in regards to you. Six wanted everything compartmentalized and separated. No one could know who you were or why Six was there. These are Denver's men, but Six trusts no one completely. 

Nearly a full day later, when you get too hungry to stay in your room any longer, you tiptoe to the kitchen. Your heart sinks at the empty room; you'd been subconsciously hoping Six would be at his spot. 

As you reach the sink, you hear footsteps enter the room. You turn to greet Six, but you're visibly shocked by a stocky man standing there instead.

"Is everything okay?" You ask when the man doesn't say anything. 

"Yeah, sorry. I didn't realize there was a woman here." 

"Oh," you laugh, "Well, here I am." 

Forgetting that this is not actually your home, and you didn't need to play hostess, you offer the man a drink. 

"Water? Or some whiskey? But you're probably like Six with that, huh?" 

"Yeah, naw, I can't drink on the job. Thanks though, honey. You been up here a while? You seem happy to see me." The man laughs good-naturedly. 

You continue without answering his question, "Anything to eat? We've got plenty." You wince at the way you use 'we' as if you and Six had been playing house.

"I appr-" the man is interrupted by Six flinging open the garage door. 

"Why are you in here?" His question is authoritative yet calm, and both you and the man start to answer at the same time. 

"No, you." He nods at the man. 

"Sorry, man. Should've known." The man quickly retreats outside. The patio door slams shut.

"He didn't even know a woman was here?" You put the query to Six. "Why? What'd he mean by 'should've known'?"

"His job is to watch that direction." Six indicates outward, toward the perimeter. "Not what goes on inside. I don't want anyone knowing anything unnecessary." He doesn't address your third question. 

"I'm unnecessary now?" You already know it's a catty remark.

He throws you a withering look. "They're not supposed to be inside at all. If you see them, tell me. I'll take care of it."

"I mean, okay. But that guy was nice. At least he talked to me." You mutter the last bit. 

Six has never felt jealousy, so when it flares in his stomach at your words, it burns. His eyes narrow and he strides over, stopping close enough to touch you. 

"My job is to protect you. My job is not to entertain you. I'm not paid to be your friend." He sounds frustrated; like he's been trying to tell you something.

Six is overwhelmed and conflicted. He wasn't paid to be your friend - that came naturally. And he wasn't even being paid at all anymore. The deposits have stopped and Six is still here. He can't find a way to tell you that fact, though. 

Abashed, you duck your head so he doesn't see the tears that spring up. Gravity works against you, so you look up to the ceiling, fighting the tears back. You feel lonely despite the best friend you'd had in a long while standing in front of you. 

Six's mouth goes slack. He's horrified. He just made you cry. Six had made new-widows cry, sure. But never had his words caused the tears of a woman he cared about. He feels unbalanced. Six has no idea how to process anything going on inside him.

You sigh. 

I'm the one who's pushed this friendship. He's always been honest about what this was. I can't very well be mad at him when he does his job. 

"Okay, Six. I'll stay out of your way." Your voice is hoarse.

You bolt to your room as he stands staring into space, fists clenched.

             

A few days later, you leave your lab to find an apple and a glass of water waiting for you on the bar. A faint smile pulls at your lips. You realize you've not eaten today. On the countertop is your favorite mug. Peering inside, you see whiskey. Your small laugh breaks the heavy silence in the house.

After eating, you take the mug and sink down onto the couch. The gaming console makes an electronic jingle as you turn it on for the first time. You'd been working hard, again, but your morale was poor. You were miserable without Six's easy humor.

You pick up a game controller and start to scroll through the downloaded games when you hear Six's footsteps enter the house from the garage. Your heart twinges at the discovery that you have his footsteps memorized. He trudges through the kitchen and stops in the entryway to the living room.

You stop yourself from fully appreciating him in his gray suit, but it's hard as you can see your favorite black t-shirt underneath. He sees the mug in your hand and his face becomes hopeful.

"I haven't played a video game since 1995." He confesses, now staring at the TV.

"You want to play?" Your voice cracks embarrassingly. 

He almost smiles at you, "Loser makes dinner?"

#sierra six x reader #sierra six fanfic #sierra six #six #the gray man #the gray man 2022 #the gray man fanfic #fluff #personal #ryan gosling #court gentry #courtland gentry #lloyd hansen #sierra six x f!reader #fanfic #fanfiction #sierra six x you #reader x sierra six #my fics

[lilyrizzy]

omg please share more about paying for it!!! that is a god tier concept. max WOULD objectively love that… loves doing things for daniel, daniel makes him so happy just existing, he wants to be able to repay daniel in ways that count— make sure he’s taken care of, etc.

(thank you anon for sending me number 12! i wrote more for this wip on the notes app on my phone like a year ago lol & then lost it when i had to factory reset - rip. so this is all i actually have of this wip anymore, based on this concept - max and daniel doing a lil sex worker roleplay)

“Maxy,” Daniel says, looking up from his phone. Max can see it’s open on their text thread, like maybe he was about to message Max. “I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.”

Max takes in the sight of him perched on the bar stool. The corkscrew of his curls that fall into his eyes, overdue a cut just the way Max loves. His tanned skin, the lovely curve of his nose. The softness to his eyes as he looks at Max, even though right underneath them are dark circles from the months of uncertainty, of bad race results.

There will never be a universe in which Max wouldn’t reach out, he knows that for certain. No matter what Daniel thinks, or what he says, Max will always want him.

“I have been looking at you since you walked in,” Max blurts out, clumsy. “What is your name?”  

Daniel narrows his eyes and frowns at Max, before letting out a laugh that doesn’t sound quite right.

"I’m a bit worried if you don’t-" 

No. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, isn’t how Max imagined it when he tried to think of ways to make Daniel feel good. Max is interrupting before he can finish.  

“You are very beautiful,” he tries again. “Do you have a girlfriend, or of course a boyfriend?”  

Irritation gives way to confusion on Daniel's features as his mouth snaps shut. Then-

Licking his lips, he looks around the bar, over the top of Max’s shoulder, then over his own. Eventually, his eyes settle again on Max, and there’s something a little better there. Playful.  

“Well,” he says, drawing out the word, his accent thicker like it used to get when he would try to impress girls in bars, and Max would look on feeling jealous of the wrong person. “I’m supposed to be meeting my boyfriend, but right now I’m all alone.”  

As if punctuating his words, he picks up his drink and drains the glass. Max wants to breathe a sigh of relief but he doesn't think that would be very in character for someone confident enough to pick Daniel up at a bar.

“That is a shame,” he says evenly instead, “If you were my boyfriend, I would never leave you alone in a bar.” He slides into the stool beside Daniel. “Can I buy you a drink?”  

Daniel throws his head back and laughs, but this time it’s nice. Like he’s surprised, but flattered, which is exactly how Max wants him to feel. It’s working.  

“Sure,” he says with a smirk that makes something in Max’s belly flare hot. 

They don’t speak again, not until after the waiter has set down their drinks-- a Gin and Tonic for Max and whatever top shelf whiskey they have for Daniel-- and it’s Daniel breaking the silence.  

“Macallan, huh?" As he swirls the glass lazily, "you must really be trying to impress me.”  

Max nods, and feeling braver he puts his hand on Daniel’s thigh. Nobody can see them, not underneath the bar top, and so Max is surprised to feel his heart hammering in his throat, even though he’s done this thousands of times before. Put his hands onto Daniel. It feels new suddenly, like the first time all over again. The delicious anticipation of an overtake for first, knowing there’s everything to win or to lose.   

“I told you,” he says making sure to keep their eye contact, “I think you are the most beautiful person and I want you.”  

It’s the truth now like it’s always been. 

Daniel’s’ eyes flick down to the hand Max has on him and then back to his face, which Max can feel is burning red. The upturn of Daniel’s mouth is sly and sexy, like when he backs Max against their kitchen counters and dips his hand into the back of his shorts.  

“You think that’s all it takes, mate? An expensive shot of whiskey and I’m yours?”

There's a challenge in his voice, and this is the easy part, because it's something Max has never known how to back down from when it came to Daniel and getting what he wanted.

“How much would it take?” He counters, eyebrows raised.

Daniel leans back on the stool, spreading his legs wide so that the fabric of his trousers pulls tight. “You couldn’t afford me.”  

Max’s mouth goes dry, and in his underwear his dick twitches. It’s an effort to make sure the next words come out sounding sure and not croaky, desperate.

“Actually, I am a very famous race car driver,” he manages, “so I think that I could. I would pay anything to have you.” 

#i literally googled 'expensive whiskey' for this so shhh if i chose the wrong brand lol #i -like max verstappen- am a gin drinker #sorry it ends right before it gets interesting:/ #hope someone likes this! #fic #max/daniel

[averywiseanimatedcat]

Rewatching Good Omens season 2 liveblog

Episode 3, ‘I know where I’m going’ Post 2

Previous post link (Post 1)

Crowleys lines in this flash back are top tier:

“You say potato, I say EXCELLENT.”

“BOudey snatchin”

David again killing it with the line delivery. I’m so glad he had an opportunity to really put his foot down with the Scottish accident in this.

*Aziraphale agrees that Elspeth is going to hell*

“Well it was lovely to meet you.”

Aziraphale you foul beast what was this. I don’t know how Crowley didn’t just award you top demon for this remark that was COLD.

Pffff Crowley walking along with the body cart in his hat just having a good ol time. Unbothered not-lad.

*cue moral discussion around good, evil and poverty. Again we see how Aziraphale is really unable to see things as morally grey. He thinks things are either good or bad and that’s it. He’s really out here calling Crowley evil when he’s busy skipping off excitedly home to write in his little diary every time he gets to see him???Aziraphale??? Look at yourself honey??? You’re simping again???

And his comment about poor people having more opportunities (to be good I imagine he meant) he probably was also referring to Crowley. As in Crowley is at the bottom so the only way he can go is up or he has more freedom to choose. Which is, objectively wrong, and morally very simplistic (and also wrong). I want Crowley to stand infront of Aziraphale and just say ‘you’re wrong’ in season 3 because I feel like no one has just said that to his face and he needs it.

Well we have to talk about the Bentley…he was having such a good time on his little road trip.

“Change it back!” 👹

“But it’s pretty!” 🤭

I needed Aziraphale being ridiculously sweet and funny in the present day to offset my annoyance with him in the flashback.

And here we have the second item on my list of ‘things I don’t care about’, directly under Gabriel:

Jacket AND glasses off in the bookshop, we really are in the end times because we get to see the swagger even more without the jacket. And his arm band thing. He looks so at home.

Also my child was a PHYSICIST he was part of the group that INVENTED GRAVITY. He clearly had his memory wiped after he fell and he doesn’t remember about why they made gravity I can’t stop thinking about how much he must have known about science and the universe before he fell. He probably wrote allot of that book we see in the first scene of S2 when he’s making the nebula.

The more I think about Crowley the more I understand him. He went from being a literal creator of the universe to a forgotten demon stripped of all of his accomplishments. He probably doesn’t even remember most of them. And he probably lost all of his knowledge about the universe and how it all works. He truely had his whole self ripped from him. And it makes sense why he doesn’t seem to have a hobby now, his thing was creation. And that’s not something he can just do or find a substitute for like Aziraphale can do his book collecting. And that’s why he’s so lost for a purpose. And why he’s so determined to stop the end of the world, it’s his creation, his life.

And I’m sad now so here’s the book throw aka. Comedy gold.

PLotTinG ‘vavoom’ he really just wanted someone to listen to his plan and if it had to be Gabriel/Jim then that’s who I had to be. He was just happy to have a job to do…that wasn’t throwing books around

When Aziraphale turned that body into soup and Crowley was like *DISAPPOINTED HUSBAND FACE*.

Crowley is truely, incredibly patient with Aziraphale. Crowley went out of his way to help Elspeth. And he acts like it’s because it’s wicked and honestly that’s probably half of the fun for him, but he could also see the genuine suffering and he wanted to help her. Funnily enough, if Aziraphale haddnt of put his nose in it Crowley could’ve helped Elspeth with 0 consequences because it looked evil. And I wonder how much he does ‘good’ things in a way that Hell won’t notice because it looks evil from the outside. I mean he’s been a demon for thousands of years? How’s he filling the time? Doing things like this? Aziraphale has caught him doing this twice now, doing ‘good’ things right under Hells nose.

Next post link (Post 3)

#crowley #good omens #aziracrow #good omens s2 #good omens spoilers #go2 liveblog #good omens season 2 #aziraphale #crowly x aziraphale #ineffable idiots #ineffable husbands

[ggomos-maribat]

[69/?]

original prompt | complete masterlist

Edit: Forgot to put that this snippet was inspired by this post

There’s nothing much to do at a fancy gala. 

Scratch that—there is absolutely nothing to do at a fancy gala. The boredom is a torture to experience. But such suffering doesn’t last long if one stirs up trouble to compensate for the bleakness of the party. 

Tim glances at Marinette. Tuck hair behind the ear, then after one . . . two seconds pick up glass. Okay that’s the go signal. He strides past the refreshments table and—with just the right amount of stealth—sticks his foot out to trip the man going past him with his posse. 

. . . but he’s caught just in time before he plummets into the multi-tiered cake. He stands upright, brushes himself and laughs it off with the group.

He adjusts his tie in Marinette’s view. Proceed to the next step. 

She immediately springs into action. 

— 

“You must be MDC!” The man beams at her brightly, with the same practiced fakeness her father has mastered. 

“Monsieur Luthor.” Marinette smiles back tightly. “Perfect timing. I’ve been wanting to show you the suit you commissioned.” 

“Oh?” 

She keeps her excitement at bay. Lex Luthor commissioned MDC a couple months ago, but it wasn’t until two weeks ago when he found out that she was actually Bruce Wayne’s daughter. “Yes, here.” She shows him her phone (and his posse peeks as well), revealing a business suit with the pants cropped too short and the color matching his exact skin shade. 

Lex coughs. “That’s quite . . . unique.” 

“It is, isn’t it?” She zooms into the fine details. “I thought it would match your head.” 

“My head?” he asks through clenched teeth. 

“Yup! All the craze these days.” She nods. “People will be asking for the same piece once you’ve shown this to the world.” 

“Ah, and here’s the other piece!” She swipes to the left to show a tackier outfit, with a rainbow of colors splashed on the top half and loud checkers on the bottom. 

—

Tim’s turn again. He grabs his phone from his pocket and presses a button. In the middle of his conversation with Marinette, a loud ringtone cuts through: the tune of Baby Shark. Heads turn and Luthor turns into a bright cherry. 

He furiously taps on his phone but instead of stopping the obnoxious sound, it ups the volume. Tim hides his snickers behind his hand. 

Finally, the bald man throws his phone down, making one hasty excuse after another. 

Tim grins. He’s cracking. 

Marinette touches the inside of her wrist. For the finale . . . 

Tim stumbles into the group, holding a glass filled with deep red wine inside. “Mr. Luthor! How nice to see you here.” 

“Good to see you as well, Mr. Drake,” he says with a strain in his voice. 

Tim doesn’t even make it discreet. He stumbles forward and splashes his drink all over the man’s white suit. Lex jumps back, rage dancing in his irises. 

“I’m so sorry!” Tim gasps out, taking his handkerchief. “Let me clean that for you—” 

“No, it’s alright!” Lex steps backwards, holding his palm out. 

“But I insist—” 

“Stay right there! I will go clean this myself—” 

“I want to help—” 

A deafening crash echoes in the ballroom. Lex has collided with the lavish cake, icing dripping down on the top of his head and the chocolate interior smushed against the fabric of his jacket. 

—

“Bruce Wayne!” 

Bruce barely bats an eye at Lex Luthor, who is marching straight towards him. “Yes, Lexie?” 

“Don’t ‘yes Lexie’ me!” He growls. “Control  your children! They are—they are wild animals! They humiliated me in front of everyone and ruined my suit. How can you let this happen?!” 

Bruce frowns, looking over at Marinette and Tim, who are entertaining potential partners for WE. “I’m sorry, Lexie, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. My children are angels. They will never harm others.” 

“Never harm—?!” Lex laughs out loud. “I think you haven’t been watching them closely.” 

Bruce sips on his drink. “There’s no need to watch them closely. How can you even think that they can do such things? My babies will never. And what would they have against you?”

Taglist:@tinybrie @sinoffalsejudgement @its-maemain @kamarallil @toughluna @golden-promises @whatamoodhoney @trippingovermyfeet @m4ster0fnone @alexizlazy @plz-excuse-my-inner-gay @maybeanalien0-0 @imchaotic-dontmindme @ev-cupcake @flowers-n-fandoms @crusherccme @ji-nk-ies @depressed-bitchy-demon @duskyashe @multplelifes @authorpendragging@iloontjeboontje@thatonecroc@user00000003@paradoxaloccurance@kking13@laydeekrayzee@chaos-inperson @astol07 @the-coffee-fandom@nerd-nowandforever@nightmarewasteland@certainmuffinbagelcalzone@the-hospitality-of-knives@stainedglassm@talia-scar123@trying414@starling218@buginetye@ascetic-orange@myazael@child-of-the-clouds@ladythugs@adrestar@therealkotlc@blueneko9314@kinda-craz-fan@kitsun3699 @talia-scar123 @ghostdoodlen@maribat01

#maribat fanfic #maribat fic #bio dad bruce wayne #dc x mlb #mlb x dc #maribat batfam #maribat marinette dupain cheng #fox dcw #guys #we're nearing the end

[demonichikikomori]

Cake Flavored Shrimp

Jade Leech x Fem!Reader x Floyd Leech

Word Count [Ao3]: 3.9k+ Word Count Tumblr: 2.7k+

Art by roku_ on Danbooru

Haaaaappy birthday dear Jade and Floooooooyd... H... Happy late birthday... PLEASE DON'T PUNISH ME!! Just kidding!~! Hehe, I finished this a little late. But, please enjoy the fish men doing their fish man thing. Ao3 Link is Right Here!

SUMMARY:

Your job was to do the Birthday Boy interview for the Tweels as you have done it for many students in the past. So why does it feel so different? As you sat sandwiched between them to ask questions; You started to wonder if you would be able to finish your interview in one piece.

Tags: The D in Devil stands for Dubious/Inappropriate usage of a tie/'Good Girl'/Choking/Jade and Floyd are mean

It was surrounded by colorful wrapping paper, torn and wrinkled from their already opened gifts. One was a small terrarium glass Jade must have received, a luxurious looking shoebox pushed off to the side, and in the center of the table was a much smaller cake than the one in the Mostro Lounge. Two tiers tall with a pair of eels on the top, smirking deviously from their nestled space in the lavender colored frosting and the ring of strawberries. Two pieces were cut out of it. A personal cake for them to share. 

“What a treat to have the Prefect visit us on our birthday. What more could a moray wish for?” Jade hummed with a smile, as Floyd looked away with a smirk. “Pants that cover my ankles.” He responded as Jade turned his face away to hide his smile. “Please Floyd, I was trying to be sincere.” Jade held back a soft laugh and gently elbowed his twin. “Now, what brings you here? Are you offering us birthday wishes? Perhaps, the party in the lounge was too overwhelming?” Jade asked curiously, eyeing you up and down before his gaze settled on the notepad in your hands. His eyebrows creased, but his smile remained. “Surely you didn’t just come here for work related reasons?” That was exactly what you came here for. “Well, someone has to do your Birthday Boy interview. Well, I should say ‘Boys’ in your case.” You rocked on your heels with a small grin. You would love to stick around after, but you left Grim over by the snack table and you were sure he planned to cause trouble.

Jade’s eyes seemed to widen for a moment as Floyd smiled even wider. “Whaaaat? Really? I forgot the school did stuff like that. Okay, okay so you gotta interrogate us? What do we get after?” The long legged twin asked as you began to feel intimidated. Floyd was a difficult person to work with unlike Jade. You could hear the music playing from within the dorm getting louder as you pressed your back against the door. You wished you brought Grim with you for the interview, for now you were on your own. “Oh, I don’t think anything I could give you guys could compare to what you already have.” You dismissively waved your hand as Floyd began to pout. “No dice then Shrimpy.” He crossed his arms over his chest as Jade leaned over, whispering into Floyd’s ear with a smile. They were staring at you now.

“I’m a bitch whole daddy, but she calls me baby.” Floyd murmured along with the song playing softly on the overhead as Jade chuckled quietly. His knee nudged against Floyd’s as they eyed you up and down once more. You shuddered, swearing your eyes were playing tricks on you. It was as if they were looking at you like something to wash down their birthday cake. 

“I’m a bitch whole daddy, but she calls me baby.” Floyd murmured along with the song playing softly on the overhead as Jade chuckled quietly. His knee nudged against Floyd’s as they eyed you up and down once more. You shuddered, swearing your eyes were playing tricks on you. It was as if they were looking at you like something to wash down their birthday cake. 

You owed them some kind of gift after all.

It is their birthday and you are a guest at their party. But you didn’t exactly have anything to offer. You survived on your Crowley allowance fund. And trying to satisfy Floyd’s shoe taste and Jade’s irreplaceable terrariums… You weren’t exactly in the position to pull either out of your back pockets. “Why don’t you just sit with us for now. Please, we insist. Don’t we Floyd?” Jade asked with a slight turn of his head as the pair distanced themselves with soft chuckles filling the small V.I.P room. Enough space in between them to fit one little Shrimpy.

You looked back at the door before slowly creeping over to the couch. You felt even more anxious now. And all that was offered was a seat between them. You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling your mouth fill with cotton as you took the side Jade was seated on. His sharp eyes held a mischievous gaze as he relaxed into the couch, smiling innocently as you got closer. “S… Scuse me.” You whispered, turning so your back faced Jade in your attempt to shuffle past. You yelped as something yanked hard on your suspenders at the same time something swiped roughly at your ankles. You landed in Jade’s lap with a cry. Did Jade do that? There’s no way you could have imagined it, but Jade would never do something like that either. You felt his warm hands sliding over your exposed thighs, smoothing over your skin before they snaked up to rest on your hips. You hadn’t seen Jade’s bare hands this close before. Especially not groping at you. You wished you had time to admire his manicured nails as they dug into your clothed body. Jade’s grip was firm and you could hear Floyd snickering. Before you could apologize and squirm free, Jade had already spoken up. “Oh dear, were you always this clumsy? Maybe you’re exhausted from the party. Please, be a little more careful.” He cooed softly as you felt his teeth latch onto the back of your shirt collar. His nose nudged against the back of your neck as you nodded in understanding. “Sorry.” You murmured, although the situation had to be Jade’s fault. His teeth freed the fabric of your shirt as his thumbs rubbed delicate circles against your sides. “I forgive you.” His breath tickled over your now burning skin as you attempted to slip out of Jade’s lap.

You only ended up rolling your hips into the right handed twin. And the left handed one wasn’t too happy about that.

“Move already Shrimpy!” He snapped, grabbing you by your tie and yanking hard. Floyd would have strangled you had Jade continued to hold you in his lap. You let out a sound of distress as Floyd was now tugging and pulling at your limbs, leaving your neck sore from his rough yanking as you were practically tossed onto the suede couch. You were now seated between Jade and Floyd. The taller twin’s fist was still clenched around your tie as he glared at you, and you rubbed over your throat with a few coughs. “Making moves on Jade like I ain’t watchin’? Are you a pervert?” He growled and tugged on your tie again, yanking you into his side as his other hand squeezed your cheeks. His nails scraped into the sides of your face as your mouth was now hidden behind his palm. He was smiling again. “I guess pervert Shrimpy’s are okay. But don’t pay too much attention to Jade,” You wanted to bite Floyd. “I’m here too.” He laughed and shoved the back of your head roughly into the couch as one of Jade’s hands now relaxed on your thigh. His fingers tapped to the beat of the music playing as Floyd curled your tie around his fingers, looping it around each of his digits with a sharp-toothed smile. 

You didn’t want to do the interview any more.

You were uneasy as you looked between them. Noticing they were staring at you expectantly. Jade gave the flesh of your thigh a light squeeze. Right. As if they would let you get up and leave so easily. You shrunk into the couch and cleared your throat. “F… First question. Um,” You trailed off as Jade’s hand began to inch towards your inner thigh. “H… How are you feeling with everyone celebrating for you…” You asked softly as the hand trailed higher and higher towards the zipper of your shorts. You snapped your thighs together, squeezing around Jade’s hand. He turned his head so you couldn’t see his expression. You assumed he was pouting.  “I am deeply honored that everyone has come to celebrate for Floyd and me. However, while this might be unusual for me, I’m rather embarrassed with so many people wishing me a happy birthday.” Jade responded as Floyd reached over you to begin loosening your tie. Your eyes widened in alarm as you grabbed Floyd’s wrist, not realizing you had relaxed your thighs. “It’s loud and it’s tons of fun. We had parties back home, but none were ever this noisy.” Floyd answered your question as you choked back a whine. Jade’s fingers stroked over the cool zipper of your shorts, nudging against the sensitive bud hidden beneath two thin layers of clothing. “I like the ones here better, they’re not so formal.” Floyd’s voice became softer as he pulled your tie from around your neck. 

Your head was spinning. Four hands against your two. “Oh my… You didn’t catch any of that. Were you even listening?” Jade asked, his voice full of faux concern as he leaned in closer. “Are you going to finish your interview? Little Shrimp?” Jade asked, his forehead bumped against your temple as he kissed the sensitive skin along your ears. The pads of his fingers continued to gently stroke over your crotch as Floyd was now pulling at your shirt buttons with a giggle. You were losing your composure. Coming unraveled as easily as your tie was from skilled and maybe even experienced hands. Jade was now unzipping your shorts as Floyd’s pressed his cheek against yours, his nose bumped against your other ear. “Shrimpy, you still didn’t give us a gift y'know? I said nooooo dice since you came empty handed.” He whispered, pressing his body into yours as you felt his set of sharp teeth clamp down on your earlobe. Much rougher than Jade’s gentle kisses to the cartilage. 

“Askin’ me about shit I could care less about. Didn’t you come here because you wanted to see me?” He asked as the cool air began lapping over your now exposed chest. His hand slipped inside of the opened shirt to tug at the garment underneath. Floyd was smirking now. “Because you wanted to see us? I know you don’t care about this stupid interview. Quit fuckin’ with me.” His growl vibrated through your body all the way down to your core.

Your hips rutted into Jade’s gentle strokes as you weakly attempted to shut your thighs again. “Stop that.” Jade commanded quietly. The room was getting hotter as you tried to stop yourself from humping against the more composed twin’s fingers. You did honestly come to do your job. And now here you were, eyes watering as Floyd snatched up your skinny wrists with one hand, using your teal tie to wrap up your wrists with. “Wait-” You whimpered, swallowing down a gasp as Jade pulled his hand away. Now he was grabbing your suspenders to peel them off of your shoulders. “Wait for what?” Floyd asked with a hum as the tie was tied up into a neat bow. The twins stared you down as you were left speechless. “Wow Shrimpy, that's so thoughtful of you.” Floyd purred as his long fingers slipped into the side of your shorts, tugging at them with Jade as you squirmed in refusal. Jade was now smiling with his teeth on display, his eyes now half lidded. “I think this is the best gift we got all night. Right Jade?”

“Oh, I agree Floyd. None of the others we got are like this one. And personally handed to us by our dearest Prefect? What more could a moray ask for?” His words were sweet as you felt the air catch in your throat. 

“I don’t think-“

“Nah, usually you don’t.” Floyd giggled as your shorts were tugged down your thighs. “Coming here alone? Into a private room with two guys? No magic or anything? You’re either a dummy or a pervert. And I like how the second one still sounds.” Floyd teased as his slimy tongue rolled over the craters his nails left in your cheek. So you tried kicking your legs, hoping to strike him and Jade as you let out a soft scream. You writhed and squirmed, feeling their hands groping at you until Jade’s bare hand wrapped around your throat. You stopped moving instantly as your throat bobbed beneath his grip. Constricting and squeezing like a snake would suffocate its prey. “Please understand our intentions dear Prefect.” Jade purred as he was now pressing his knee into the couch, one leg planted on the floor as he looked down on you. Floyd slipped your shorts further down your legs while humming to himself. They were flung into a pile of unopened gifts as if you wouldn’t need to retrieve them afterwards. “Moray eels and cleaner shrimp have symbiotic relationships. As do the three of us.” He smiled as you stared at him with terrified eyes. You understood what he was saying. 

His cheeks were flushed with color as he leaned in closer, his nose was only millimeters away from yours. “Please, don’t look at me with fear. I’ll only get more excited… Little Shrimp.” He smiled as Floyd began pulling roughly at your panties next. You flashed a look at the busy handed twin and he was smiling back at you. A soft rip was heard and your blood ran cold. Before you could say anything, your attention was again stolen by Jade. “Focus.” He tutted as you looked at him with watery eyes. His half lidded gaze was burning into you hungrily. “You finish your interview, we get a gift from you. Understand?” He asked as you yelped and looked back down at Floyd. He had dug his teeth into the round flesh of your thigh, licking over a new set of craters. “Ah, she’s suuuuuper wet Jade. I think she really likes it. She really really does.” Floyd cooed as he kissed, licked, and sucked over the bite mark he left on your thigh. “We’ll make you feel just as good as we do. Then, we shall ship you out of here with your interview answers.” Jade assured as Floyd hooked an arm under your knee. He lifted your leg so your glistening cunt was now exposed. “Look! I toldja.” Floyd teased and began nipping at your leg. Kissing over each bite as if it was a form of apology. Jade’s spare hand rubbed over your suspended limb with a smile. “Just give me a yes. This won’t last too long.” Jade bumped his hips against your torso. You could feel how hard he was. This would all be over once you spoke.

“Okay, but… Please don’t hurt me.” You choked out breathlessly. Your face burning with embarrassment from your own submissive nature. The twins closed in on you, hands slipping between your thighs as Jade squeezed his fingers tighter around your throat. You let out a gargled sound, attempting to claw at his wrist with your bound hands. And he only flashed his sharp teeth in response to your futile attempts. “Such a good girl.”

Tagged Accounts: N/A

#floyd leech #jade leech #floyd leech and jade leech #floyd leech smut #jade leech smut #floyd x yuu #jade x yuu #floyd x reader x jade #fem!reader smut #crumb of leech #the tweels #the d in devil is for dubious #hellishly. happy. birthday #demonic. requests

[choco-cherry-chunk]

Will you write link stuff for your characters? Maybe that would help with asks

I assume you mean kink stuff? If so, absolutely! I’ve posted my own “tier list” thing about what I’m into in relation to this kind of kink and I’ll happily hit whatever within that list for any of my OCs and even create characters with other users if desired.

And if you’re interested too, I’ll try to write some here for one of them? You can look them up by name on my blog if interested.

Consider Cricket being kind of distracted while perfecting their next magic performance. Theyre bumbling some of their tricks; pulling crystals out of their hat when they meant to get doves, making more things appear when one thing is meant to disappear, their magic rings shrinking around their wrists instead of growing into hula hoops. They’re getting frustrated by the time Maurice offers to join in and help. He’s used to Cricket taking the lead with these things, but he doesn’t mind being a little bossy. He tells his partner that maybe the next trick should be the Aztec Lady or the Radium Girl, some kind of escapism trick. He figures that if it works, Cricket will feel more confident and they’ll be able to continue with the rest of the show’s plan. Cricket elects for one of the trick boxes, make Maurice disappear from the enormous box and reappear in the rafters of their stage, dangling on bars and strings.

Maurice gets into the box, waving tantalizingly before Cricket clicks the lid shut. Maurice can hear Cricket go through the usual spiel regarding the trick and he prepares for them to say the magic words that would indicate his movement to slip out of the box. Except when he hears them, he can’t get the back of the box open. He keeps trying to quietly tap at it with his foot, open the latch, and then slip through the floor. And while he’s fussing with it, he becomes vaguely aware of a different, familiar sensation.

A tingling in his middle. He’d described it at soda carbonation, just poured into a glass. Fizzling and popping somewhere deep inside, growing with time. The sensation, more intense, moving throughout his torso. Maurice drops a hand to his side and immediately can feel his flesh expanding under the rainbow fabric of his usual attire. Merde, Fancy Feet must have mixed up the trick again. He kept kicking at the trick door, trying to get it open as subtly as possible. He knew the trick Cricket was actually enacting well. His stomach swelled out further, becoming a proper belly in seconds. The usually billowed fabric of his top and pants didn’t hide the change for long, quick to hold onto his bloat. Soon, he could feel his hips widen, either side eventually brushing against either side of the box.

Cursing under his breath, Maurice starts to call out to Cricket for help, only to remember the next step in their act. Their little song-and-dance their so with the audience, their attempt to improv with those watching. Even with those big ass ears, there was no way they were paying attention. By the time he stopped shouting, Maurice looked down to see his tummy had swollen out to at least a full-term pregnancy. He could feel the subtlest of movements beneath his skin, familiar flutters that only drew his attention long enough for him to miss the moment his top and trousers separated. His watermelon-sized belly peeled out between the bright rainbow stripes, a bright white cloud of amidst the colors. It was just the slightly tinge of pink as he swelled, warm in the enclosed space.

Maurice continued his efforts to click open the back of the box with his heel, but it seemed to do little and even grew harder as the seconds ticked by. His back side pressed but against the handle for the box’s exit route, his ass slowly growing along with him. He tried to lean against the door, figuring the added weight would at least help to push it open, but the action just served to rub the sides of his corpulent growth against the walls. He watched as his stomach continued to grow, his innie popping into a perfectly poked out navel just before it swelled up enough to poke into the front of the box. The marionette gasped, not entirely out of concern; the sensation of his bloated body squashing against yet another wall sent shivers through him. He dropped his arms from the walls and that they had nowhere to go except to sit awkwardly on the crest of his stomach. He pulled at his top to give his middle more room to breathe. The box around him creaked, the sound barely audible over the gurgling of his belly, it’s size now close to that of being overdue with triplets. He rubbed his gloved hands over the paper white skin, the soft fabric tickling the sensitive bump. He found himself moaning, his fingers brushing over places where movements bubbled up, bumping and brushing more significantly the more the space of his stomach was encroached on. Maurice wasn’t sure what would give in first - his expanding tum or the box.

His arms looking to be rising, his stomach squished against the walls and swelling into what spaces it could. His back side and hips pushed up into what remained. Just as he felt the bottom of his abdomen brush the floor of the box, the door of the box popped open. Maurice gasped, his belly practically bursting through the open space, briefly jiggling from the force of the drop. Just over the top of his ballooned gut he could see Cricket’s wide eyes and perked up ears. A brief effort was made to get out of the box, but there was no give. The walls of the box pressed into his bloated side, jostling his bulge enough to send the babies within into a new fit of movement.

“I think that was the wrong spell, Fancy Feet.”

#mpreg #belly kink #pregnancy kink #hyper pregnancy #maurice the marionette #conjuring cricket #asks #anonymous #stuckage

[boysplanetrecaps]

Build Up Episode 8 Recap: Do Re Mi Fa, Gift

Hello! It’s time for me, BPR Unnie, to continue recapping MNET’s Build Up, episode 8! In the previous one, we saw a team with no name cover Uptown Funk and make everyone dance. In this one, we’ll see a team of balladeers sing a ballad. Will that win the night? We’ll find out! Let’s go!

Hey look!

It’s Glasses Baekho™!  He just looked so cute I had to take a screen shot. This show is so great. Isn’t this show great? 

Dahee calls the team up on stage.

They introduce themselves by singing “do-re-mi-fa,” and in a moment of brilliance, Dahee says, “And you have Do-re-mi-fa-SOLAR over there!” (Get it? Do-re-me-fa-so-la.)

Look how proud Dahee is. Hey Dahee, join my improv team! 

Solar jokes back and everyone is having a great time and I wish I were fluent in Korean! I learn two or three words a month so I’ll be fluent in a thousand years, so look forward to that! 

Glasses Baekho™ says this team is the only ballad team, and that they ranked first in the interim check. Ah, so that’s how they earned the right to choose the running order.

Junhyeok has put on a fair bit of concealer and blush, I think. But it looks good. 

We cut back to the interim check. 

OMG, new and different Glasses Baekho™? I want to collect them all! 

Baekho announces that Gwangseok’s team has ranked first place, but the team doesn’t look pleased at the news.

Junhyeok says he’s “more startled than happy” because “they don’t think we’re their competition.” The team thinks that the other guys chose them as the top tier precisely because they are NOT top tier. And… they’re right. 

Hey look, it’s Jeup and Donghun. Imagine seeing them? On this show? There they are! Hi! 

Bitsaeon explains, “Although they said to pick the top tier based on the performance, I think all teams were thinking quite strategically.” 

We see that Bitsaeon’s team was tempted to pick Jeup’s team as the best, but decided not to give them that boost. Soomin’s team would have picked Jay’s team as the best, but again, didn’t, and Sunyoul’s team thinks along the same lines.

The song they’re doing is Gift by Park Hyo Shin, a song released in 2009 that “conveys the singer’s pain and hopes”. 

Sample lyrics:

Whatever others said, I told them I’m not weak, and tolerated such days with tears They didn’t know me, and didn’t even want to listen to what I had to say Left alone in the darkness of the night, one, two, three, I count the stars and in the moment that the morning sky appears… Today, the sky seems like a gift someone left behind for me Under its warmth, stronger than yesterday’s, if you are like me, Listen to this song now, close your eyes, and when you open them once more, It’s going to be alright!!

Ah, if only they had talked to me. I could have told them that songs with a “it’s going to be alright!” messages always (1) get the audience clapping and singing and long and (2) lose. Always. Find me a time that a “it’s going to be alright” song on any Produce/Planet type show has ever, ever won. They often come in last place! I don’t know why. Everyone enjoys them, and no one votes for them. 

Bitsaeon, Donghun, and Soomin voice over things like, “It was a predictable song” and “They did what they’re used to doing” and “It’s the same every round.” 

Donghun’s team must not have picked Yeo One’s team as the top tier, because on the mic, he says “I think we can easily beat you this time.” 

Yeo One has a sassy comeback, but… it doesn’t quite land. 

Junhyeok interviews, “I think we made a bad choice.”

They decide to have an emergency meeting at a… convenience store by the docks, I guess?

I mean, they might as well meet outside since apparently buildings aren’t heated in Korea.

Junhyeok says: “Since we established vocalist image that only does ballad….” And Yeo One chimes in: The performances we've shown could have been quite limited.” They’ve done a lot of emotional songs -- maybe it’s time to freshen things up.

They want to show a bright and fun side and decide to add a bit of movement. 

Yeo One is their performance expert, and he comes up with some basic semi-choreo for them to do. 

They have fun preparing. 

And then… it’s time to perform!

Full version without reactions 

My thoughts: 

Pleasant. 

I don’t know what else to say about it. Everyone did fine -- well, Junhyeok was pitchy on that first big high note -- but it’s like I was forgetting about the performance even while I was watching it. There are a lot of distinctive voices here, but this was just so… aggressively pleasant. 

I think this would have been a great song for a group to perform at the end of a long concert. You know, when they’ve built up a lot of good will throughout the night and everyone’s kind of emotionally spent and wants to have a sort of “credits role” moment as the encore. The group comes out wearing their tour-merch t-shirts and everyone sways. Great. I’m on board. But it’s just the wrong choice for the only song that you can sing. 

It’s weird because Junhyeok said he knew they’d made a bad choice, and they thought they could dress it up with a little bit of extremely lite choreo? I don’t get it. I think they didn’t understand the assignment the way that Jeup did. 

In the MNET edit, everyone likes the performance. 

Wendy does her best to smile with her new lips. 

The judges comment on how nice Yeo One sounds, and what a great voice Gwangseok has. 

Eunkwang has to exchange looks with Wendy and Jaehwan over Junhyeok’s sweet tone.

Everyone is a little surprised and pleased when things brighten up and they do that tiny bit of choreo (lining up and stepping away one at a time). Yeo One gets the audience to wave their arms in unison. 

We see Wendy a lot. She seems to be really enjoying it. 

When one of them say “BASU!” (clap), the audience does clap, but they can’t find the beat, and neither can the judges. Looks like many of the judges have their in-ear monitors out. 

When they’re done, the judges applaud, but Solar looks like she wants to wish herself into space.

Seohyung backstage says, “They tried to give the finale feel, like an encore,” and that’s true, they did, but it just sort of makes you nostalgic for the other performances from the night. 

Donghun, who had his filter shot off in the war, says, “They’re desperate. They’re all on the edge.”

The judges are voting…

… and they don’t look thrilled. 

The high score comes in, and it’s a 94. 

What in the fuckity fuck fuck.

Meanwhile, Jay’s team is just like…. 

I wish the judges could go back and just admit they were wrong about Jay’s team. Don’t any of them even take a moment to think, “Hey, I gave Drowning a 90 or less, do I really want to give this team a fucking 94?” But someone gave a fucking 94. Whatever.

Solar, on the other hand, isn’t super complimentary. She says: “The song itself was well suited for the finale. It’s a hopeful song, and you sang it very hopefully, but there was no narrative to the performance, so the hopeful message wasn’t really conveyed.” 

VCG says: “In terms of performances, some share the hope with the audience, while other asks them to witness the singers’ happiness. Your performance was the latter.” The on-screen caption says “It seemed like a performance for the four members, not for the audience to empathize.”  He isn’t thrilled with how they used Gwangseok (I think he thinks there wasn’t enough Gwangseok? There didn’t seem to be enough of anything or anyone!) and says “If you get another chance, show me something deep.”

Eunkwang, who gave the 94 -- and who I think might have been the only one who really liked the performance-- says, “I actually felt differently. That’s how diverse the audience’s ears are. During the entire performance, I felt cozy and overwhelmed. Like I was in the clouds.” He praises Gwangseok and the team as a whole. 

Well, that’s nice that they got some good feedback. I find Junhyeok a sort of touching figure somehow and wouldn’t want him to be completely bulldozed in this round. Life has bulldozed him enough! 

And that’s about it for this post. In the last one, I’ll cover the last 15 minutes of this episode, and do a general wrap up of this round of competition. 

It’s a gross stormy day where I live and I have a sad tummy, so what else am I going to do but surround myself with squishmallows and watch Korean tv shows? My Fella just made another pot of coffee for us, my afternoon appointments all canceled due to the storm, I’ve got my microwavable slippers on, so let’s do this. 

See you in the next one! And have a very Jeup day until then!

#bpr unnie has it bad #build up #mnet build up #build up mnet #bpr recaps build up #pentagon #yeo one

[merv606]

okay but niny!daniel (broke student maybe?) with kk3!terry at a fancy dinner event. they don’t know each other yet but terry can barely focus on sugaring up attendees for business deals because who is this is all dressed up in a second hand suit and old shoes but oh so pretty and Puppy Eyed and smol?? and people (aka OTHER MEN) are giving him Looks and terry wants to annihilate them. ahem. of course he introduces himself very charmingly and within .5 seconds of meeting danny boy is picking out what fancy china to use at their wedding reception. 

Terry: Btw you’re mine lol (dom intensifies) :)))

Daniel: ???? confused blush ????

Terry: :DDD

Guests: o___o??

I have thought of this AU so many times - other ways Terry could have met him.

The seeing him at a gala while Daniel serves is always a fav / whether it’s for Terry’s company or one he’s attending.

What Daniel would have looked like in the NINY era though - Terry would be helpless.

Terry and Daniel are made for possessive obsessiveness BUT when you throw in the instant possessiveness before Daniel even clocks Terry on his radar / because in Terry’s mind the boy is already his, his, his IS top tier - the pinnacle of what Silverusso is at it’s essence.

BUT.

We could go the 90’s rom com route. Teeth rotting fluff that masks the possessiveness it’s flavoured with.

Daniel at the Gala for Silver Enterprises as a server, who, of course, bumps into Terry causing him to spill his drink or the entire tray of drinks on Terry. Daniel dropping down right away, to pick up the glass, and Terry about to evisercate this waiter for being so clumsy, looking down right as Daniel looks up, only to stare into the biggest, roundest, softest brown eyes he’s even seen and his anger just evaporates.

Eyes scanning the rest of his face / those cheekbones, smooth olive skin, the pink perfect pout, and adorable bunny teeth.

Yeah - Terry doesn’t even care about the extremely expensive suit that’s now ruined / he only cares about the beautiful boy on his knees in front of him.

Daniel stands, biting his lip and Terry has to stop from groaning, instantly imagining what it would look like if he was biting his lip to keep the guests from hearing him as he cried out in pleasure as Terry fucked him in one of the many empty rooms.

Daniel starts trying to wipe him off as more servers run over to help with the mess.

“I am so sorry … Mr ….” He lets it hang, Terry realizing the boy doesn’t even know who he is.

“Terry Silver.” And the look of comprehension and dread that dawns on his unfairly beautiful face is delicious.

“I’m so fired.” He mutters.

“Not at all,” Terry chuckles. “These things happen …” he trails off, the look on his face letting Daniel know he’s expecting a name.

“Daniel,” he says before thinking to give Terry his last name as well. “Daniel Larusso.”

“Nice to meet you Daniel Daniel Larusso,” and that does the trick, the fear melting from the boy.

He holds out his hand but before Daniel can take it, a large hand wraps around his wrist, turning it over.

A small gasp from the boy at the action, that while music to Terry’s ears, right now he’s more concerned with what he sees.

“You’re bleeding.”

His mouth is open in a perfect little o, staring at Terry, before he looks down.

“Oh shit. It must have been on the glass.”

His grips tightens as he turns, pulling Daniel along with him until they’re in one of the bathrooms, Terry telling the attendant they need a first aid kit.

“It’s fine Mr. Silver …. Really.”

And that does things to Terry that almost have him bending the delicate boy over the counter and taking him like that. For now though ….

“Nonsense. We’ll get you fixed.”

It’s then that Terry realizes Daniel too is soaked through from the wasted champagne.

“Your suit is soaked through too.”

“No worse than you. I hope I didn’t ruin it,” he says and Terry scoffs. Like that matters.

Then he hears the muttered “it’s bad enough I’ll have to pay for the glasses and the wasted champagne.”

“Don’t you worry about that. I think I bumped into you after all. If I’m not mistaken …. and I rarely am,” he says pointedly when Daniel opens his mouth, probably to insist it was his fault, quickly shutting it.

“Now, I have a penthouse upstairs. How about we get you a change of clothes.”

“I don’t think you’d have anything that fits,” Daniel says, voice playful with a slightly self deprecating tone and Terry doesn’t miss the colour rising high on his cheeks as he looks Terry up and down. “You’re, uh, much more built than I am.”

And how cute is that Terry thinks - the boy actually believes Terry wants him in his clothes so he can come back down and what, work? Like Terry would let him go back down to be around all those rich old men out there who would spend the night touching him like it was their right. Like Terry is letting him go anywhere for that matter.

No, he would be spending the night with Terry in the penthouse upstairs in Terry’s lap, on his cock, the beautiful narrow back arching in pleasure as Terry shows the boy pleasure like he’s never known.

And night after that, and that, and that too.

There were also the floor to ceiling windows he could take his boy against, showing him the world he would provide for him, all the pleasure it contained.

He wasn’t going anywhere. Not without Terry anyway.

“Well, we’ll figure out something.” Terry smiles, shark like, holding his hand out.

Daniel hesitates.

“All you have to do it tell me yes.”

He does / and Terry never gives him cause for regret.

#ask #i got an ask #🤩 #daniel larusso #cobra kai #silverusso #terry silver #the karate kid #silverrusso #the karate kid 3 #AU

[martianbugsbunny]

OUAT Thoughts Pt.5--Episode 12

I have watched through S1E13; spoilers DNI. Also, spoiler warning for those further behind than I am.

So, @abovethemists, I hope this review satisfies your curiosity, I do my best! Your slightly ominous reply had me really anticipating this episode, and I must say I was not disappointed.

—First of all, how many times can I say “sexy” in one post?

—Rumplestiltskin’s saunter is just heavenly. I know I’ve already devoted entirely too much time to agonizing over the beauty of his body language, but that is absolutely the walk of a man who knows he owns whatever room he’s in. Also, that saunter just looks so gosh-darn good on him.

—Bit weird of Rump to always be spinning his web of deals when he could probably just smite everybody. Maybe he just thinks this is more fun? (It is, btw.)

—I love his clothes. Other characters’ costumes, particularly in the fairytale world, are generally mid-tier, with an occasional foray into either excellence or disgusting, but Rump’s clothes are always gorgeous. The leather pants, not everyone could pull off (but he does, trust me). The vests, whether they’re leather, crocodiley, and/or embroidered, have outstanding collars and cuts. Actually, the vests are the highlight of Rump’s wardrobe. And those satiny-type blouses are exactly the kind of blouse I dream of wearing.

—Mr. Gold looks great wearing sunglasses. I love the Rump content; that and coffee power my life at this point, but Mr. Gold has got it going too. So I guess my motivation in life at the moment is about 67% Rumplestiltskin, 12% coffee, and 21% Mr. Gold.

—Mr. Gold’s house is gorgeous. I would love to live there. The stained glass, the green-and-salmon paint on the outside…it’s just exquisite.

—Okay, so we got to see more of Mr. Gold’s mean streak in this episode, which to be honest is the main draw for me. Rump gets to be cutthroat all the time, but this is the first time Mr. Gold has really been ruthless.

—Actually, he’s a bit frightening. I think “menacing” describes him best; he’s surely more subtle than Rump—most of the time—but he’s still scary. I would not double-cross that man.

—Mr. Gold using his cane as a weapon was pretty cool.

—Rump’s house in the fairytale world is even more gorgeous than his “real” world house. I mean, it’s on a snowy mountain, and it’s huge, and very elegantly-decorated. The rugs are beautiful, and I love the sheer size of the rooms. And his furniture, what we’ve seen of it, is highly tasteful. Oh, and the curtains are stunning.

—I have no choice but to stan Belle, as I, too, would fall in love with Rump.

—I appreciate that we’re getting to see a little bit more of Rump and the Evil Queen’s deal in the fairytale world showing through. Although, if all he has to do is say “please” and she does whatever he likes, he could get so much more than he’s currently using that for.

—I’m sorry, but I just can’t take the Evil Queen seriously when Rump is in the same room or vicinity. He’s so much more powerful, and frankly more clever.

—While Mr. Gold became a bit more vicious, Rump got some new feelings. I love a good anguish-of-love storyline (even if I’m not entirely convinced yet that I like the romance angle for Rump). Him being the Beast in Belle’s story is pretty fine, though. I didn’t see that one coming.

—Speaking of pretty fine….

—Just kidding! To hear me talk, you’d think nothing but Rump happened in episode 12 (though he was the most important part) but I’m very happy for Ashley and her guy. They deserve to get married and have their happily-ever-after.

—I have nearly given up on remembering which spelling of Shawn/Sean/Shaun, or if that’s even his name in the “real” world.

—Almost forgot—what the heck is up with the Evil Queen locking Belle in the hospital basement?!! That’s insanely creepy!

—At least now I know for sure that both Mr. Gold and the Evil Queen are aware of who they really are.

—Rump covering all of the mirrors in his house so the Evil Queen can’t spy on him is top-tier brain usage. Although, one might wonder why he keeps mirrors in his house at all.

—Referring to my earlier side note, I have rather complicated feelings on romance being part of Rump’s motivation. On one hand, romance is a wildly cliche motivator for villains. Now, of course I have to acknowledge at this point that I have put Rump on a pretty high pedestal, but he deserves to be there. He’s much better-written, charismatic, and convincing than most villains I’ve seen. However, I’m pleased that romance is not what started him on his villainous path; in fact, having it be a secondary motivator is a somewhat fresh take on the cliche. I also have to add that it adds another dimension to his character, and that having his anger renewed at a point I’m assuming is years after his original turn to villainy is a clever idea. The problem is that when a love story enters the chat, it usually takes over, for any variety of character. If Rump escapes without being depicted as little more than a lovesick weakling, I predict that I will be, in the end, most pleased with the turn his backstory has taken.

#once upon a time #ouat #rumplestiltskin #belle #mr. gold #evil queen #Ashley #ashley's bf #Sean charming I guess #rumplestiltskin again #serious character development #top-tier episode #martianbugsbunny reviews

[theoncomingchaos]

Scoy Novel: NueaToh pt. 2

What step were we on? Oh well! We last left Nuea having a surprising gay panic, and by Sky’s advice he is going to try and test his feelings.

Nuea’s plan to test his own feelings: Ask Toh to bathe together and see how he feels.

The result: Sees Toh’s naked back as he undresses, immediately gets hard, then runs to shower first to calm down. Welp that was easy.

And now these idiots are hunting each other.

Nuea is sitting here thinking “This good boy, so honest... I almost feel bad for tricking him. He’s so good will he even know when he has fallen into my trap?” and Toh is over here: “Poor innocent Nuea has no idea the wolf he has unleashed!“ The absolute insanity of this pair. They are both feral.

Bonus Mutual Hunting: Toh was purposefully using the excuse that he moves a lot in his sleep to cuddle Nuea, so the next day (after Nuea realizes his feelings) he uses the excuse to keep from getting kicked around to cuddle Toh. These idiots share one brain cell.

Bonus things Nuea loves about Toh:

-Nuea has a thing for putting his face in the crook of Toh’s neck and just breathing him in. This has happened multiple times and it is cute af every time.

-Toh is excited about everything and Nuea finds that so cute. 

How it’s going after they start dating?

After Toh accidentally outs their relationship to Lan and Nuea’s mom:

Toh: You can break up with me...

Nuea: I’ve never even thought of breaking up with you.

Toh: I’m not good.

Nuea: Who said that?

Toh: I’m saying this for you, why are you angry?

Nuea: If you’re doing it for me, then you must continue to be with me. Don’t go anywhere, don’t look for anyone else, and continue to love me. (Nuea has killed me all over again.)

We are only halfway through the book and Nuea has gotten like top tier level of possessive.

Nuea gets upset about the makeover → Toh: Is he hangry?!

Nuea: Wear the glasses and stay as cute as usual. If you are even more good looking everyone will want to take you away from me and you’ll forget about me.

Toh: (?!?!?! Don’t speak to me of heaven, this is it. I’m ready to be buried)

Nuea: Also, you should be jealous about me too. It makes me feel more secure that way...

Toh: What if it’s a girl, do you want me to jealously hit a girl?!

Nuea: IF. YOU. HAVE. TO.

Toh: (mentally losing it) So, should I go find someone to hit out of jealousy? Give me a minute. :D

Nuea: Give it time, there will be people to hit...

Toh: So...can I be handsome for ONE more day? I want to make a good impression on your family.

Nuea: You can wear the new clothes...but take it easy on me and wear the glasses alright? I like you, I don’t want a new one. I like Toh.

Toh: I’m so tired of handsome men. Maybe I’ll get myself an ugly boyfriend.

Nuea: TOH!! (T-T)

Toh: (My boyfriend really can’t separate reality from jokes can he? Ah well. I may have a dictator boyfriend, but it’s not that I don’t like it, I’m just afraid I’m gonna get spoiled like this.)

Toh absolutely owns him.

#scoy the novel #scoy the series #scoy #secret crush on you #tohnuea #nueatoh

[impishbiscuit]

I want to know about "a google walks into a bar" pls

As you wish

~ ~ ~

She hates Jack.

No, that’s a lie; she really doesn’t hate Jack, but she hates that Jack demanded a birthday party at Afterlife, of all things, instead of a nice and normal, quiet party back on the Normandy with cake.

Shepard likes cake. She can deal with cake. Hell, she’d even be willing to bake the cake herself if it meant she didn’t have to be here. Shepard’s not a great chef, but she can make cakes, and has indeed made several at varying points during this grand Cerberus venture. She’d be happy to make a cake as extravagant as Jack wants—multi-tiered, with sprinkles, whatever. She’d even bust out the fondant for Jack.

But no. Jack doesn’t want a quiet party with cake. Jack is Jack, and that means a nightclub with strippers and shots and dancing. Shepard doesn’t dance (not this kind, anyway). Shepard doesn’t have anything to do with strippers—she blushes too much and can’t look them in the eye, too taken aback and distracted by abundant quantities of cool-colored skin. Shepard stays at home where it’s nice and quiet and bass-heavy music only pulses through her earpiece and doesn’t vibrate her entire reinforced skeleton.

She doesn’t hate Jack, but she hates the situation Jack has put her in.

The only good thing about tonight is that Miranda seems about as enthused about the distraction from the mission as Shepard is about being here at all. From Shepard’s place at the bar, fetching the crew’s third round of drinks, she can see Miranda’s stormy face as she slowly drains some honey-and-gin based cocktail, seemingly unable to keep her glare off where Jack sways with one of the club’s dancers. It seems more choreographed than Shepard would expect for such a spontaneous interaction as this one, but then again, she doesn’t know much about clubs. Most of the time, she avoids them on principle.

What she does know is that they are loud, with great shuddering bass and fast-paced music that shakes her bones and rattles her jaw. Frankly, she’s surprised the shots the turian bartender is pouring aren’t sloshing over the edge of the glasses from the pulsations of the music.

“Okay, honey, these are levo. Remember that,” the bartender says, sliding the tray a couple of inches towards her. “How many dextro do you need?”

“Um,” Shepard says, suddenly realizing just how many Jack had ordered. “Well, we have one turian and one quarian, so not as many, I think.” When the bartender gestures to her, she realizes her voice has been lost to the music, and she repeats herself. She can be loud on the battlefield, and she has to summon some of that energy to speak up enough to be heard here.

The turian bartender must realize how far out of her element she is, and slides over a blue-tinged shot. “This one’s on the house, sweetheart,” he says, busying himself with preparing a much smaller arrangement of dextro shots.

“Thank you,” Shepard squeaks, throwing it back and shivering at how smoothly it goes down her throat. It seems the bartender took great pity on her; that was not a cheap shot, tasting of raspberries and mint. For a millisecond, she considers asking the bartender what that was so she can ask Kasumi to procure a bottle for the Normandy.

No. Absolutely not. She does not need to encourage anyone into thinking anything about this night was a good idea.

Across the club, in the corner the ground crew has claimed with sprawling limbs, Grunt seems to be attempting to mimic Jack’s choreography, but with four times the bulk and a quarter of her grace. To Shepard’s almighty despair, Jack whoops and cheers him on, even when he climbs on top of a table that bends under his weight. Miranda’s face slowly turns redder and redder until she snaps something at the pair of them, to which Jack responds with raised arms and flared biotics.

“Are they with you?” asks the bartender, probably just to be polite. Shepard’s been with them all night, forced to interact and even do a little bit of the wiggling that passes for club dancing. The bartender has to know she’s one of them.

“Yep.”

“My condolences,” says the bartender, pushing another blue-tinged shot her way. “Here. This one’s on the house, too.”

#mass effect #mass effect fanfic #mass effect fanfiction #female shepard #femshep

[agentroz]

The Variable of Love | February Task

How did your muse’s parents meet? Was it a blind date? The shadowy corner of a bar? An elaborate arrangement by the fae king? Write a oneshot that tells the story (800 words)

Featuring: Richard Peterson, Joan (Baxter) Peterson

Warnings: vague reference to birth complications and to ~secret agent typical violence~

Private Log, Agent 100 (Confidential, Top Secret)

The Rescue Aid Society is aware of the statistical probability of agents developing feelings of romantic and/or sexual desire for one another and has accounted for these scenarios. In fact, we are often able to predict this turn of events before even the relevant agents are aware of their own feelings, which gives us a crucial advantage. Psychologically speaking, moments of high stress and prolonged proximity frequently lead individuals to forming a variety of bonds with one another, platonic or not. We must monitor these scenarios carefully.

 After all, love is a complex and fickle thing. It can inspire irrationality and carelessness in otherwise well-rounded agents, and we cannot afford to leave any variable to chance.

~~

Joan Baxter was a striking woman, towering above her colleagues in high heels with a jawline that could cut glass. So could her stare, people said. And while she consistently produced top-tier work, subtlety was her only weakness, which was not entirely her fault. A tall, striking woman with piercing blue eyes, traveling alone and using her own money certainly attracted attention in that era. The decision was made to assign her a cover husband.

“I’ve never had any trouble on my own, you know I am very capable of defending myself,” Baxter argued, but there was no arguing with HQ. After all, everyone already knew this, including Baxter herself. It was the right choice, to give her a husband to help her to camouflage. And yet, she resented this notion, that a woman should need a man around to be seen as “normal.”

Still, she followed the mission instructions like any other.

They held an inconspicuous ceremony at a small church, where photos were taken for evidence and rings with hidden compartments exchanged. Evans met her mission companion— sorry, husband— right there at the altar, a small and nervous HQ drone with small eyes and small glasses.

Till death do us part, Baxter thought, as they stepped outside into a cloud of rice raining down on them.

They nearly did part, many times. Baxter’s fault more often than Peterson’s. Once, to Peterson’s panic, she dove headfirst from a cliff into the dark and murky water below, pursuing a target. He had no choice but to follow after, lest they be separated. Another time, Baxter tailed a dangerous poacher for three days, abandoning HQ’s instructions to follow one of his less-competent henchmen. She escaped missing one of her signature high heels but with her life.

There was the time they leapt out of a plane together and Baxter accidentally delayed their parachute deployment a near-deadly several seconds by making terrible puns the whole way. Peterson refused to speak to her for hours after that, but he couldn’t help thinking that there were worse ways to die than hearing the most beautiful voice you’ve ever heard (which just so happened to belong to your wife) say that “The hardest part about skydiving is the ground.” 

There was the time Rosalind was born. That turned out to be far riskier than anyone, even the doctors, had anticipated. 

One night, exhausted from another 3 AM feeding wake-up call, Baxter returned to bed and crawled into Peterson’s arms, exhausted. She had never done that before, not even the evening that Rosalind was conceived (that was a businesslike affair, Baxter proposing a child may be necessary to their cover and Peterson agreeing enthusiastically (but not too enthusiastically, they were keeping things professional, obviously)). Peterson blinked at his wife in disbelief, who looked so much smaller in her slippers and her robe, softer with her hair in foam rollers. He had long suspected that she intentionally went to sleep after him, to avoid being seen in this way.

“This is so hard,” she whispered, in a 3 AM voice that Peterson had never heard before.

“Harder than Petersburg?” he whispered back, hoping that a reminder of one of her most harrowing missions might cheer her up. 

“Yes,” Baxter replied, though in the moonlight, he could see the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. 

It tugged at something in his heart, too. Something that terrified him, because he was always certain that he felt it when she didn’t, and the last thing he wanted to do was compromise professionalism.

“Harder than… Auckland?” He couldn’t help smiling anyway, almost teasingly.

“Yes.”

“Blimey… harder than Istanbul?”

Now she laughed, nestling her head against his chest. “Yes.”

“You’re telling me that our two-week-old daughter is more difficult to deal with than a chimera,” Peterson replied, letting out his own rare laugh of disbelief. “This, I’ve got to see.”

“You will,” she promised. “Then stay up with me.”

“Alright,” he agreed. “I will.”

And so it was not the rainstorm of bullets in Petersburg or the helicopter ambush in Auckland or the chimera attack in Istanbul that made Joan Baxter realize that she loved Richard Peterson, that she had loved him ever since she’d slid that secret ring onto his finger in the chapel that day (but had pushed that terrifying thought deep, deep down). It was midnight and moonlight and a promise, and then a kiss, and then another—

And then a wailing child, again.

“I’ll go get her,” Richard offered. “Our little chimera.”

~~

Private Log, Agent 100 (Confidential, Top Secret)

Love is a complex and fickle thing. It is also a powerful thing, inspiring truly remarkable acts of courage and moments of resilience in RAS agents for decades. Sometimes, this is a love of cause, a love of mission. Other times, it is something more private, shared between a squad of friends or a pair of lovers. I do not know for certain under which category the relationship between agent 401 and agent 402 falls. We must continue to monitor. But if I may make a recommendation that allows this relation to flourish, that will benefit the team in other ways, I see no reason not to.

Contrary to what some may assume, I do believe in the importance of love. It inspires me to protect my family and honor my parents. It gives me hope in this broken world. It is a liability, yes, but also an asset.

I shall make my recommendation to HQ.

#swyntask #“private log” thats just ur diary roz #lmfao #self para