#also i think i have cavities and there's this man. i fucked last week. who wants to meet again and idk how to tell him i'm not interested 🤡

[beggingwolf]

also on ao3 here

The waitstaff don't hover. This restaurant is too expensive, and Geno is too important a client to hustle away from the table. Their water glasses stay filled, the condensation soaking rings into the white tablecloth. Before the waiter can disappear again, Geno gestures with his finger toward his empty wine glass. He's delivered a fresh pour within seconds.

Sid looks away as Geno begins work on his fourth glass of the night. He'd caught the shot of clear liquor Geno had gulped down at his condo before slipping out the door alongside Sid. Anna and Nikita had stayed out of their way the entire time, out on the island's beaches or basketball courts as Sid and Geno sat down at the kitchen table.

Geno's fingers are a little clumsy when he puts down the wine glass. The leaden feeling that's been in Sid's stomach for the last week punches up into his diaphragm. He doesn't feel good about returning Geno back to the condo in this state. It had been different when they were young and pounding away the pain of a loss with shots, one after another, until they were pulled away from the bar by exasperated but brotherly teammates.

Now, with Anna waiting, with tall, not-so-little Nikita sleeping in the bright blue bedroom that used to be Geno's guest room here, it bothers Sid in a way that makes him feel old. Returning Geno to his wife wasted isn't what Sid wants.

What Sid wants, though, isn't what he's going to get.

"Is it really that bad of a deal, man?" he asks. He's probably asked the question six times tonight. His voice sounds hoarse to his own ears.

"Good enough for Tanger," Geno says before Sid can. The exchange hasn't changed. This isn't a drill Sid can run again and again until it works, until he gets the puck where he wants it to go, until he scores. He's starting to feel crazy for trying.

"It is."

Geno picks up the wine glass. The delicate stem is so small between his fingers. Sid closes his eyes.

"Why you come, Sid?"

Sid doesn't open his eyes. He can't. He doesn't want to look at Geno's pink face and tired eyes. The expression on it hasn't changed for the last seven hours Sid's been in Miami. This is an ending.

"You were upset."

"You don't come to go out, have fun, make me happy. You want to talk deal."

Sid doesn't have an answer to that. Geno keeps talking like he knows this.

"Why you come here? Why not go to Pittsburgh? Go yell at Hextall."

"I'm not yelling at you."

"You think he's right? Deal's good?"

"Geno."

"You're change my mind, not his? I listen to you?"

"I don't want to change your mind," Sid lies.

"Good" The table moves when Geno thunks the glass, empty, back onto it. It feels like an elbow to the neck. A puck to the jaw. A fist reaching between Sid's ribs, into the cavity, straight to the heart.

-

Sid's room is on the other side of the island, a luxury hotel pretending to be a cottage. He walks the perimeter of the island to get there, 30 minutes of feet hitting pavement until he grips the doorknob with a white-knuckled hand and shoves his way inside.

He doesn't visualize failure. He's not wired that way. He hadn't prepared for this. He couldn't have, even with the entire postseason with the quiet wonder of when will Geno sign? sitting in the back of his skull. He pushed it away. It's how he wins. He didn't let himself think it.

The world feels unsteady beneath him.

He wants to pull his phone out of his pocket and call someone. Pat, to fix this, because Pat fixes everything. His father, who will sit quietly on the other end of the line until Sid's run out of words.

Geno. He wants to call Geno. This can't be it.

He strips for bed like a zombie. He doesn't even consider touching the mini-bar. He's too fucking old to drink himself to sleep. Geno's going to be suffering tomorrow, but that won't be Sid's problem, if it ever had been in the first place.

Staring up at the black nothingness after he's turned off the lights, Sid closes his eyes one more time.

"Please," he whispers to the darkness, to no one, to the universe. He hasn't felt this powerless in years. It's a relief when sleep swallows him.

-

"Get up, lazy-ass!"

The pillow hits Sid so hard he thinks he's being suffocated. He thrashes hard enough to launch pillow and sheets onto the ground. He's left in nothing more than his boxers as he shifts himself defensively on the mattress, guarding himself instinctually against whoever the hell got into his room.

"Easy," Staalsy scoffs as he pulls his sweatpants down.

Sid stares at Staalsy uncomprehendingly. This isn't his cottage room on Fisher Island. Sid can recognize the ugly yellow walls of the hotel they stay in for games against the Blackhawks. There are two open suitcases shoved up against the dresser at the end of the room.

"First bus leaves in twenty," Staalsy says nasally, a horrible impression of Sid's own voice, before he struts naked into the bathroom to take the world's loudest piss.

There's a flip phone sitting on the dresser. Sid still remembers the password, even though he hasn't used one in years. More than a decade.

"When is it?" Sid asks before he can stop himself.

"Get-your-ass-out-of-bed o'clock!" Staalsy yells from the bathroom.

Sid gets out of bed.

-

2008. It's 2008, and Sid is in Chicago, and when he skates, he feels lighter. His wrist doesn't hurt. He hasn't realized how good he'd felt at 21. The mileage he's put on his body at 35—aches and pains and twinges in places he's learned to ignore—has been erased. He could float away with the feeling of it.

The sensation of eyes on his back tether him back down to earth.

Geno hasn't looked away from him since he arrived at their morning skate. Every time Sid turns his head to check, Geno's face is fixed toward him. His jaw is softer with youth. The scar on his cheek is vibrant and fresh, dark against his pale skin.

His pink mouth is the same, though. Chapped. Hanging open. Soft-looking.

Sid swallows down the nausea that swirls in his throat and focuses on the drill.

He knows why Geno is staring at him. He knows why he's here, if not how.

"You and Geno got in late last night, huh?" Biz says as he skates into Sid's side along the boards. "I heard him knocking around like a fuckin' bear. How drunk was he?"

"Drunk," Sid says, chest tight.

"He fight you about it? He fights me when I try to bring him back to the room. Fuckin' bully."

"No." It feels like something is buzzing in Sid's chest. His voice is too high. He overcorrects it, and his words come out low and displeased. "He didn't fight last night."

"Easy," Biz complains. "He's easy for you, Cap. We're gonna put you on Geno-duty for the rest of the season."

He hadn't fought. He'd followed Sid the whole way to his room, and when Sid had shoved his hand into Geno's pocket for his room key, Geno had shoved Sid, in turn, up against the door.

Sid remembers it like it truly was yesterday: the feeling of those chapped lips on his, Geno's clumsy tongue trying to push its way inside his mouth. He hadn't moved. He had stood frozen in shock until Geno's mouth stopped moving on his.

Now, just like then, he's still frozen when Geno keeps looking at him, waiting for a reaction.

Sid skates, and practices, and pretends he isn't being watched, just like he had fourteen years ago.

Geno's attention hurts. He can't stand it, not now. Back then he'd been jumpy and unsettled, scared in a way that had wrenched him tight. Now he feels hollow. He knows how this plays out: after practice, when he corners Sid in the locker room, he takes Sid's rejection easily. Too easily. He goes back to his girlfriend a month later. He gets a new one in a few years. He eventually marries her. Nikita is born. Geno leaves the Penguins.

The future is all laid out in front of him, painful and stark. This is a punishment. This is the universe laughing at him. This is—

"Sid!" someone barks out, but it's too late. The puck strikes his visor so hard his vision goes white. Sid stumbles back against the glass, and when he can see again, the world is cracked in half.

"Sid?" Biz peers at him. Through the split in the world, it looks like there's two of him. Both stare at Sid in worry.

"I'm fine," Sid croaks. His visor is broken.

"Heads up!" Therrien snaps. "Pay attention on the ice or get off it!"

Sid yanks his helmet off. The world fuses back into one. There's only one Biz. There's only one crack down the middle of the plastic.

There's not only one future. This hadn't happened in Chicago in 2008.

Things have changed. Things can change.

When Sid returns to the ice, visor repaired, there's only one drill left. He lets Duper and Fedotenko ahead of him. When he lines up for the whistle, it's with Geno next to him.

Sid remembers what happens after this practice with crystalline clarity. Geno will wait for him, like he never does, and when it's only him and Sid left in the room, he'll step closer, those intense eyes locked on Sid with obvious want. Sid won't let him get a word in. He'll tell Geno he was drunk last night, and Sid won't blame him for what happened, and they can forget about it. He'll duck away from Geno, a pat to his shoulder, and they won't talk about that night for fourteen years. Then Geno will leave.

Therrien blows his whistle. Geno looks away from him. Sid's heart bursts in his chest as he digs his heel into the ice and sprints toward something new.

-

It happens like Sid remembers. The grimy showers in Chicago run too hot, like they always do. Geno's first out of the showers, like he always is.

Geno stays behind, like Sid knows he will.

When Duper finally lugs himself out of the locker room, Sid's gaze slides over to where Geno's too-casually draped himself back in his stall. Like he's dreamed about for years, Geno rolls himself up to his full height and begins the trek across the room. He doesn't look away from Sid. Sid had forgotten what it felt like to have Geno look at him like this. It's been so many years.

Geno had listened when Sid turned him down. If Sid rocketed to his feet and pushed Geno away as he had then, he'd turn his wanting gaze away. He'd train himself out of it. He'd find love in the arms of a woman years from now. There's a whole family in the future waiting for him.

Sid can't help but spare a moment of grief over them—over Anna's quiet, happy smirk and Nikita's eyes, just like Geno's—before he locks it away. He can give them both to Geno now if he stands up and walks away.

He doesn't. He sits as Geno comes to a stop right in front of him, looking down with those dark, beautiful eyes.

"Sid," Geno says, because he had always been the one willing to make a move. He'd gone after Sid. Years later, he'd had the guts to leave.

Sid had been a coward then. He wouldn't be one again.

Sid stands. He reaches out, grasps his future by the chin, and kisses Geno Malkin back for the first time.

It won't be the last. It won't be the last.

#ficlet #sidgeno #hockey rpf

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Rush Hour 2 (Ratner, 2001)

Having managed to enjoy the work of both Chris Tucker and Jackie Chan on the big screen within the past week, I knew it was time to see them reunite. Time to see them once again join forces for the greater good. Time to revisit... Rush Hour...2. Why not the first Rush Hour, a movie I actually enjoy? Two reasons. One, I've often wheeled out this one and the third in other reviews to illustrate the decline of the average level of filmmaking within the period of a few years, and there's no way in hell I'm willingly rewatching the third. Second, the first one seemed to have left Netflix, and there's no way in hell I'm willingly rewatching the third, so Rush Hour 2 it is.

I think Air gave me an appreciation of how Chris Tucker can be well used in a movie. For example, when he slows the fuck down, lowers his voice, speaks in a soothing tone and stays offscreen for large chunks of the movie, as in Air, he can be pretty enjoyable for the few minutes of well chosen screentime he actually appears, and also the many minutes during which he is nowhere to be seen. (Okay, I'm being a bit mean, he's actually quite good in the movie.) But even in the first Rush Hour, when he's given an actual arc and given some semblance of humility by the story, going from the biggest joke of his department to gaining the respect of his colleagues and himself, you can see how his motormouthed style can be amusing. Here, he's totally unleashed, refusing to shut the fuck up for even an instant, yammering his way with his high-pitched squeal through the movie with total indifference to the needs of the plot. I wanted to tear my head off and roll it away like a bowling ball.

If anything that came out of his mouth was funny, it would be one thing. But for the first half of the movie, his dialogue consists of nothing but relentless racism against the entire Hong Kong population, who somehow resist the urge to cast him off into the sea. And when we foolishly think he might have dialed things down, he comes roaring back during the climax, when he accuses Saul Rubinek of discriminating against him, and then in the spirit of reconciliation, gambles for racial unity, dedicating at least one throw of the dice to Nelson Mandela. Who is more racist, the man being racist to everyone he meets, or the man falsely accusing others of racism? Trick question: it's the same person. (I guess in most instances the first one would be more racist, although the second one is definitely craftier.)

But Tucker at least provides the movie with some noxious lowlights, because the comedy in this otherwise is nothing but tepid callbacks to the original, only played with much less conviction. (Once more without feeling.) There's also the skeevy scene where the boys spy on a scantily clad Roselyn Sanchez through a zoom lens, which anticipates the vile, strangely confessional humour in the third entry, where Tucker graduates to sexual harassment and Roman Polanski performs a cavity search on the heroes. (Apologies if I ruined Rush Hour 3 for anybody just now, but the movie kind of ruined itself by being total dogshit anyway.) I do think you can frame these movies interestingly in the context post-handover international context they came from. The original, aside from its optimism about America-China relations, offers a rebuke to colonial rule. The sequel, with its ugly American run amok, shows the condescension with which Hollywood met the Hong Kong stars who tried to cross over. It's a metaphor for itself.

On that note, I do want to spare a moment to lament John Lone's work in this movie. Imagine going from major roles in The Last Emperor and Year of the Dragon, two of the most acclaimed movies of the '80s, to getting only fifteen or so minutes of screentime in this, around half of which has him subject to anti-Asian racism from Chris Tucker. At least when that happened to him in Year of the Dragon, it was from Mickey Rourke, and he got to play a cool character to compensate. I will however say that Zhang Ziyi holds her own pretty well here. It is not a complex role, but she imbues her character with enough screen presence and ferocity that she's one of the few things in this movie that isn't embarrassing. Also, if you can keep a secret, I thought the part where she said she was gonna blow up Jackie's head was kinda hot.

Seeing this a day after I saw Rumble in the Bronx on the big screen, the action scenes felt as if they were playing at half speed. Sure, it's shot cleanly enough, and the performers are clearly very capable, but the framing is indifferent, the choreography uninspired and the cutting arhythmic. Jackie's talents for physical comedy are used much less than even the original, which at least gave him fun stuff like the bit where he climbs over the wall. Here, he mostly makes the same few funny faces while beating up bad guys. You look at the big climactic stunt, something which should knock your socks off, and instead of presenting it to you in a handful of clean, awe-struck shots, it cuts relentlessly, emphasizing the obvious greenscreen during the unnecessary closeups. But still, the fact that this is all coherent makes it play favourably compared to much of American studio action cinema in the years since. Time has been kind to anything shot on film and anything made before the mid-2000s, and I do think the Hong Kong scenes have some pretty handsome cinematography. And the scaffolding scene is pretty neat, even if the movie cuts too often. There's at least conceptual creativity there. Compared to the desaturated, greenscreened, cut-to-shreds, rubbery CGI hellscape of the third, this looks like a masterpiece.

#film #movie review #rush hour 2 #brett ratner

[bisexualgarrus]

i'm about to lose it! 😄🤡

#I'M SO TIRED OF CORONA LIKE FR I PRETEND I'M FINE WITH THE SITUATION BUT I'M EXHAUSTED PLS GOD PLS LET THIS NIGHTMARE BE OVER 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 #argentina had a new record in cases today things are going to shit i can't see my friends i'm afraid for my family #also i think i have cavities and there's this man. i fucked last week. who wants to meet again and idk how to tell him i'm not interested 🤡 #like i know i should just be a girlboss and tell him no but he's actually nice and we've been chatting all week and now i'm going to be like #nope <3 ughh i know i shouldn't care but i'm just. not in the mood to deal with men in general. #and college 🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡 #ah whatever all of this isn't even that serious but i'm just idk idk i might smoke some weed to calm down #if i sound insane it's because i am going mental! #rambles #weed / #covid /

[hermannsthumb]

I have a fun prompt I've been thinking about I hope you have time for one day! When Newt and Hermann meet actually things go really really well and they even get together. It's just they bicker so much and have huge science-based arguments that everyone assumed they must have hated each other on sight.

sure thing! i had fun with this one

----

"So," Newt says. "I was talking to Tendo today."

Across the mess table, Hermann hums in feigned interest. Newt knows it's feigned 'cause Hermann doesn't stop either thing he's doing: using his left hand to wind noodles around a fork, and using his right hand to scribble away a series of lengthy equations on the back of a paper napkin. His full attention has been hopping between both for about ten minutes now—no room for Newt to slip in there. He's testing his limits enough as it. Half of the last equation ended up scratched into the tabletop, and the last time he lifted his fork to his mouth, it was empty. And then he swallowed anyway. Newt kinda loves the guy.

"Yeah," Newt says, deciding to continue like Hermann responded the way he was actually supposed to respond, which would've been something along the lines of what an utterly fascinating story, Newton, do tell me more. I love hearing you talk, Newton. How marvelously smart you are, Newton, and how melodic and breathtaking your voice is. Now watch me bite down on an empty fork again. "Kinda funny. He was asking how we met."

Hermann finally looks up at Newt suspiciously over the rims of his glasses, which are slipping slowly down his nose. He stills them with the tip of his index finger before they land in his dinner. "Why?"

"I don't know, man," Newt says. "He just was. It was like, small talk, you wouldn't get it. He dropped by the lab when you were out this morning to let me know that there was extra space if we wanted it. Like, lab space." Hermann resumes scratching an equation into the table absently. Newt rolls his eyes. "As in, we could have separate labs if we wanted now."

Hermann knits his eyebrows together. "Separate laboratories?"

When Newt and Hermann first started at the Hong Kong Shatterdome, the k-scientist team was pre-existing and significantly bigger, and anyone who joined on later—like, you know, them—basically got shoved in wherever they fit. For Newt and Hermann, that happened to be Laboratory Space D, Basement Level 1 (the only basement level), along with a former marine biologist who was killed on a research excursion a month later when a kaiju made unexpected landfall, like, right on top of their chosen shelter. Bad luck. Anyway, Newt's known about the existence of other Hong Kong Shatterdome lab spaces in the vague and absent sort of way that you would an urban legend, but (similarly so) he never thought he and Hermann would actually ever lay eyes on one. And then Tendo stopped by to dangle it in front of Newt on a stick.

"The other labs were being used as storage for ages after everyone else—" Newt searches for a word tasteful enough to encapsulate got stomped by a kaiju and wised up and decided to live out what are probably our last few days before the world ends with their families instead of alone in a military bunker. "—left. Anyway, Tendo told me they've been going through shit like crazy this month, I think to see if they can salvage any old tech, and that the other labs are basically totally emptied out now. We just have to ask and they're ours."

Hermann sets down both his pen and fork, twisting his mouth contemplatively. He finally loses the battle against gravity with his glasses, and they miss his plate by an inch, swinging back on their chain and bouncing harmlessly against his chest instead. Newt briefly wonders if getting a chain for his own glasses would save them from their frequent fatal falls into kaiju organ cavities and buckets of non-neutralized kaiju blood, but decides not even the money he'd save on replacement pairs would make a fashion faux pas like that worth it. "You know I don't much fancy the basement," Hermann says.

"Your joints," Newt agrees. The damp of the basement sets Hermann's joint pain off frequently, something Hermann talks about just as frequently. Newt's not really a fan of the basement either, though for different reasons—he would kill to get some windows and natural, non-fluorescent light in there. Sun lamps can only do so much. He's pretty sure he'd fucking glow if he stepped outside right now. Also, it's cold down here.

"And it might be nice to be closer to LOCCENT, in case of an emergency," Hermann continues. "And closer to—oh, hang on. What has this got to do with us?"

"Huh?"

"How we met," Hermann says. "You said, that Tendo asked—"

"Oh," Newt says. It's his turn to play coy. He stirs his chopsticks through his own dinner, accidentally flicking a piece of tofu to the table. It lands on top of Hermann's etched equations. Hermann scowls, because that's how their routine goes: Newt gets Hermann's stuff dirty, and Hermann gets mad. "Well. It was just that Tendo was like you can finally be out of each other's hair, how the hell did you guys get stuck together anyway when you obviously can't stand each other, that kind of stuff."

"Ah," Hermann says.

"And I said that it was because we knew each other before," Newt says, "and that we transferred here together. And that's when he asked."

"And what did you say?" Hermann says.

"That we used to correspond professionally," Newt says, "and met at a conference way back in 2017." He adds, with a grin, "Also professionally."

This was technically true. Newt and Hermann did write to each other, professionally, and they did meet at a conference, professionally, but what went down after a long and public shouting match in the events hall of a very nice hotel—in Hermann's room, five floors up in that very nice hotel—was not very professional. The events of the week that followed—spent, intermittently, between Hermann's hotel room, several coffee shops, a bench under a tree in Newt's favorite park, a rotation sushi restaurant, brushing knees shyly on the tram, and, finally, clasping hands on the staircase of Newt's apartment and gazing deeply into each other's eyes—weren't very professional, either, but Newt likes to think that they were very romantic. Rom-com level shit. Newt revealed none of this to Tendo, who referred to the 2017 conference as that Infamous Day for the rest of their conversation. "Well, it was professional," Hermann sniffs.

But he reaches across the table, and, very timidly, crosses his pinkie over top of Newt's. It's the most blatant form of PDA Hermann ever willingly engages Newt in. Newt thinks if he ever tried to touch two fingers at once in anywhere but the lab, or God forbid, hold his whole hand, Hermann's ears might start emitting steam like something out of a cartoon. "It might be nice," he says again.

Laboratory Space D, Basement Level 1, is unique—Newt knows—in that Newt and Hermann's quarters are connected to it directly. None of the other labs have that luxury (and Newt has a feeling it's because Lab Space D wasn't actually intended as a lab space). He remembers being told that when they were shoved into it. Yeah, you have the darkest and tiniest lab space on base, but your rooms are right there! When Newt wants to go to Hermann's room, or if he's in Hermann's room and needs a sweatshirt or something from his own, he just has to step the three feet between their two doors. Moving labs could throw a wrench in that—they might be asked to move quarters, too, and might be shuttled to opposite sides of the Shatterdome, and though they could just bite the bullet and request couple's quarters already, it's nice to have their own spaces when they need it. That would never work. And, well, besides—the lab, their lab, feels like home to them at this point. Newt shrugs.

"On the other hand," Hermann says, and he taps Newt's pinkie lightly, "I quite like how things are. I can live with the damp, really."

"We can get a dehumidifier," Newt offers.

Hermann nods, and he gives Newt the barest hint of a smile.

Their monthly delivery of lab supplies—whatever they can afford with their shoestring budget, which, these days, mostly means chalk, rubber gloves, and nice instant ramen—comes three weeks later. Newt wouldn't exactly call the Shatterdome delivery guy a friend, seeing as he has yet to divulge his name to Newt (and also Newt's pretty sure he has a thing for Hermann, since he always seems to wait until Hermann is in the lab to stroll by with his package trolley and always calls him Dr. Gottlieb with big stupid heart eyes, oh, Dr. Gottlieb, that new sweater looks soooo nice on you!, so anyway, that makes him Newt's rival by default), but he, at least, recognizes and acknowledges Newt at this point. That's more than Newt can say for most people on the base. After his usual greeting to the two of them (hey, Newt, oh, hellllooo, Dr. Gottlieb, did you do something new with your hair?), he starts to unload their packages, also like usual.

"I was surprised to see that you guys are still down here," he tells Newt, not like usual. "Tendo mentioned something about you getting your own labs."

"He did?" Newt says, meaning to frown, but grinning instead. It's kind of fun to be the subject of gossip. He pulls off his gloves and tosses them in the trash to help with their supplies—the dehumidifier he requested should be in there, and it's fancy and definitely on the bigger side.

"Yeah," their delivery guy continues. He hands Newt a fuckin' massive brick of a package. Hermann's stupid chalk. The amount that Hermann tears through in a month really is astounding: Newt has a private theory that Hermann is an undercover space alien from a planet where chalk constitutes all of the primary food groups, and he secretly sneaks out here and eats it in the dead of night when Newt is asleep. "Anyway, sorry I'm late," the delivery guy says, as Newt imagines Hermann crunching on a piece of chalk like a carrot stick, "I went to all the other labs first."

"No worries, dude," Newt says. "Sorry for the confusion."

He lugs the package over to Hermann's desk, and drops it down on the only spot not over-cluttered with papers and books. Hermann complains about Newt's messiness a lot for a guy who is just as bad, if not worse. "Need any now?" Newt asks Hermann.

Hermann, scribbling away at his chalkboard, grunts. Newt decides that's a no.

"Hard at work, Dr. Gottlieb?" the delivery guy says, practically fluttering his eyelashes.

Another grunt. Newt snorts.

"I thought you guys would've moved right away," the delivery guy (obviously disappointed at Hermann's lack of attention) tells Newt. "Tendo mentioned you've been stuck together for a while, ever since some sort of dramatic confrontation at a conference ten years ago." he adds eagerly, "Did you really get thrown out? I don't know how you haven't killed each other yet."

"It's taken a lot of hard work," Newt says. Yeah, the whole being-ejected-from-the-conference-and-barred-from-all-future-ones-forever thing is technically true too, but everyone there was too stuffy and serious for Newt's fun vibes anyway, so he thinks it's their loss. The most important part of the scientific breakthrough process, Newt frequently thinks, was having someone there to challenge you and push back at you. Sometimes loudly. And in public. In the conference hall of a very expensive hotel, in front of all of your scientific peers, some hotel security guards, and a poor graduate student who made the mistake of asking you and your penpal-colleague for your joint opinion on something and got caught in the crosshairs. Besides—out of everyone at that stupid conference, Newt and Hermann were the only ones snapped up by the PPDC, so it's doubly their loss. "And, yeah, we got thrown out. Me and Hermann fight a lot, but we always make up eventually. It's no big deal. It's, like, our thing."

"Make up?"

Newt waggles his eyebrows and doesn't elaborate. The making up part is the best part of arguing with Hermann, honestly, but he's not about to go giving private details about stuff like that to his rival.

By the time Hermann finally descends his ladder, three hours have passed, and Newt is frowning over an email he's just gotten from Shatterdome HR. Hermann will probably see it in a second when he checks his own email—it was sent to both of them, after all—but Newt waves him over to his desk anyway. "Look," he says.

He draws out the spare chair he keeps by his desk (for Hermann), and Hermann drops into it gratefully, propping his cane up against the arm. Then Hermann pushes his glasses up onto his nose and scans the email with a frown of his own. Newt reads it aloud for him anyway. "'Subject: Quarters Reassignment,'" he says. "Dear Drs. Geiszler and Gottlieb: It has recently come to our attention that you will be transferring to Laboratories A&B. Should you wish to transfer quarters as well, you will find the necessary paperwork..."

"By Jove," Hermann groans, and pulls his glasses off again, smudging a bit of chalk on his cheek, "can't they just leave us alone?"

Newt laughs. "I'll tell them we're not interested. Wait, listen to this bit at the end: Congratulations—this must be a relief! Guess they were getting your complaint forms after all, Hermann." Both Newt and Hermann had long-since assumed that any and all official complaint forms stamped with a k-sci lab return address are filed right into the garbage. It's never deterred Hermann from sending them in, though.

"Hmph," Hermann says.

Newt carefully rolls his shirtcuff back down to his wrist and uses it to rub off Hermann's chalk smudge. When it's gone, or at least, mostly gone, he brushes his fingers back through Hermann's short hair. Hermann's eyelids flutter shut, and as he leans into Newt's touch, his creased forehead smooths just a little. "Mm. You're lovely," he murmurs. "We really ought to tell them we're married. It's gone on long enough."

"I guess," Newt says. "But it's kind of funny, isn't it?"

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous

[warmau]

☆ [nostalgic] summer romance!au jungwoo another late birthday au....but happy snoopy day <3 find others here: johnny | haechan | taeil | taeyong | mark | jaemin | yangyang | yuta | sicheng | chenle | kun | yukhei | doyoung | jaehyun

"congratulations and welcome to the team!"

the overly peppy voice that comes out of the body of the middle-aged man somehow doesn't match the soulless look in his eyes

he hands you a whistle and a t-shirt, which when you unfold greets you with the name of the water park you've been cursed to work at all summer

the font is big and bubbly and very, very, very yellow - it's almost nauseating

you turn the shirt around and on the back, in that same childish font, is the word staff

"jungwoo, glad to see you here again!"

you turn your head to see the man, who is your shift manager, patting a rather thin and tall looking boy on the back

he makes a gagging noise which the manager just laughs heartily at before dropping the same shirt and whistle in jungwoo's palm

"hey wait - which ride am i on this year?"

"um let me see - you're on ........ ah, the log flume with the new employee."

you motion to yourself because it seems like you're the only new face at the orientation

everyone else has cliqued up and is already mumbling about how much this is going to suck with each other

jungwoo slinks over and throws the shirt over his shoulder

"log flume kinda sucks, just so you know."

"really? i can't imagine getting sprayed by residual dirty water isn't a thrilling experience - especially when it happens a hundred times a day."

there's a pause and then a large grin forms of jungwoo's features

"oh - i like you."

you affirm the notion with a little bit of a prideful shrug and smile yourself

good, i think i like you too.

of course - when you and jungwoo first exchange these sentiments, it's nothing more than an employee-to-employee relationship

jungwoo has a sense of humor that either tends to fly over peoples heads or offend them (sometimes both)

but you catch on quickly and sometimes even beat him in a game of his own wits

during an opening shift where you two are testing the ride and cleaning up the waiting area, jungwoo confides that when he was in middle school someone had pointed out that he's "eccentric"

you scrunch your nose up as you tie a knot around the garbage bag in your hand

"eccentric is a polite way of saying fucking weird, you know that right jungwoo?"

"do you think im 'fucking weird' then?"

he does a pose and you shake your head with a little laugh

"no i think you're just....you."

he relaxes his limbs and tilts his head to the side, without a verbal answer you somehow sense that that was the one thing jungwoo really wanted to hear

working the log flume though - is as hellish as expected

most of your days are spent standing in those hot, cheap plastic ponchos and waving at families with screaming children or rowdy teenagers who barely fit in the ride with their bony knees

despite your efforts to keep dry, you and jungwoo always end up soaked

he's forgetful and clumsy so half the time you have to share the towel you bring with him, not to mention your lunch gets gobbled up by him too

you ask at some point why jungwoo just doesn't bring his own stuff - you are not a one-stop 7/11 shop

he laughs and takes a bite into the huge soft pretzel sold in the water park

"why should i bring anything, you've always got everything we need!"

a pang like the toll of a bell vibrates through the cavity of your chest

we - what about "we", there's no "we", there's just......."friends"

a sour taste in your mouth accompanies the thought and so you push it to the back of your mind

"still - at least start bringing your own change of clothes, you're too tall for any of my shirts."

"crop-tops are in though!"

you stare down at the switchboard that operates the log flume - the buttons with scraping labels, the emergency stop button, the little cubbies below where people leave their phones

the park is closing in thirty minutes and jungwoo has scampered off to hand in your ticket collection to the manager

the summer evening is hovering between the last beams of light and suddenly - alone at the top of the ride - something shifts

you unfile the thought you had before, the idea of what 'we' means to you and jungwoo

and you come to a daunting realization that, after only a couple of weeks of laughter and grueling minimum wage work, the statement "i think i like you too" is starting to take a new shape in your heart

"hey - did you drown up there?"

you lean over the side and see jungwoo below waving

even with the distance the essence of his warm shine floats up and tickles at your cheeks.

you swat it away, but it doesn't work.

"no - the log flume ghost caught me, i can't come down."

you joke back and he salutes

"wait there, i will come save you - i have fought that ghost once before!"

he's joking, but something flutters its wings when you hear him rush up the steps with all the seriousness of coming to get you. to save you.

when he reaches you - you mask the weird flush climbing up your spine - and pretend to be flailing

jungwoo gives you a kindergarten laugh as he joins in on the fun - a fake punch to the face of a fake ghost

he grabs you around the waist and tugs you toward him, and inches from his face, you see something behind the childish glint in the brown of his eyes.

he's so handsome.

"saved you! let's get out of here or the manager will accuse us of trying to sneak in overtime."

the weight of his hands on you is only described as comforting, easy. so very easy.

so even when he lets go and you are trailing behind him and the rest of the park employees after closing you miss it, you miss the touch of a friend who is becoming a lot more than just that.

"jungwoo's being switched to the lazy river starting today, that place is such a cease pool of idiocy that i need more coverage on it."

a groan escapes jungwoo before you can even process what the manager is saying

"what? but i hate that place most of all - do you know how many random dads get into fights on that thing?"

"am i going to be on log flume alone?"

your voice is way calmer than you expect it to be and the manager makes a passive motion with his hand, "yep - and i trust you'll handle it fine."

jungwoo's look is apologetic and slightly bitter, you reach out to give him a pat on the shoulder, but your palm hovers above the fabric of his shirt before pulling embarrassingly back to your side

either he doesn't notice or he chooses not to say anything because jungwoo turns and trudges over to the other three people assigned to the river

without jungwoo, the weird gnawing feeling of a summer crush only gets stronger, because now that he's not glued to your side

you miss him so terribly it almost makes you feel sick

coupled with the boredom of being alone the entire day with strangers seems to just worsen the symptoms

a week into the switch, you make the choice to visit jungwoo on your lunch break

you arrive just in time to see the aftermath of one of those dad fights he had mentioned

jungwoo is waist-deep in the water with two of those inflatable tubes on either side. he looks like he's negotiating a war truce between two disgruntled generals and he hands the tubes back as the men disperse to their respective families with scowls on their faces

jungwoo is also not wearing a shirt

"lazy river is much more hands-on then log flume"

the line of his back is lean and there are some healing bruises under his ribs which you can only assume are from his rather clumsy nature, the other thought of what could have caused them makes your head spin

"hey - i see you're literally in the trenches"

jungwoo turns and runs a hand through his wet bangs to get a better look at you. the action shouldn't make your knees feel like jelly.

"i hate this place, come over here and dunk my head underwater please."

you squat down near the edge and jungwoo wades closer to you

you place a brown paper bag beside you and motion to it

"im assuming you still aren't bringing your own lunches and are surviving off scraps from everyone else?"

he grins, "you know me so well"

i know i do - you think to say, but keep the words in your throat - i know i do, which is weird because we've been friends for a little over a month.

"hows log flume?"

"boring without you."

jungwoo whistles and you catch the way the sun makes every little drop of water on him glisten

"ill stop by on my break since you stopped by on yours"

a second of comfortable silence passes and jungwoo jumps up and out of the river with an ease

he grabs the lunch you've brought and is about to say something when a whistle from the other side of the river catches your attentions

"ugh this place is supposed to be lazy."

he complains and before he turns to the direction of the sound, he touches your cheek with the slightly wet palm of his hand

"thanks for lunch, see you later."

the gesture haunts you.

you even ask someone in the line for log flume what it means and she gives you a side glare that can only be conjured by a specific breed of mom.

you try to google it, but nearly drop your phone into the water.

jungwoo doesn't come by that day - he actually only manages to visit you the next day.

he shows up in his trunks, no shirt, and the towel he never gave back to you after he borrowed it over his shoulder

"sorry, do you know how many kids get food poisoning and decide the riv-"

you put up a hand to stop him from divulging details and jungwoo leans against the post that controls the ride as you wave off the next bunch of people

you feel him watch you before he joins you and helps start lowering the bar for the next log that splashes its way into the starting point

as you two go through the rows with practiced repetition

you meet in the middle

your hands both reach out to touch the bar, bringing it down over the laps of two young-looking middle schoolers who are pretending not to be holding hands

one of them giggles as you and jungwoo's fingers brush

the slight pass of skin on skin feels like a burst of electricity

stepping back to wave the group off - jungwoo slips in beside you and asks with a kind of strained sarcasm

"who takes their date on the log flume?"

"i think it's cute."

jungwoo doesn't miss a beat and that's what nearly knocks you backwards

"wanna go with me on our day off?"

jungwoo asks you on a date.

that you're sure off. but why - that's the part that does not click for you.

so is it a friend thing - are the 'we' on this 'date' just two friends running around the water park they work at with the freedom of having to not do their jobs? are the 'we' on this 'date' something completely different?

the nervousness makes you jump when jungwoo meets up with you at the bust stop and he doesn't look or feel any different than usual

you start to accept that your first thought is correct - this is a platonic date - nothing more

until you get to the waterpark and put your things away and jungwoo pulls a small container from his bag

"what's that?"

"you're always taking care of me, i want to take care of you for once too."

he opens it and inside are some lopsided looking cookies

"did you- jungwoo did you bake this?"

he poke his tongue out, but nods

"well, a friend who is a better cook than me helped."

they taste better than you could have imagined, you take a bite and understand that no something is definitely

different

friends don't hold their other friends hand the entire day

friends don't lean into their other friends shoulder while waiting in the line for one of the rides and then biting softly down on the skin, kissing it after like an apologetic kitten

and friends don't kiss their other friends in the dark, shady corner where a line of vending machines have been abandoned behind the pretzel stand

the infamous makeout spot that every water park employee buzzes about

when your date comes to an end and you and jungwoo are waiting for the bus back, you keep touching your lips.

jungwoo tastes like citrus when he kisses

there are some things i don't know about him

you smile to yourself when his pinkie brushes yours and hooks up with it as the bus approaches

i can't wait to learn all of them

it takes the manager exactly forty-eight hours to figure out you and jungwoo are dating.

everyone else in the park gets the memo the minute you two step into the staff room.

there's a little pushback against it, just because there is some stupid company policy, but the manager claps you both on your backs and whispers that whatever - it is summer - kids should have fun during the summer.

maybe the fun means sneaking kisses on lunch breaks, visiting each other on your off days, swapping shifts so you two can arrive and leave together

the fun of having jungwoo nuzzle his wet face into the back of your neck as he complains about work

the fun of having you trace patterns on his arm as you two wait for the bus home

the fun of seeing each other outside of work, sprawling across his bedroom floor and talking about nonsense

the fun of jungwoo's features shifting from languid and sleepy to acute as you shift your weight ontop of him and let your hands flirt with the hem of his shirt

"cover those up jungwoo, we are a family-friendly establishment"

the manager mumbles, motioning to jungwoo's neck with his pen

you thin your lips and jungwoo huffs, slapping a bandage or two on the slightly puffed skin

when the days get a little colder and the droves of families dwindle slowly, you know that your summer job is coming to an end

on your last days, you have back your uniforms and whistles and the manager makes a speech about how much good work has been done and how he's holding back his tears, but he's sure he'll see you next year

jungwoo mutters that you two can't come back here next year - you two should look into summer jobs at the mall or something

your last walk from the park gates to the bus stop home is calm, even a little chilly. jungwoo drapes a hand around your shoulder and pulls you into him for the warmth.

"we never got to go on the log flume together"

you suddenly muse and jungwoo coaxes his mouth into a frown

"you really want to go together on that contraption? it's not even fun."

"it's sentimental to us."

"that's a weird thing to say."

he looks at you and you poke his cheek

"it's an eccentric thing to say."

a number of summers pass until you and jungwoo ever follow up on the notion

actually, the one summer you two end up sitting together on the log flume, is not even at the water park from your memories

it's somewhere abroad

you're on vacation together and jungwoo claims you dragged him onto this thing

but you see the little smile he tries to hide when the bar comes down

the two teenagers working the ride brush their fingers as they do so, catching the look of shyness that passes from one to the other you giggle and take jungwoo's hand in your own

"what's funny?"

he asks and you tell him oh, nothing.

the ride starts and just as the log reaches the end of the dip - you let out a small shout of excitement

jungwoo joins you, but he doesn't just make a sound. he says something.

"i love you!"

oh, i think i like you too - the sweet taste comes back.

"i thin- i know i love you too!"

#shoutout to ONF - Sukhumvit Swimming #nct scenarios #jungwoo scenarios #nct au #jungwoo au #nct imagines #jungwoo imagines #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 au #jungwoo #nct #nostalgia!au #sfw #water/

[soft-boi-eli]

Ok ok! Good uhm.

Ok since body dysmorphia has been kicking my butt lately i wanted to request something with Schlatt where basically the reader Starts getting really insecure because of their body. Pushing and pulling on their stomach etc. They also start binding unsafely with like really tight bras because they can't afford a binder and they end up fucking up their ribs really bad. They end up in the hospital and a very worried Schlatt visit's them and lectures them about how they shouldn't have done that and about how worried he was. So when they get back home there is a gift on the bed, turns out Schlatt bought them a binder.

The reader would be Non-binary and afab.

Also a little message for pretty much anyone who is insecure about their body/has body dysmorphia because of their chest, don't bind unsafely. That can really fuck up your chest and make you actually being happy with your body even harder.

Hell yes. I love this idea thank you icarus! Writing has been rude to me lately and I needed inspiration. This has hit it exactly.

Pronouns:nonbinary (dont think any were actually used in this so yeah.)

Tw: AFAB reader, swearing, insecurity, mention of surgry, mention of blood, mention of hating self, pain. Again angst to fluff. It is reflecting on how I have felt about my body before because I needed to make it seem kinda real.

PSA: please dont bind safely. It's dangerous and can lead to serious health consequences. I know hating your body sucks but I dont want anyone to get hurt because they dont listen to their lungs, they dont take off their binder, or if their bras are way too fucking tight. It can and will hurt you. So please bind safely!!

Happy birth-what the fuck?!

Lately your brain was giving you more dysphoria then ever. Telling you your body was too big, your boobs were too noticable, and you hips are too feminine.

What brought this on? Someone simply said your dead name. It made your dysphoria hit you like a truck.

After that day everything went down hill. Your stopped streaming, telling your followers that you were going on a mental break, you didn't really talk to friends, your brain could put words together. And you most importantly barely texted your loving supporting boyfriend schaltt, not wanting to break down in front of him.

You never had the time or thoughts of getting a chest binder. It was your biggest mistake honestly.

Deciding against chest binders and wearing alot of tight bras to flatten you. But it didnt work. So you got tighter bras. And they did work. But you didnt read up on how to bind safely.

This lead to the predicament now. In front of your mirror you were pinching and pulling at your skin. There was too much. All you wanted to do was cut it off with scissors. But decided against it due to the fact of all the blood that you would loose.

Your chest, smaller then it was yas, was still visible after your 3rd bra. You decided to add a 4th and tighter one hoping it would completely hide your boobs.

Your body made you want to puke. It made you feel disgusting. But you never told schaltt that. Afraid that he would say that you looked as gross as you thought you did.

Only 5 minutes after the 4th bra you felt excoriating pain in your ribs. And worse of all a harsh pop. That immediately brought red flags. It hurt to breath. Your head fuzzy and light headed.

Your only reaction, to call for an ambulance. Dialing the three numbers as you whimpered in pain you held onto your lungs. "911 what's your emergency?" "I cant breathe. It hurts so bad. Please help." "Are you by yourself?" "Yes. I need help please." "Ambulance, firemen, and police are on their way. Ambulance is 2 minutes out."

You didnt know if you had 2 minutes. "They can break the door down if I dont answer." That's all you said after collapsing.

Next thing you knew your door was busted off its hinges and you saw two paramedics. They were quick to transfer you to the ambulance, cutting through the four bras that held your chest.

It help get air to your lungs but it barely helped.

"We have a collapsed lung. ETA 2 minutes." The paramedic back there with you spoke to the walkie talkie.

Collapsed lung? Was that the harsh pop? God, was the bras that bad of an idea? All that was going through your mind was how you possibly could get worse. The instant you got into the trauma bay was way worse. With no time to numb you and your O2 stats dropping they had to cut between your ribs and shove a tube right next to your left lung. Draining air and excess blood blocking your lung from inflating. And before you knew it you were off to emergency surgery for getting a shard of bone out of your chest cavity.

The last thing you remember was counting down and falling asleep.

When you woke up your boyfriend was next to your bed, hands engulfing one of yours.

It looked like he had been crying before falling asleep on one of your legs. Taking your free hand through his hair you smiled lightly. "I'm sorry for all of this ram boy." He grunted lightly and moved his head back into your hand. His messy hair was thick and nearly matted. It made you wonder how long he's been sitting there. You loved him and felt so selfish for doing this to him.

"I cant believe I did all this and for what? To cause you and everyone pain? All because i couldnt afford a chest binder and deciding that I might as well try another way. I should have been safer huh?" You didnt expect an answer back. Just his quite snores.

"Yeah. Not really fuckin selfish more like kinda dumb. Your body doesnt show who the fuck you are (y/n). Your heart does. And your heart isnt say boy or girl. Its saying you are you. A person who uses pronouns they them. A person that love everyone and cares for their friends. A person who love me and jambo so deeply."

He took a breath.

"You normally are quite smart. Saving up for one would of been a better idea instead of doing such a stupid thing. Asking for my help. Because if I knew I would of helped. I would of found one just right for you. I would help you remember to take it off after 8 hours. Even would of found a way to make you feel more like you."

You could hear his heart break.

"But now you're here, four broken ribs, a healing lung, and stuck in the hospital for another week at least."

You felt so guilty. He was right. You should of told him. He would never have seen you like you saw yourself. He never cared about how you looked. He only cared for your heart.

Tears falling down your face you continued to massage his scalp. "I could of lost you. You are my rock. When I cant keep up my normal antics and feel like I'm at an all time low. You are there to pick me up." You had to stop the sob from coming up. "I'm just so happy youre alive." He looked up.

His red eyes were making your heart ache. "I wont do it again I promise. But I cant just ignore the feeling of dread whe. I look down and realize I present so much like a girl. I dont wa t to be one." Schaltt nodded and kissed the hand he was holding. "Then let me help you. I wont let this happen again. Just please. Come to me. Talk to me. I'm here like you are for me."

You gave a small nod.

This man knew his way to your heart. He was so sincere about this. "I will. But promise me you wont look down on me if I end up feeling like that." You just needed to make sure you knew he would never but you needed his words. "Mever sugarbabe. Never in my life have I looked down on you and never will."

God the week was long, him and the doctor explaining safe binding that you cant fully bind for at least 6-8 weeks. Schlatt telling you his reaction to finding your apartment swarmed with police and firemen and you no where to be seen.

He was practicing on saying happy birthday to you. But was cut off. "Happy birth-what the fuck?!" He was so concerned and even more so when you were in hospital.

When you did go home he helped you through the door, and watched you as you saw the small package on your couch.

Opening it you saw a chest binder. Specifically the one you were looking at. Looking over to schaltt with tears in your eyes you walked up and hugged him lightly minding the pain in your left side. This was the best gift.

The only gift you had been wanting for the past week or two. "Now you can be safe. But no binding till your doctor says so or I swear to god I will personally smite you down." You had to try so hard no to laugh or the pain would of been hell. Kissing his cheek you smiled.

"Of course schaltt. I will make sure to not wear it till I'm healed dont want to get blood on it ya know. Also it would hurt like a fucking bitch."

He chuckled and ruffled your hair. "Alright now go sit down. I'll get you some soup ya dork."

This was going to be a great time. That was until the pain fully came back. And then this is going to be a mediocre time.

Please pardon spelling errors. I havent proof read. And I am on mobile for almost all stories. But thank you so much for requesting this became something that I could write and it helped me alot. Now I might take a while for other things too and i apologize that's cause i am starting school soon. Also family issues. So yeah might take a bit. Dont know how long though. I'll try to keep them coming but if not you know I'm studying or helping my mom and grandma.

Eli out.

#jschlatt x reader #mcyt fluff #schlatt x reader #mcyt #mcyt schlatt #dsmp schlatt #schlatt fluff #schlatt #please bind safely #non binary #tw: body harm #tw: body dysphoria #tw: body dysmorphia

[innocent-chris-evans-slut]

I’ve Just Fucked You, Sweetheart

Request: Hello, I saw your requests were open and I can't pass this chance up! Could you please write anything with Ransom? Ideally smut 👀 I'm always into the idea of a smug Ransom getting off on an easily flustered reader. Anything from downright humiliation to fluff like embarrassing her by saying he likes her is fine with me! Hope this makes sense? But tbh anything with Ransom I will eat up, I think Chris and Steve get enough love lol

My Masterlist ✨

Requests are open.

Ransom x maidReader 

Word Count: 3,4k 

Type: smut 

Warning(s): swearing, dub-con sex, blowjob, rough sex

The 4th of July holiday was your favorite. You came from an extremely patriotic family -with both your grandfathers being former soldiers.

When you were a child, you remembered your house being full of people on this particular day. There was your entire family: your parents, your aunties and uncles, your cousins -to which you were particularly close since you hadn’t any sibling- and your grandparents. Then, when your cousins became getting older and having their own families, this kind of events started becoming more and more sporadic.

At the age of 25 you graduated and started working as a sous-chef at a restaurant. Cooking was your passion and when your grandfather introduced you to Harlan Thrombey, who was looking for a chef for his events, you just couldn’t say no.

It had been two years since the first time you worked at the manor. You had become more familiar with the place, your co-workers, and also with Harlan. He was very caring and kind with all his employees, giving them completely access to his house. Though, when his family was a home with him during the holidays, you couldn’t go wherever you wanted.

There was one person in particular you just couldn’t put up with: Hugh Ransom Drysdale.

A complete asshole who didn’t mind others’ businesses except his. Unlike his grandfather, to who he really seemed having something in common, Ransom was very ungrateful with his family and rude with the help. He didn’t ask, he only commanded others to do and he really liked that part: watching payed people struggling what he was supposed to be doing.

You felt the atmosphere changing before anyone could even tell you Ransom was parking his car. You heard the engine of an old car being turned off and its door being violently closed. The noise scared you and you dropped some cream.

Ransom turned around and saw you, focused on wiping the floor. He had his eyes on you also when you got up from your knees and bended over the counter to clean the mess you did. He bit his bottom lip and put on his usual mischievous smirk.

Ransom had always loved a beautiful woman, especially a younger one with a really good body -according to him-, and you were just his next prey.

But you didn’t know anything about his plans for you for that weekend.

It was almost seven o’clock in the afternoon when you finished making dinner for the Thrombeys. Fortunately, Martha decided to help you arranging the table and the dining room. So you remained in the kitchen -which you liked calling ‘your reign’-, preparing all the dishes and fixing the wrong quantities.

“So, when I can taste your special cream?”

You weren’t prepared for anyone to enter the kitchen while you were with your hands in the pastry. You turned around and saw Ransom standing with his back against the door. His smirk naughty smirk wasn’t missing.

“What?” you asked shocked by his words. But you had to imagine that he would have said something to make you uncomfortable; he always did it. Once you had regained your composure, you said: “Is there anything I can do for you, Hugh?”

He walked in, leaving the door opened, and sat down on a stool right in front of you, and you couldn’t go anywhere else since you were making the cake, “Nothing in particular”. He took a bit of cream from its bowl on the counter, “Mmh, so good. You know…your cream is so delicious”.

You couldn’t form any sentence. You were so embarrassed by his words that you couldn’t help but keep silence and stare into his eyes.

“Hugh, you’re making me very uncomfortable. Can I ask you to leave the kitchen?” you had been told by Harlan more than once to push away Ransom any time he would have tried to force you to do anything. That was what you did every single time, but he would never listen to you.

In fact, also this time, Ransom dragged himself closer to you a stared at you as you moved smoothly around the room. On the other hand, you tried not to stumble on you own feet as you passed in front of him.

Ransom was supposed to be with his family in the living room, socializing with the guests, instead he preferred sitting in the kitchen. Being completely unhelpful.

“Y/N the steak tartare is almost finished”, Martha entered the room, fortunately, interrupting the looks between you and the man with you in the room.

“There are three more trays in the fridge”, you told her as you decorated the cake with blue and red decorations and lying an American flag on the top of it. Once you were done, you turned around to see Martha struggling with the trays, “Here, let me help you”, you left the cake in the big fridge and went helping your co-worker taking all the food out of the fridge, then she brought everything in the dining room.

“I can’t wait to taste your incredible cake”, Ransom left you with that statement, cleaning his mouth as he spoke and walked towards the door, “See you later”.

You didn’t see him anymore that day. When you went back home -almost at midnight in the morning- the Thrombeys were still partying and, although Harlan had insisted for you and Martha to stay a little bit longer -just enough to see the fireworks-, both of you preferred to leave the manor.

The morning after, you were required to arrive at Harlan’s home at 7 o’clock and, as soon as you had entered the kitchen, you started preparing breakfast for the Thrombeys and you packed their lunch. Every year, on the 5th, the entire family was usually invited at some friend’s house and they liked spending the entire day there. This years wasn’t different from the others.

After a quick breakfast, Harlan, his children, and two of his grandchildren, left the manor and with their cars reached the city. Meanwhile, inside the house, you and Martha kept doing your jobs.

Not everybody had left the house that morning; Ransom didn’t feel like going with his family and spending another day hearing bullshit coming from his mother’s mouth. He would rather loaf in his bedroom at his grandfather’s house than spend another minute with them and their huge egos -he didn’t even bother to get downstairs for breakfast.

“Is he still here?” there wasn’t need to pronounce his name when both, you and Martha, knew of who you were talking about, “How can Harlan be so amenable with him? I can’t-“

“You can’t what? Please, go on”, Ransom entered kitchen and sat down on the same stool he was sit the evening before, “I’m very interested”, he placed his chin on his fists and was now looking at Martha, waiting for her to say anything.

You watched the scene from the other end of the counter, while making him his favorite breakfast. In a certain way, Ransom was much more demanding than his grandfather -the one who actually paid you for your work. But at the same time he was the first member of the family you had ever met, and you weren’t exaggerating when you said he did a certain impression on you, almost as he was your employer and not his grandfather.

“Weren’t you supposed to be with Harlan?”

Ransom was capable of instilling dread in people and you and Martha weren’t exempt. You exchanged a sympathetic look with your co-worker and she shook her head.

“I am going, Hugh”, then she turned towards your direction and said: “See you later”, and she left.

There was a moment of silence right after Martha had left the room, but then Ransom spoke: “Finally just the two of us”.

You shivered at his words, although you tried not to let him notice that. You kept planning all the meals for the week, but you felt Ransom’s eyes on you as you wrote on the paper. Though he was peacefully eating his breakfast, he was also looking at you -or better, at your behind. You didn’t say anything just because he did it very often when you were alone with him.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Hugh?” you asked him as you walked pass behind him and you took the empty dish from in front of him, “Otherwise I go back planning the week”.

“Very rude from you, especially since we’ll spend the day together”, he took the last sip from his glass and walked towards you, forcing you to the wall, “See you later, kitten”.

It had been a couple of hours since you last see Ransom around the house; you had the chance to clean the kitchen and also try cooking something new. You successfully added three new receipts to Harlan’s particular diet, and you were very proud of yourself.

It was almost lunch time and still you didn’t know if you had to cook something for Ransom or not, so you decided to go upstairs and ask it to him. The creaking stairs announced you to him -since you were the only two people in the house-, so you thought you didn’t have to knock on the door.

Very bad choice.

Right when you entered the bedroom, Ransom exited the shower completely naked. Though you closed your eyes, and covered them with both your hands, you had already seen everything. And it meant literally everything.

“Hugh!”

“What?” he didn’t seem to care, Ransom stood up in silence and both his arms were crossed above his chest; he was staring at you, “I’m in my room and, if I want to be naked, I do it. You didn’t knock on the door”, knowing how uncomfortable you were, he didn’t move and kept being undressed in front of you.

“Can you put something on, please?”, you turned around and slowly breathed in and out. You felt your heart beating so fast that it was about to break the chest cavity.

“I would rather put something under me”; Ransom had always been so direct with people and it wasn’t the first time he pronounced an appreciation towards you, and your body as well.

On the other hand, you knew the kind of girls he liked to spend time with, and you definitely weren’t one of them. You weren’t a model or a rich heiress with a breathtaking body, and -most importantly- you weren’t living in a fairy tale so you knew exactly what to expect from men like him.

“I’m not kidding, Hugh. I’m very uncomfortable at the moment. Could you, please, put something on?” you could hear him laughing at you, but you couldn’t do anything but exit the room.

Unfortunately, he saw you before you had the chance to make even only one step towards the door and he positioned right in front of it. You didn’t noticed the movement, so you were taken by surprised when your hand, instead of came in contact you a cold surface, touched something squishy, yet solid. You opened your eyes involuntary only to meet Ransom’s eyes fixed on you and your hand resting on his torso.

“H-hugh”, it came out as a whisper, more than a scolding. Ransom kept your wrists firmly pinned against the wall, leaving you completely exposed to his mercy. You opened your mouth to speak up, but no words came out of it; instead something entered your mouth.

As soon as he saw you trying to say something, Ransom put two fingers inside your mouth so that you weren’t able to talk -or, talk without wet his fingers; “What?” he acted as if nothing wrong was happening. Quite the opposite, there wasn’t anything good in that situation, “Speak”.

“I can’t-“ you stopped at mid-sentence at him pulling down your tongue and, so, making you lower your gaze. Your eyes stopped right on his up-standing dick. You weren’t surprised to notice it was long and thick. You had had a couple of boyfriends, but you had never seen anything like that before.

Ransom was gently stroking it with his left hand -the one he had in your mouth- while his other hand became going down on your face, then his fingertips touched your collar bone very slowly and found your sweet spot between your chest. Once he had understood how powerful the effect of caressing it was on you, Ransom didn’t stop moving his fingers above it and your breath became heavier and heavier, “I’ll tell you what I wanna do with you”. He put his mouth closer to your hear and said: “I wanna fuck you here-“ and he passed a finger on your lips, “-and here-“ his hand slipped down on your body, stopping right on your pelvis, and it got its way into your pants, “-and maybe also here”, with his other hand he grabbed your butt and squeezed it harshly, “Where do you want to start from?”

“I-I don’t think this is a-appropriate, Hugh”, you said as you tried to get away from his embrace, but it was impossible seen his massive body size compared to yours.

“This is highly unappropriated, but you want it as much as I want it”, his lips gently brushed against the skin of your neck. You gasped as he moved his tongue on your half-hidden soft spot under your ear and you shivered, weaving your hands together behind his neck, “C’mon, be a good girl”, you intertwined your fingers.

You didn’t know why, but your defense fell, and you gave up. Ransom took the opportunity to lay his lips on yours, so that you couldn’t help but return the kiss. His lips were exactly as you had always imagined them: soft and tasting like tobacco and mint.

As he loosened the grasp on both your wrists, you were forced to walk back until you hit the wooden structure of the bed with your calves; Ransom broke the kiss and made you fall on the soft mattress. Both of you kept your eyes on each other. You took a long, deep breath as you saw him removing his sweater and toss it away somewhere in the room. Then he placed his hands at the side of your head and stared at you: “We’re gonna take all the time we need, sweetheart”.

You remained still as Ransom removed your t-shirt and jeans and threw them behind his shoulder; once you had been left in only your underwear, he looked at you with a very hungry look on his face and smirked. Less than a second after his lips were on yours again and you laced your arms behind his neck, dragging him closer to you.

“You won’t want another man this close to you after I’ll be done with you”, the built man standing above you said. His hands travelled on your body, his fingertips were burning as they moved on your exposed skin and you couldn’t hold a moan anymore.

“Ransom, please”, you contorted yourself as his hands went down to your core. Another moan was released as his index finger made circles on your clit, making you tremble. You closed your eyes in awe and tilted your head backwards; then, all of a sudden, you felt his mouth work on you and at that point you left behind any hesitation.

His tongue drew circles on your clit harder and harder and you kept moaning louder every time; his teeth gently scratched on your labia as his hands kept you as still as possible. You grabbed the sheets in your hands and held on tight to them when you felt your climax coming.

“Too early.”

You realized he wouldn’t have left you come when he got up and looked at you, “Are you kidding me?” you were more than angry, feeling like he was just messing with you and that, maybe, he would have mocked you in front of his family later that night, “You’re only a fuck-“

Ransom stopped you mid-sentence by ‘putting your mouth to a better use’ -as he would have said. He had lowered his pants and underwear and his cock sprung free right in front of you, then he sat you down on the mattress and he stood up in front of you, his dick touching your lips, “Are you gonna suck it or you just wanna watch it?” he caressed your cheeks and forced you to open your mouth, taking in his long and thick cock. Surprisingly for him, you took it all in, such that the tip of your nose was pressed against the body hair on his pelvis and his balls pounded against your chin each time he slammed in and out, each time faster than before, “Fuck”, he said every time his tip hit that back of your throat and you looked up to him. Needless to say, his eyes were fixed on your face and careful to notice every face you made while sucking him. You didn’t have the control of the situation, rather it was him who was standing upon you and guiding your movement, “C’mon, good girl. You’ll be rewarded”, he put his hands on both sides of you head and pushed his cock down your throat one last time before you felt hot salty spurt swarming your mouth. As you swallowed it, Ransom pulled out and spread a good amount of his white liquid on your face, and your tits, too, “From now on, this is what I’ll think about every time I’ll see you work in the kitchen”, he rubbed his thumb on your cheeks and said: “Maybe, next time, I’ll be so kind to let you fuck yourself on the counter”, he picked you up and bended you over the desk, “But for today, it will be me who will fuck you”.

You felt his cold hand brushing against your butt-cheeks, and you jumped when he smacked both of them at the same moment. You hissed and didn’t say anything; before you could turn your head towards him, Ransom grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled you towards him, making you touch his bare chest with your shoulder.

“I won’t go easy on you, sweetheart”, having said that, he made his way inside you and went on until his tip hit your cervix.

That was way beyond any other experience you had had. Not only was he very good with his tongue -as you had the chance to state not later than ten minutes ago-, but Ransom was also a very -very- good fucked: the vigor with which he pounded into you, the same strength with which he held you in place made you scream in pleasure. “Please, oh God!” you cried out as the pace increased.

“There’s no God here, sweetheart, only me”, Ransom whispered to your ear while pounding into you with an ungodly speed, and you could swear you were seeing the stars when he hit your G-spot, “You’re almost there, I can feel it”, one of his hands was placed on your head and the other one went drawing circles on your clit, taking you closer to the edge, “Tell me wat you want, sweetheart”.

“F-fuck”, you hissed as you felt his index finger pressing harder against your clit, “P-please…let m-me cum. I’m…I’m so close”, you raised your head and turned over to throw a look at him, “Please”, you asked him with pleading eyes. Ransom began thrusting irregularly -sign that he was close too- and you started breathing erratically. You cried out very loud when your orgasm finally hit, and a wave of pleasure washed you over. “Fuck…this was-“

“Y/N?! What the fuck are you doing?”

You turned pale. Ransom, instead, looked very amused with himself and was smirking at you, “Notify me when you’ll explain it to her” said him sitting down on his bed, “Please, go”.

“Go fuck yourself, Ransom.”

“Actually, I’ve just fucked you, sweetheart.”

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ALL CHRIS EVANS:

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#ransom x reader #Ransom Thrombrey #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale smut #ransom drysdale imagine #ransom drysdale x y/n #Knives Out #ransom thrombey smut #ransom thrombey x reader #ransom thrombey imagine #Chris Evans #chris evans imagine #chris evans smut #chris evans x reader

[your-eternal-muse]

You Gave Her Your Sweater

Heather Series Part 11

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Bonus!:Readers Card Confession Bonus!:To Hold On, To Let Go, Spencers take Bonus!:Series Playlist

Summery: Reader runs into Heather while wearing Spencer’s sweater, solidifying the difference in their relationships.

Words: 1.5k

Warnings: Swearing, pregnancy, mentions of cheating

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

A/N: Okay guys, the next chapter is the last one! And I promise its gonna be so fucking long, and so fucking cute it’ll give you cavities. I’m gonna give you the good shit. The next couple weeks I might be a little slower at posting because I submitted an application for an apartment me and my sister want, and I’m fairly certain were gonna get it, so I’ll be busy packing and stuff. Thank you for your continued support!

~~~~~

I never liked grocery shopping.

I know it’s essential, but the task itself is so draining, so boring.

Even still, I can’t help but wander around, buying shit that looks good that I absolutely do not need.

I know you’re not supposed to go when you’re hungry, but I can’t help it.

I guess that’s an upside of being married to the man I am.

While one of his hands is situated in the back pocket of my jeans, the other holds a piece of paper that holds our grocery list, and he is a stickler for keeping to it.

He’s subtly leading me down the aisles as I push the cart, which is already half full of what we need.

Grocery shopping with Spencer is different.

It doesn’t feel like a chore when he’s with me.

It also cuts the time by at least half, because he doesn’t let me stray from the list. 

But I’ve had a special circumstance these past few months.

“You know what sounds so good right now?” I ask him, as he begins to lead me down the cereal aisle.

“What’s that baby?”

He removes his hand from my pocket, reaching up to grab a box off the top shelf.

“Shrimp. With cocktail sauce.”

My mouth starts to water just thinking about it.

He laughs, walking back to me, placing it in our cart.

“You hate shrimp.”

I roll my eyes. “I also hate pickles, but last week I couldn’t stop eating them. And besides,” I run my hands over my growing belly. “It’s not my fault.”

He smiles, shaking his head, coming forward to rest his hands on top of mine, leaning down and kissing the tip of my nose.

“I’ll go get you some. While you,” he slips the list into the front pocket of the sweatshirt I’m wearing. “Continue shopping.”

“Thank you, Spence.”

“Anything for my girls.”

His hands come to lift the hood over my head, pulling the string, shrinking it around my face.

“I’m never gonna get my sweatshirt back am I?”

I shake my head. “I’m gonna be buried in this thing.”

He rolls his eyes before leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on my lips.

“It looks better on you anyways. I’ll be right back.”

He turns and walks back down the aisle, only to turn back and say “Don’t stray from the list!”

I raise my hands defensively. “I won’t!”

I watch as he disappears around the corner before reaching into the cart and pulling out the box of cheerios, doing my best to place it back on the shelf.

“How can he like cheerios? Fuckin’ weirdo, Reese's Puffs are where it’s at.”

I grab the orange box, only pausing when I feel a kick against my side. 

“I’m gonna assume you agree with me. Cheerios are nasty. Don’t worry, we’ll make daddy see.”

Another movement, and my hand finds the place against my side, pressing lightly. “Okay, baby girl, mama still has to shop.”

“You’re wearing his sweater.”

I pause my movements, my hand still resting on my stomach.

It can’t be.

I mean it can, you do live in the same area that she does.

I turn, to see Heather standing in the middle of the aisle, her gaze falling down to my stomach, and then back up to the lettering across my chest that says ‘CalTech’.

I shove my hands into the front pocket, not really sure what to say. 

“I was cold, and I forgot mine at my place when he gave it to me.” I take my left hand out to brush some hair out of my face, letting her see the diamond ring that rests on my finger.

“He never offered one to me. Even when I forgot mine.” Her hands are in her front pockets of her jeans, and she doesn’t meet my eye.

I shrug. 

Is that supposed to make me feel bad for you?

“I don’t know what you want me to say to that, Heather.”

It’s quiet for a moment, as much as it can be in the middle of a grocery store. 

She’s the one to break the silence. “How far along are you?”

None of your fucking business bitch.

“6 months.” I cradle my stomach with my hands, smiling down at it. “We’re having a girl.”

She shuffles from side to side, running her hands over her jeans, her arms, through her hair.

I can’t help being proud of the fact that even six months pregnant, I still make her nervous. 

“You know, we talked about having kids. Or well, I talked.” It’s then that she finally meets my eye. “He told me he didn’t want any.”

I let a smirk slide over my face. “Spencer loves kids. Even before we got together he always said he wanted kids.” I look her up and down. “Guess he just didn’t want any with you.”

It’s been three years. It’s been a long time, and I know Spencer’s over her. I know I should throw her a bone, ease up on the sarcasm and poison laced words.

But she hurt him. She broke him. It took months for him to fully admit that he did love her in some way, shape or form, and that the betrayal of that love hurt. 

I would never forgive her for that, no matter what she did. No matter if he does.

The look of hurt passes over her face, but then a crying child is heard behind her and she turns. 

I look over her shoulder, and the man I saw that night at the bar is walking towards her with a spitting image of her in the seat. 

The child is crying over something I couldn’t really decipher, and I see her shoulders tense as his eyes meet mine.

I take in the ring on his finger, the one on hers, and finally look at how old her daughter is.

She knows, and turns back to me, panic slapped across her face.

“How old is she?”

She swallows, and her husband is trying to get her to stop crying. “She’s two and half.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that implies.

It’s just one thing after another, isn’t it?

“You gotta be kidding me. Are you fucking serious right now?” I cross my arms over my chest, cocking an eyebrow. 

She starts to pick at her cuticles. “I didn’t find out until after the divorce was finalized. My doctor said I got pregnant at the end of April.” 

She was pregnant with another man's baby for almost 2 and half months, while being married to him.

Buckle up baby, I’m about to rock this bitches shit for a second time.

“You were going to pass it off as his, weren’t you? You were going to fuck him, and than two weeks later tell him that you were pregnant.”

I take a step forward, anger boiling in my chest. “You know he’s a fucking genius right? He’d do the math in .2 seconds and figure it out? What is with you and thinking you can get away with this shit?”

He must have sensed a disturbance in the force, because not two seconds later he comes around the corner, holding my snack in his hands, only to pause when he takes in the scene. 

His eyes flicker to me, then to Heather, the baby, and finally the man, who is puffing his chest to try and appear like the alpha male he thinks he is.

His hands tighten around the container of shrimp, before walking past all three of them, coming to stand behind me, tossing the container into the cart, one hand back in my back pocket, the other in his front. 

He stares down Heather, his eyes going back to the child every couple of seconds. 

I know he’s doing the math in his head, and he figured it out probably faster than I did.

“Unbelievable.”

She pinches the bridge of her crooked nose, looking up to say something but I cut her off. 

“Don’t. You have nothing to prove to us. You made your choice, now you have to live with it.” I look at the man behind her.

“Not even half the man.”

Spencer turns towards me, his chest moving to contain laughter at the look on her face.

Not giving her a chance to get the last word, I turn, and push the cart down the rest of the aisle, turning it as I hear her start to yell at him and her daughter.

He pulls me into an empty one a few rows down, turning me to face him as he leans down and kisses me. 

I wish I could kiss him forever.

“I love you so much, you don’t even know.”

I grab his hands and place them on my stomach, where our daughter was making herself comfortable. “I think I have an idea.”

He laughs, his eyes not leaving my stomach as he feels her movements. 

After a few moments, he removes his hands, grabbing one of my own as he turns me back around to keep shopping. 

“Really?” He points to the box of Reese's Puffs. 

“What? The list said cereal, Reese's puffs are cereal!”

He shakes his head, kissing the top of my head. 

“Whatever you say, dear.”

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#spencer reid #spencer reid series #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x Female!Reader #criminal minds series #criminal minds #cm #mathew gray gubler #song fic #heather #conan gray

[belit0]

Madara making his s/o squ1rt + Daddy k1nk. 

Request for the anon who asked this a while ago, here you go, more of my brother. I get it, he’s hot, but damn y'all crazy for him.

Writer added daddy k1nk cause she wanted to.

You are sitting in Madara's office, wrapping up some envelopes with documents to surprise him with the gesture. You're trying to be a good girl, you were misbehaving last week and your neck shows the marks of how he made his grip on you, it hurts to sit down and swallow is a difficult task. Helping him through his work while he's in a meeting is a way of proving you are willing to stop being a brat and start behaving.

It really is boring. Seal a paper, put it in its envelope, close it, make sure the Uchiha symbol is neat, repeat. A monotonous little routine that seems to never end. The pile of documents seems to grow as time goes by, and all you want to do is get out of that room.

You love Madara's office, it is one of his favorite places to fuck you, on his desk, on his work. Secretly, you suspect that it gives him special pleasure if he takes you over paperwork that is related to the Senju clan. His big velvet chair is the most comfortable piece of the whole house, padded and soft. The most suitable furniture for your battered thighs.

Wearing a T-shirt of him and only your underwear, you caress the material under your body, feeling the softness and comfort of sitting without experiencing pain. The Uchiha did not used to give you such severe punishments, and for that to be the case, it is because you had been out of place. As when you humiliated him in front of his brother a few days ago, describing a moment of vulnerability that had to be kept private.

The problem was that you came across a peculiar situation, something never before witnessed in your eyes, which awakened your curiosity and generated the need to ask Izuna about your man's past. It was a lazy morning, where both of you were just waking up after an intense night almost without sleep. You went into the bathroom as any person would, without noticing that he was there taking a piss. When you made yourself present, his inspiration was immediately gone, he got frustrated and threw you out in a huff. Without understanding what his problem was, you analyzed what happened, and discovered that you had never shared the bathroom simultaneously. Of course, to brush teeth and take a shower, but not to use the toilet. Did Madara have a trauma with peeing? Izuna would probably know.

After asking his younger brother, who seemed strangely happy when you told him about it and did not stop laughing throughout the story, the older Uchiha began to be harassed by the younger one every time he tried to go to the bathroom. Somehow Izuna was always behind him when he tried to pee, making him angry and forcing him to stop.

Because of the torture your man suffered thanks to your curious mind, the worst punishment ever given in the history of your relationship appeared without warning, making you endure more spankings in one night than you thought you were capable of. But his resentment continued for days, and your perverse attitude did not help the cause.

That's why you had made the decision to behave at least for as long as it took your buttocks to lose the bruises he caused. Being bratty with him is something you are passionate about, but now you only have the option to behave well and obey because technically you owe it to him.

There are still too many documents to be sealed, but you hear the front door opening and closing, and that makes your attention focus on that part of the house. You know your man has arrived, and in a apparently better mood, as you hear him whistling a tune as his footsteps echo down the hall. The first destination he visited was the bedroom, and you smile at the fact that he thought he would find you there, resting from his lesson.

"[Y/N]?"

He asks generally towards the house, hoping to hear your voice from somewhere to find out where you are. But to gloat and annoy him, even a little, you prefer to keep quiet and continue closing letters, completely ignoring his presence.

You feel him calling you several more times, climbing the stairs, going out to the patio, searching in several rooms. Why would he expect you to be in his office? You would have nothing to do there when he is not at home. It is the last place he checks, and when he opens the doors, there is a slight sign of concern in his features.

Of course, you can't help but smirk at this, it's the most you can play with him without provoking more punishment for your body. You watch him with narrowed eyes and without ceasing to work.

"What do you think you are doing? It's not funny."

"Was it a little, wasn't it?"

"Haven't you had enough? Do you really need more?"

"No! Of course not! Look, I'm trying to make up for it, I'm being a good girl for you daddy."

"I don't know, are you?"

Having said that, he enters his office and heads behind his desk, to where you are sitting. You know this means he wants you to sit on his lap, so you get up and let him settle into the seat before you climb onto him.

You try to kiss him, but he stops you.

"Keep working, you're not done."

Obeying, you seal a document, and when you want to take an envelope to put the paper and leave it closed, it is Madara who holds it in his hands in front of your mouth.

"Put the document in and close it with your mouth."

"B-But..."

"Do you want to have Daddy angry?"

"No..."

"Go ahead. No hands."

You insert the paper into the packet, and as the Uchiha indicated, you slide your tongue around the edge of the packaging, from one of his fingers to the other. When you reach the other end, his digit goes into your mouth without warning and smoothly. The task you were performing falls forgotten on the desk.

"Suck it well, show me what a good little girl you are.”

Pleasing your man, you stick your back to his chest, leaning your head over his shoulder while your tongue dances on his finger and fills it with saliva, giving him little sounds of approval. A second one enters your cavity, and you begin to move your head back and forth as if you were working on his cock, feeling his eyes on your lips.

"I think my baby has missed her milk bottle, hasn't she?”

Nodding on his lap, you feel like a hand is moving your underwear, and taking his wet fingers out of your mouth, he directs them towards your pussy, massaging the outside and wetting you completely.

“I'm still very sensitive..."

"Don't worry baby, I don't plan on messing with your tiny clit today. Daddy will teach you how to go to the bathroom.”

With those words, his two fingers are pushed inside you mercilessly, positioning themselves in the shape of a claw and rubbing that thin membrane on the top of your stomach that simply made you curl up and close your thighs over his arm.

"Open your legs or I'll have to spank you again, you bad girl.”

Moaning uncontrollably, with your head tilted back and sliding over his lap, your vagina makes watery noises every time Madara's knuckles hit your outer lips. Your feet are suddenly on his knees, allowing him better access, and with his arms he forces your thighs to stay apart, while his free hand runs to the side your soaked underwear.

"D-D-DAD-DY!"

Spasms run through your body and no coherent thought crosses your mind, you don't even care that your juices are dripping from your cunt and staining the upholstery of your man's chair, as he keeps his legs open along with yours. You're intoxicated in those digits working wonders on that magic point in your body, while the punch of his fist somehow also manages to act as a masturbation for your punished and over-stimulated clit.

You can no longer resist it.

"What's the matter girlie, do you feel like going to the restroom? Come on, do it on my hand, give all your fluids to dad."

With a final scream, a stream of liquid flows from your pussy, smoothly and strongly, hitting Madara's hand and landing on the floor. The Uchiha exerts pressure with his fingers inside you until the liquid stops pouring and your body stops shaking, leaving you exhausted over him and unable to gather strength to care about the mess left in his office.

"Oh no... what a bad girl... what a bad, bad girl... look what you did on the floor... I will have to teach you another lesson..."

"B-B-But-I..."

"But? You said, but? You have some serious behavioral problems. Come here, Daddy will fix you up."

#uchiha madara x reader #madara uchiha x reader #madara uchiha #uchiha madara #madara #madara scenario #madara imagine #naruto imagines #naruto shippuden #naruto x reader

[chispas-and-broken-bindings]

I really wanted to get the next chapter of Nothing Sacred, All Things Wild up this week, but work was crazy and I also got caught up in another story (I can’t control my muse)...so instead I’m offering up a long snippet of the dystopian/space colonist fic I started off a prompt I got a while ago for an “Arranged Marriage + a/b/o” request I got from an anon.

A/B/O is not my cup of tea, so I twisted it into an arranged marriage by an artificial intelligence instead: 

He wakes up angry, sweat soaking through his pillow, heart racing, stomach cramped. The alarm is buzzing from somewhere beneath the bed, where he must have knocked it. 

“Turn it off,” Ygritte mutters into his shoulder, before rolling away with the rest of their thin blanket.

He complies, letting the shock of the cold floor against his feet spur him into full wakefulness. “I take the test today.” It’s raining. He watches the drops splatter against the small window near the ceiling, and he wonders if Ygritte remembered to check the bucket beneath the leak before she crawled into bed the night before. 

Their garden apartment doesn’t do well in the rain. Jon still doesn’t understand why it’s even called a garden...there’s nothing green about their cramped basement residence, besides the mold growing beneath the sink.  

“Oh yeah. Happy birthday...we’ll get drinks when you come home.” 

“If I come home.”  He could be part of the one percent, after all. That is the Institution's promise. Everyone is SOMEONE. Anyone can be part of the 1%. Are YOU?

Jon knows it’s unlikely. How could he, an orphan from Mole’s Town, have the magic combination of pheno-, geno-, and personality type to be chosen for the Colony? No...he’s just another loser of the 99% who will waste his twenty-first birthday behind the Brutalist concrete walls of the Institution’s testing center, playing lab rat for the day, until the examiners come to the inevitable conclusion that he’s just another nobody. 

They’ll spit him back out on the street, leaving him free to carve out a pathetic existence on a slowly dying planet. 

He doesn’t bother washing. It’d be a waste of precious water when he knows full well they’ll scrub him down at the testing center. Instead he spends his last moments at home drinking a pot of weak coffee, trying to remember anything he was taught in the schools he barely attended. His energy would be better spent bracing for the coming indignity of having every part of his body and mind exposed and dissected. 

“Is the area of a circle, two pi times the radius? Or is that the circumference?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Ygritte lights a cigarette at the stove before joining him at the table. “It’s not that kind of test.”

He knows that. It’s another Institution promise. The Test doesn’t ask WHAT you know. It asks who YOU are. Are YOU the 1%

How the fuck would Jon know? It’s easier for him to remember that the area of a circle is actually pi times the radius squared, than it is for him to explain who he is. He has no idea. That’s kind of what being an orphan is all about. 

Ygritte could at least throw him a bone and tell him what the test is like. She took it two years ago, though she won’t talk. Most people won’t. There are no rules against it, but The Test is treated like dysentery. Unless you live behind the gates, you’re going to get it at least once in your life, but that doesn’t mean you’re gonna go around describing your diarrhea to the world.  

Grenn went to White Harbor for the test a month ago, and though Jon had to buy him six beers and two shots of whiskey before Grenn would shut up about his first-ever train ride, he did give Jon a few insights into the rest of the experience. 

Not that the train isn’t worth the excitement, especially when the ride is paid for (another Institution promise. No matter your means. No matter the distance. EVERYONE makes it to the Test. Are YOU the 1%?) Technically, Jon has taken it once before, from Winterfell to Mole’s Town as a baby, but he doesn’t remember.  

Now he can’t believe anything that moves so fast could feel so smooth. He’s topped out at ninety miles per hour on the best snowmobile Donal Noye patched together, but that left his teeth rattling and his ears buzzing for hours afterward. The train is moving at double the speed, but he could be in the godswood, for how quiet the near-empty economy cabin is. He shares it with a twitchy young man who never looks up from a cheap tablet, and a black raven perched in a large cage who spends the entire ride staring at Jon with one eerie black eye. 

The testing center is located just across from the train station, in an intimidating building that used to have a name. Jon has a vague memory that it was a prison before the Institution took it over. Before that it was something else. 

He doesn’t balk when a masked orderly leads him to a small room, tells him to strip, and then takes off with his clothes. He knows they’ll be returned at the end of the day. Of more pressing concern is the man and woman who enter talking too quietly to make out at the other end of the room, while a nurse rolls in with a small cart covered in collection tubes, gauze strips, and butterfly needles. 

Everyone wears surgical masks, latex gloves, long white coats, and black clogs. 

Jon remains naked beneath a small paper covering. 

He has given blood before, and the messy, life-saving transfusion Mance performed to save Tormund three years ago was far scarier than the rapid, methodical draw that's taken from him now. Still, it’s disconcerting to think of the secrets the Institution will glean from his blood. He’s uncomfortably aware that they’ll know who his parents are before the day is over, even as he’ll continue living in total ignorance. 

Another Institution promise. The Institution values EVERYONE’S right to privacy. YOU control the right to tell the world who you are. Are YOU the 1%?

Before he’s finished the recitation in his head, five tubes are full, and the nurse pats a cotton ball and a band-aid over his arm. She tosses a granola bar on his lap before rolling out of the room with her cart of samples. 

Next comes a physical exam, where the other two examiners speak only to each other as they record his height, weight, blood pressure, and note his every blemish and scar in flat affect. 

“Post-burn contractures across the palmar and dorsal aspect of the left hand, adduction and extension in the metacarpophalangeal joint of thumb fall outside normal range of movement.”

“Keloid scarring along the right gastrocnemius muscle, five point three centimeters in diameter.”

“Slightly hypertrophic scarring beginning at left brow and running medially down across the left orbital cavity to the cheek. No ptosis noted. No apparent damage to the eye.”

He should feel worse beneath the weight of each fault. Instead he relaxes. He was nervous for nothing. Failure was always inevitable. The Institution would never invest in a malnourished kid with a burned hand and a badly healed leg wound. They are famously secretive about their selection process, but some reasons for failure are common knowledge. As the crows like to say, no cripples, bastards, or broken things. 

So, he chews his granola bar slowly and even closes his eyes for a bit, letting the examiners move his limp limbs as necessary for their measurements. He imagines himself a cadaver during the early stages of an autopsy. 

As long as they don’t cut me open….

When an white-haired man enters and lays out what look to be a series of tiny torture devices, Jon wonders if he stopped caring too soon. He white-knuckles it through an excruciating dental exam that ends with his first real exchange of the day. 

“Have you ever been to a dentist, kid?” 

There is still a tube in his mouth, sucking up his spit and a hook pressing at his gums, so Jon just shakes his head. There are no dentists in Mole’s Town. Just Chett, who used to work at a slaughterhouse down south and will pull a rotten tooth for the price of a bottle of whiskey. Jon wouldn’t give the creep the lint in his pocket, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let him near his mouth. Instead he brushes his teeth so hard his toothbrush regularly snaps in half, and prays something else kills him before gum disease has a chance.

“You’ve got better teeth than I see behind the gates, boy,” he pulls the hook from Jon’s mouth to dictate into a small microphone hanging from his mobile workstation. “Review DEFB1 on ID 17630343BA. At some point the focus will need to expand beyond the holy 22 and get back to the basics. Who is going to care about neuron growth if every fourth planter is born with anodontia?” 

Jon understands little of what the man is saying, but he’s heard enough to know he’s at least got as good of teeth or better than some of the rich tossers who live within the heavily guarded gated communities where the Colonists are actually culled from. Behind their high walls, wealthy sons and daughters of the only one percent that really matters, spend their youths preparing for the Test in homes and classrooms pumped with filtered air, where the water runs clear, and no one ever goes to sleep with their bellies cramped from hunger or disease. 

The Institution promises that ANYONE can be the 1%, but EVERYONE knows that's a lie. 

---

The physical exam ends at last, after several more rounds of sterile humiliation. Jon isn’t sure which was worse; having to lie within a noisy cylinder while a disembodied voice reminded him not to move, or being asked to run naked on a treadmill, wired with electrodes. 

When it’s over, the last examiner provides him with a sweatsuit that is softer and better-made than anything he owns, and he wonders if there is any way he can smuggle it out with him at the end of the day. Another orderly comes in with a waxy crisp apple that hardly seems real even as a spray of tartly sweet juice hits the back of his tongue. He’s given a pill as well that he swallows down with a cup of water so clear and so cold, it’s an act of incredible will-power not to ask for more. 

It’s only after, when he’s led to a small room with two chairs, a table, and a pulsing white orb in it’s center that he thinks to ask what it’s for. 

“This will make the answers come more naturally during your interviews,” the man explains before leaving him alone. “We want you to answer as truthfully as possibly, but we understand that can be difficult under the stress of the Test.”

He supposes people lie all the time on the Test, trying to game the system, though Jon doesn’t have the first idea how he’d go about doing that, nor does he have any reason to try. He’s not going to the Colony. This is all just a spectacular waste of time, and it’s a race day, which means he’ll have to pull extra shifts at the Rookery to make up for what he would have made beyond the Wall. 

By the time a petite woman with a neat low bun, and cracking, grey scar across half her face and neck enters, Jon is reckless with anger. 

“I’d like to go home.”

“Hello, Jon,” she smiles as she sits across from him, and she’s the first person he’s seen since he entered the building who isn’t wearing a mask. She’s also the first person to call him by his name. “My name is Shireen.”

“Where’s your mask?”

Her smile dims slightly, but she maintains her gentle tone. “I’m here to facilitate the interview portion of your Test today. Before we begin, is there anything you need to feel more comfortable? Something to eat, drink, a bathroom break? Should the temperature be adjusted?”

He’s sour with anger so he takes everything she offers, suddenly eager to make everything as inconvenient as possible for the Institution. Shireen takes his requests with an easy smile, however, escorting him to the restroom herself. When they return to the room, there is a bowl of hearty soup with a chunk of bread that is soft and airy beneath it’s golden-brown crust. Beside it is a tall glass of water and a smaller cup of green liquid that Jon eyes suspiciously. 

“What’s this then?”

“I thought you might like some juice. It’s mostly apple, with some kale, cucumber and celery in it as well, I suspect.”

It’s the best thing Jon has ever tasted, and while part of him wants to fling the rest of it at her frustratingly serene face, it’d be a horrible waste, and he’d be the biggest loser. So, he takes his time, savoring each bite and sip, rolling the bright flavors across his delighted tongue. 

“Feeling better?” she asks after the tray is cleared. 

“Is that an official Test question?”

“No.”

“Let’s get on with it then. I can’t afford to miss the train home.”

“As you may know, it is not individuals who decide the 1%. Our artificial intelligence algorithm, The Seven, determines who is the best fit for the Colony. That is how the institution guarantees objectivity in its selection process,” she taps the pulsing orb on the table. “Though we find people are more comfortable responding to another person, so I will be facilitating our discussion as The Seven records and analyzes your responses. Are you ready to begin?”

He shrugs. 

“I’ll start with a series of statements. After each, please say a number to indicate the degree to which you agree with that statement, wherein one equals strongly disagree and five equals strongly agree. Three indicates you neither agree nor disagree. Do you understand?”

“Five.”

“Okay. Statement Number one: At social events, you rarely try to introduce yourself to new people and mostly talk to the ones you already know.”

Jon knows everyone in Mole’s Town, and he doesn’t want to socialize with most of them. 

“Two.”

This goes on for a while, each statement absurdly divorced from anything relating to Jon’s life, but the numbers spring easily from his lips as he relaxes under Shireen’s soothing voice, and kind face, and the lovely feeling of a full belly and soft, warm clothes. 

It’s when the format shifts, that he begins to feel strange. Shireen starts with questions that are easy to answer. Where were you born? How many years of education have you completed? What was your favorite class and why?  What do you do for work? Describe your strengths. When are you most satisfied in your job?  Do you live alone or with others? How many others do you live with? What is your relationship to the person you live with? 

At this point, the questions grow more invasive; more personal. A voice tells Jon that the Institution doesn’t need to know how many times he and Ygritte fuck a week...but the answer escapes all the same. 

“Four or five times a week.”

“Do you use contraception methods?”

“No.”

“Do you intend to have children with your partner?”

“No.”

“Given your age and your partner’s, without contraception, given your regular intercourse the odds of conception are--”

“She’s sterile.” 

“How do you know that?”

“Most everyone in Mole’s Town is. It’s something in the water, or the air, or our weak genes. It doesn’t really matter the cause. If it’s not the one; it’s the other. She’s been fucking since she was fifteen, and nothing’s ever caught.”

“How do you know that you aren’t the sterile one?”

He shrugs. “I probably am too, but I’m not her first partner as you say. I’m not her second or third either.”

“How does that make you feel?” 

He glares, and Shireen clarifies. 

“Your partner’s sterility?”

“How do you think it makes me feel?” he pushes back from the table, letting his chair lean back on two legs. 

Shireen only gives him a minute shake of her head, and waits for him to answer the question. 

“Angry. I feel fucking furious about it.”

“So, you would like to be a father?”

“I’d like the freedom to choose. I’d like Ygritte to have that freedom.”

“What is your least favorite thing about humanity?”

She can’t be serious with that question. It’s like asking him to name all the stars. He takes a deep breath. Shireen waits. He stands up and paces. Shireen waits. He finishes his water and asks for another. Shireen calls for a refill. He drinks that too. Shireen waits. 

“My least favorite thing? That we’ve given up. We let this machine,” he points at the orb, “decide who doesn’t have to. It’s like….it’s like the men in Mole’s Town who wander into the snows when winter grows too cold, and there’s not enough food or warmth to go around. Grown-ass men who could be fixing furnaces and braving the cold to find the resources their families so desperately need. Most of the time they don’t even have the fucking guts to tell anyone  what they’re off to do. They just wander away one day, and winter takes them. 

That’s what the fucking Institution is. We’re all those men in Mole’s Town who’ve just given up, despite the blood still pumping through our veins. We’re sitting around, waiting for winter to kill us, so that a few can live. And there’s no one left to be mad about it either, because it’s a fucking machine that decides our fate. It’s like being mad at the wind. What’s the fucking point? But just because there is no one to be angry with, that doesn’t mean the rage goes away...and winter isn’t killing us fast enough."

“So you want to live?”

“I want humanity to want to live. I want humanity to want most of humanity to live. I want us to care about more than the one percent.”

It feels radical, saying it here; behind the walls of the Institution. It feels like he’s put the last nail in his own coffin. Shireen watches him as he cracks his knuckles, one at a time, waiting for her to say the interview is over; it’s time to go home. 

Instead she asks an even crazier question. 

“Do you think there is an essential connection between the morality of an action and the morality of the intentions behind it?”

#my writing #work in progress #jonsa fic #jonsa dystopian au #kind of inspired by songs of a distant earth #when I get to the new planet #whenever that happens #shireen!

[cyhyr]

Summer of Whump Day 16: Touch Starved

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: G

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka, pre-relationship

WC: ~1870

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

A/N: Are y'all ready for some whumpy fluff??? Cuz I got some kinda cavity-inducing treat here for those that're into that.

~

In theory, Kakashi should have been assigned a touchstone during his ANBU service. Looking back, he’s ambivalent about how he feels on the subject. Sure, a touchstone could have been helpful if they were trained well and able to calm him down from the nightmares he had as a teenager; but he’s also historically one of the deadliest shinobi enlisted in ANBU and the possibility of accidentally killing a touchstone would have gotten him discharged early at best or put down because of a psychotic break at worst.

He doesn’t casually touch people, and hasn’t since his fist went through Rin’s chest ten years ago. He’s okay with this. He doesn’t want to touch people anyway—it registers a part of his instincts that equates touch with mission and he doesn’t like being “on” while in the village. Even Gai keeps a respectable distance unless they’re sparring, especially after the last time they had been walking through the village and brushed elbows and Kakashi flinched hard enough that two on-duty ANBU flickered into view on the rooftops.

But really, he’s fine.

~

Then he becomes a jōnin-sensei and formally meets Uzumaki Naruto and, by extension of Naruto, Umino Iruka. And see, after a week of training with the genin, he thought he’d gotten used to being casually touched again. Naruto, in particular, likes to take Kakashi’s palm in high-fives without permission and run circles around his legs like an over-excited pup. But Sasuke also will lean against him for a breath if no one else is looking, and Sakura is a hugger.

This does not prepare him for meeting his team’s old Academy teacher, who invites all of Team Seven—including Kakashi—to his home at the end of their first week for dinner. It seems odd that Naruto knows where everything is in the home enough to help Umino-sensei finish cooking and set the table; even more odd is Umino ordering Naruto around and Naruto following those orders without question. After the meal, Kakashi resolves to pick the man’s brain to figure out how he does that.

But then he notices how the man is moving around the kitchen; stiffly, limping, one hand bracing his lower back if he needs something out of his reach. And how Sasuke and Sakura are also hovering, asking if there’s anything they can do to help—and Kakashi realizes that he’s missing crucial information.

He gets the story about the scroll, the betrayal, and the fuma shuriken after dinner, while he’s helping Umino-sensei clean up. They had sent the genin out of the kitchen—Umino hadn’t wanted to recall it around them, worried it might “upset them”—so it was just the two of them in a tiny space.

And he’s not ready for it. Every time Umino passes behind him while Kakashi’s washing up at the sink, he presses a gentle hand to his upper back. Their fingertips brush occasionally when Kakashi’s handing Umino freshly washed dishes to dry.

His fucking laugh is a touch of its own.

Kakashi starts out tense but minutes go by and Umino doesn’t seem to recognize that his actions are distressing so Kakashi just… breathes through it. And relaxes. And lets himself feel.

And, gods, it’s nice.

~

It doesn’t stop. Umino—

“Iruka, please,” he smiles and it’s like sunshine after a month in the Land of Frost. “I’d like to think we’re friends, Kakashi-sensei, and my friends call me Iruka.”

“Then just ‘Kakashi’ is fine,” he replies—

He’s still wondering why he said that, but it certainly happened; it was at the Mission Desk and there were witnesses—

Anyway.

Iruka doesn’t stop with these friendly, gentle touches. But after that first night he is always careful to do them in places where no one else can observe Kakashi’s reactions, which Kakashi is immensely thankful for.

He doesn’t ever turn on Iruka, but there are some close calls. He once followed Iruka down into the archives and while they were down there he said something—likely a crass joke, remembering Iruka’s flush and that particular smile. In hindsight, Kakashi realizes that the jab on his arm was meant to mean oh gods why are you like this in an amused air; at the time, he froze and his heart had started pounding and he briefly saw Iruka as a threat.

Iruka didn’t move, either away or closer, just waited until Kakashi’s tension released. It took almost a minute. He did, however, continue speaking; going into a story about Naruto and Shikamaru from their earlier days at the Academy. Once Kakashi was back to himself he stuck his hands in his pockets and Iruka finished his filing in the archives, walking around again as though he hadn’t just been in potential danger.

Kakashi wonders if Iruka has touchstone training. He wonders if Iruka would entertain being his touchstone; but, no, he’s not ANBU anymore, he doesn’t need one anymore.

~

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

~

One day after training his team, he catches sight of Iruka lounging in the grass by the river, reading a novel. The sunset warms the deep tones of his skin even more than usual and Kakashi groans because he’s been psyching himself up to do something like this for weeks and here, here is the perfect chance. And he could absolutely keep walking down the road and keep his hands and body to himself and Iruka would be none the wiser; and even if he does find out, Iruka will never hold it against him or call him a coward.

He can do it. He takes a few steps down the hill.

He can’t do it—he turns back up to the road and puts his face into his hands. He resists groaning, as that would alert Iruka to his presence and then he’s fucked.

He turns back around and looks at Iruka, turning the page of his book and tucking an arm under his head. Gods, he’s…

If I go down there, I’ll destroy him.

If I don’t, I’ll destroy myself.

Kakashi doesn’t whine, he doesn’t. He fought in the Third Great Shinobi War. He’s a hardened ANBU operative—retired, but. He’s one of the deadliest shinobi Konoha has on its roster. He can approach a chūnin Academy sensei, his friend, for no other reason than to just sit near him.

His legs move before he can form the thoughts to stop them, and he’s dropping into a cross-legged seat beside Iruka.

“Hello, Kakashi,” Iruka says. He sets his book aside and sits up, shifting so he’s more facing Kakashi. And gods that smile. “How are you?”

Kakashi finds that he can’t quite get the words out, and so just holds out a hand between them hoping Iruka will understand.

“Ah.” Of course, Iruka does. He slips his fingers between Kakashi’s slowly, giving him the chance to pull away if he needs. But Kakashi isn’t here for need; he’s here for want.

He pulls Iruka’s hand up to his cheek and presses into it, his pulse quickening.

“Kakashi, is everything alright?” Iruka murmurs.

He nods. The lump in his throat eases enough that he’s able to mutter back: “Exposure therapy. My apologies, sensei, for using you this way.”

Iruka’s palm is warm through his mask. He wishes he hadn’t done this in public, that he could feel Iruka’s hand on his bare face.

“I understand. I have done this before.”

“Y-You have?”

Iruka nods, shifts closer and lays his other hand on Kakashi’s shoulder. “I’ve had other friends in ANBU,” he whispers. “I was a touchstone for, ah, three years? For them.”

Kakashi can’t help the bubbling laugh. “I had wondered where you got these kinds of instincts, sensei.”

“It’s certainly not from teaching pre-genin.”

Iruka continues lightly stroking his shoulders and cheek where Kakashi placed his hand, until Kakashi fidgets and shifts and reaches up to rub at the back of his neck.

“I was wondering if—um—could you—that is—”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” Iruka nods.

“That’s just the thing,” Kakashi sighs. “I’m not comfortable with any of this.”

“Okay, so then just ask,” he says instead. “I promise, it’s neither the oddest request I’ve gotten, nor will I refuse you.”

Kakashi quirks an eyebrow and Iruka chuckles.

“I’ll tell you later. Ask.”

He takes in a deep breath and on the exhale says it at once: “CanIputmyheadinyourlap?”

Iruka takes a second to decode what he says, and then his grin widens and he turns back to where he’d placed his book. He shifts it further aside and situates himself better, and then nods, making a subtle come here gesture with the hand near his book.

Kakashi turns and just about falls into Iruka’s lap, now laying parallel to the river and looking up at the reddening sky. In the east, a few early stars are coming out. But here, on the riverbank, Iruka runs his fingers through Kakashi’s hair and it’s heaven. Fingertips from his other hand stroke gently down the side of Kakashi’s face and neck. After a few minutes, Iruka settles his arm over Kakashi’s chest in a loose embrace and it causes a hitch in his breath and a stutter in his pulse but—

But he’s with Iruka and he’s in the village and the fingers through his hair are so nice and he’s safe and Iruka’s safe—

He relaxes.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” Iruka says softly.

“This is wonderful, sensei,” Kakashi breathes. “You’re just enough. Exactly what I needed.”

Iruka lightly scratches at his scalp and Kakashi groans. The arm across his chest gets a little heavier and Kakashi notices but doesn’t care because he’s in the village and safe and with Iruka—

“Can I… um. No, nevermind.”

Kakashi opens his eye, looks up at Iruka, flushed in the sunset, and says, “Ask anyway?”

Iruka bites at his lip and hesitates, but Kakashi has all the time in the world right now. Eventually, the sun goes beyond the horizon and Iruka asks barely above a whisper, “Can I kiss you?”

He’s honestly surprised, thinking that he was the only one harboring a crush. But then he thinks about the sensitivity of lips on lips and tongue and teeth and being that close and I’ll destroy him—Kakashi stops that line of thought fast and clears his throat to fight off the bile wanting to rise. He swallows hard and says, “Not yet. I don’t know if I can—”

“Shh,” Iruka presses one finger to his lips over the mask; it’s excruciating. “You don’t need to explain yourself. A no is enough. I’ve got this,” gesturing to Kakashi, laid out beside him, and then threads his fingers back in his hair, “and I'm more than happy.”

Iruka eventually relocates them to his apartment, where Kakashi goes along quietly and eats what he’s given and washes up beside Iruka like he always does at the Team Seven dinners he hosts. And when they move to the living room and Iruka sits in the corner of his couch and pats his lap questioningly, Kakashi falls into place like a good soldier and spends the rest of the night trying not to tear up at how good it feels to be touched so carefully, so gently, so lovingly.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump16 #touch starved #fanfic #hatake kakashi #umino iruka #kakairu #my writing

[goldafterglow]

hold me in the meadows

Summary: You are Ezra’s dreamcatcher and he is your burrow.

Request: “The sleepy prompts!! Lovely! Can you do “I have had nightmares every night for the past three weeks and now they’re gone because of you, how did you do that?” with (can you guess??) EZRA” - the love of my life, @opheliaelysia

Pairing: Ezra (Prospect) x Reader

Word Count: 4.6k+

Tags: angst?, fluff, more metaphors that don’t mean anything, weird touching lol idk what the fuck this fic is, this is also not beta read so send the flood send the flu

Author’s Note: If you left a like or comment or reblog on Dissolve Me I’m telling you with as little shame as is humanly possible that I definitely reread it at least 3 times. Feedback means the word to me! also this was supposed to be a 500 word drabble and now it’s over 4.5k words if that tells you anything about me. I apologize in advance I think I’ve really outdone myself w/ my bullshit this time

Gif Credit: @pascvl; Also shout out to @pascalplease sorry I spammed you for nothing dsfgdsg

Ezra is staring at you.

He’d met you on one of those toxic moons, one of those deceitfully picturesque mirages where the dust glitters like lily petals but the air would kill you before you could think to appreciate it. You were a floater; a nomad with no place to call home, but you figured you liked it that way. Homes were permanent. They set lives and futures in cobblestone and trapped spirits in gated properties, keeping just about anything and everything tethered under the farce of security. Homes make paraffin casings around dragonfly wings and turn footprints to concrete. So you never had one, and you never wanted one. Ezra had found you amusing. You had found him to be better company than just yourself. So with great reluctance, you established a partnership. Not one forged in steel or bronze but something still fleeting, its true meaning always escaping your lips like a forgotten thought. It’s too much work to try and think about it anyway.

You had let him invite you to reside in his tent. It took coaxing, required copious amounts of golden honey spilling from Ezra’s tongue to get you to tenaciously stick to him, but you were no match for his silver tongue. He did everything he could to assure that this wasn’t a habitat, but merely a shelter - a thing that could be taken down and built back up somewhere else, anywhere you wanted. So you had obliged. He let you take the cot closest to the zipper door; you liked being closer to the exit, just a rotation away from being back on your feet. He tries to let you truly feel like if you wanted to escape, wanted to elope with liberty and run away from the loose bonds of the canopy, you could.

Three weeks of sleeping adjacent to him and you still don’t want to.

Ezra is used to temporary relationships. He has done his fair share of companion hopping, although he wasn’t really making an effort to do so. It scares him a little - why can’t he make anyone stay, make anything last? Partners passed him by, either to traverse on their lonesome or to stay with that greedy man in the eternal sky. Teams disbanded around him like glass castles shattering in his wake. Ezra, whether he liked it or not, was accustomed to transience.

He is not, however, accustomed to fearing that sharp brevity. Ezra is constantly on his toes around you, frequently wondering if he’s pushing you away or pulling you closer. You aren’t skittish, don’t constantly question everything he says or get offended by the sound of his voice, but he’s still scared of losing you. Every time he looks into your eyes he sees wonder, a certain fascination with life that he tries so hard to match because he wants to find things as beautiful as you do. As beautiful as you are. He wants to mis-quote your favorite novels that you force him to read so that you’ll scold him so affectionately and tell him that perhaps he had garnered a little brain damage from his previous escapades. He wants to trip over tree roots that have herniated through the soil so you can laugh at him, maybe lay there on the grass with him for a little bit. Just a little bit.

In your own mind, you are guarded. You try your very best not to get too personal, too deep, too much. Because you don’t like it when people can see your flushed, bloody insides. You just know that the moment you open your chest, someone will steal your heart right out of your rib cage and like the pass of a hummingbird, all of your secrets will be free to float in the breeze like the ashes of your lost quintessence; it’ll all be gone and then you’ll really be empty.  So how could you ever know what you mean to Ezra?

He knows what a truly locked up person looks like. He’s spent hundreds of cycles with people that don’t make a noise. He’s sat in bustling pods of people and felt like the only man in the room, like solitary confinement for his mind. No, you are not some warning-covered steel box, padlocked and duct-taped and glued shut so that even if he’s sitting right next to you, he’ll have nothing more than his own voice bounce to off of your walls and fly right back to him. You’re a music box, a gold-trimmed heart-shaped sound bottle, and he learns that if he winds you up the right way, you’ll sing so pretty for him.

He has spent so long talking, nonsensically making those arbitrary noises burst out of his throat until they lose all meaning, but finally, for the first time in so fucking long, Ezra gets to listen.

He listens to you tell him you think his hair is stupid and that sometimes he smells bad. He listens to you lament about barren dig-sites and wasted time, about how it’s so fucking hot in your suit. He listens to you fantasize about touching the trees, burying your face in your flowers and squeezing the moss in your hands. About drowning in the river so that your body is filled with the water and then rolling in the sand so that it all sticks to you and you have to dive back in to clean off. About feeling something.

Sometimes, Ezra just wants to hear something other than his own voice. And you’re the cold towel to his inflamed skin, refreshing and addictive. You’re much braver than you think, so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, because for once, Ezra can talk into the forest and know that there’s someone to listen besides the leaves. He doesn’t feel alone.

Every night, when the moon has turned its back on the narcissistic Sun and opened its arms to the thousands of other stars, each just a prick of light but understanding of their place in the tapestry of the darkness, the two of you retire to that tent. You both redress into comfortable clothes, backs turned on each other under the guise of respect, and climb into your respective cots. Ezra would turn off that shitty lantern that illuminated the enclosure, and your shadows would dissipate into the darkness.

Except Ezra’s shadows don’t disappear; they hide. They blend into the black and mold into one man-engulfing untamable beast to possess Ezra’s throat. And they manifest again in his mind. They poison that movie that plays once you slip consciousness, instills fear into his bone marrow until he doesn’t feel safe in his own body, his own thoughts.

These slumber illusions haunt Ezra. His right arm waves at him in his sleep, the souls to which he was the conduit bridging life and death haunt his diaphragm with toothy grins to mock him, screeching into his cavities. They remind him that he was never really alone because he has the suffocating embrace of those spirits that are sewn so tight to his eyelids. Every night he somehow manages to pull himself from the darkness only for his own demons to pull him back by the throat. He is always oscillating between consciousness and unconsciousness, being tossed around like a helpless rag with no hope of liberation. Nothing scares him more than his own thoughts.

And you know. You know all of it. How could you not? You were born a tumbleweed, wandering across desolation, so of course you’re a light sleeper. And you can hear Ezra’s choked cries, his tossing and turning as he drains himself of any sense of safety. But this man is a stranger to you. He is just a person you reside with, talk to all the time, nudge gently and tease and smile with. He is just the person that you wake up wanting to see, whose attention you always crave. A stranger.

So every night you turn your body to face the zipper of the tent and pretend that you can’t hear him cry. Pretend that you don’t sometimes cry with him. A pretty lavender lie that smells sweet, tastes sweeter.

You, in your cowardice, let him destroy himself. Watch as the bags under his eyes get bigger and greyer and the strings holding his shoulders up lose their tension.

Ezra, in his flawed cratered embodiment, is only human. And he had gone so long without holding anyone, without being held. He knows what he wants, knows who he wants. But he also knows how jittery you are, how fluttery your heart is, and he doesn’t want to approach it too fast lest he startle you and you fly off into the stars. But he can’t keep doing this, can’t live with himself when he knows he’s not the one in control but those horned, slimy creatures that claw at his maxilla with their venomous grins.

The lights are out in the tent per usual, so Ezra can’t really see you. His careful eyes can trace the outline of the curves of your body - or is it that his delusional eyes are envisioning some arbitrary glow around you, convincing him that what he’s seeing is real? Reality is a concept with which he is no longer familiar.

You, laying in your cot, decide that you just can’t take it anymore. You can’t stand to let this intruder of your life break you down the way he is without even trying. How dare he look into you, how dare he listen to you without passing judgement, how fucking dare he make you feel like a flower in bloom?

Ezra hears your breaths - they’re uneven. You haven’t gone to sleep. What are you waiting for?

“Ezra?” you practically squeak into the void. His ears perk up immediately; your cotton candy voice is enticing to him, flossing its way through his veins.

“What are you doing up, birdie?” Ezra asks softly, the air of his lungs floating on top of his words. He doesn’t mean to keep you awake, but he isn’t mad that you are. It’s stimulating his nerves enough to keep himself awake, and that’s something he probably won’t ever be able to repay you for.

“I-um….” Shit. You hadn’t expected to get this far. What would you say to him? How could you tell him that you wanted to help cleanse him, that you wanted to grovel in lime-coated thumb tacks with him and absorb his pain into your tissue paper skin? “I can’t sleep.”

Not a lie. Ezra knows you mean it. He just doesn’t know why.

“Well that won’t suffice,” he decides, outstretching his left arm blindly off the edge of his cot until his fingers brush against what he’s looking for: that goddamn lantern. With a little more fumbling, a weak but good enough orange glow is emitted on the floor between the two of you. You both catch each other’s pitiful gaze. You want to take care of each other, want to shield each other from the red sprites that nip angrily at each other’s hearts. Ezra holds his left arm out to you, tentatively. He’s never been more unsure in his life. He watches you glance at his arm, and then quickly to the side. You’re trying to decide if you’ll let him add another tether to you. If you’ll let him become something sewed so tight to your bleeding skin that to leave would rip you apart.

You slowly get up and walk over to his cot.

Ezra lets out a soft breath and his lips turn to a soft smile. He’s soft.

“C’mere, dandelion” he mumbles to you, and he hasn’t missed his right arm so much as in this moment. He wants to hold you properly, wants to keep you as close to him as possible. You’re hesitant, and he can tell. You’ve never been this close to him before, and you want to savor it. When your head finally touches his shoulder, it’s like a catalyst ignites underneath the two of you. You mold into each other the way the gods intended, like lake water seeping into the smallest of crevices of an empty river bed. Like the opposing poles of two magnets, like a key penetrating a lock. Like you were made for each other. Your arms immediately wrap around him, his neck now a fixture of your body, and his arm leads you to lay down on the cot. Without words, without that candid discourse that Ezra was so fond of, his face is buried into the warmth of your chest and he feels like you’ve cast an ethereal shield around him.

Ezra doesn’t need to hold you tight because you’re holding him tighter, like you’re trying to cling to something invisible and foreign before it can even think to leave you. Before it realizes that it doesn’t want you. Don’t leave. He can feel you breathe him in, face smashed against his wild hair, and he can’t blame you because he’s breathing you in too.

“Sweetheart-” he breathes, fanning against your skin in a way that sends a deep shiver down your spine and shakes your shoulders.

“Shh.” And for once in his cursed life, he’s speechless. There’s so much, too much that he wants to say to you, but his mind is shouting all of it at him at once and he doesn’t even know where to start. So he shuts the fuck up. He feels you. He feels your heat melt him until he can barely control his own muscles because they’ve gone limp, unable to perform a single contraction because his fibers are relaxed, are at peace.

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep.

When Ezra wakes, you’re still sweet and motionless around him. The lamp was still on, still shining pathetically on the ground. He doesn’t feel the need to look around or squeeze his lids closed in an attempt to wring the bad rest out of him.

Rest?

He thinks fucking hard. When had he woken up last night? When had his banshees infiltrated his thoughts and cried into the void of his packed mind? All he can recall are caramel dreams, whipped cream clouds and berry trampolines for him to jump high into the cotton candy sky. He thinks he might like it that way. Maybe every night can be like that, every morning can feel this transcendent.

He hears you moan quietly as you stir not long after him, breaths shuddering on their way out of your nose as you slowly come to your senses.

“Good morning, birdie,” Ezra finally says. He doesn’t know what to say to you, what he can say to you, without making you flip a switch and realize that it’s all a mistake, that he is a mistake. His eardrums smile as your sleepy whining settles.

“Morning, Ezra,” you whisper, throat not ready to talk yet. It’s okay; you’d rather hear him talk to you anyway.

“Did you…were you able to achieve some sort of comfort?” Ezra asks. For a second you’re confused until you remember what you’d told him last night, and you realize that you’re holding him the same way you were when you’d gone to sleep. He hadn’t woken up.

“Yeah, Ezra,” you finally say after letting yourself simmer in the silence for a second. “Thank you.”

He smiles wide against your skin, the blunt tip of his excitement the battering ram that beats against his racing heart. He’s given you something worthy of your gratefulness, and the feeling of being worthy light his chest with blue flames.

“It’s not my intention to blow you away, dandelion,” Ezra says, his nerves manifesting into his characteristic breathy laughs, “but I can’t deny how direly I want to just touch you.” You feel the air get knocked out of you as your diaphragm begins to spasm; what is he asking? You’ve thought about it before; god, of course you’ve thought about it before. To lay back as you let him study you, memorize you and then let you do the same. Analyze the sculpted marble of his body to remind yourself why you love it so much.

“Please.”

It’s barely a whisper, a secret told to the wind, but Ezra hears you. Ezra always hears you.

So Ezra’s fingers begin to wander along your skin. He wants to map out the scars on your body, wants to learn the shape of you so intimately that he could remodel you if he wanted to. He wants to know your body the way he knows when you’re disappointed or frustrated or amazed or confused. He wants to just know.

You feel the calloused pads of Ezra’s fingers put a little pressure onto that dip of your thoracic vertebrae, draw circles above your hip right under the fabric of your sweatshirt, caress your shoulder. He’s slowly exposing your skin to the humid chill of the dank enclosure, carefully making your top cover less and less of you, but you’ve never felt warmer.

As Ezra’s mind begins to really warm up and the cogs begin to grease themselves, his words begin to flow out the way you’re used to. The way you’ve learned to love.

“Sweetheart, I have had nightmares every night for the past three weeks and now they’re gone,” he blurts. Fuck. His hand stutters against the small of your back. He’s done it now, he’s really gone and blown it, because now you know he’s fucking broken and you’re smart enough to know when to avoid damaged goods. You have to know that if you were to take your hands and try and feel him you’d just get bumps and ridges and cracks. But Ezra is selfish, can’t help himself or his thoughts, so he keeps rambling. “It is not my intention to come off as presumptuous, but I just know it’s because of you. How did you do that, birdie? You never told me you were sent to me as a dreamcatcher.”

You can’t help but smile into his scalp a little at his words. You didn’t mind taking all of his bad dreams and refracting them far away into the space between the stars for him. A light, breathy laugh rolls off your tongue like a huff, because fuck, if you were going to be embroidered to something it might as well be him.

Your breath hitches again as the back of his hand runs flat along your stomach. It travels back around and up to the nape of your neck, tracing your shoulders and then over to your clavicles, paying close attention to the dips. You can’t help but wonder if this means as much to him as it does to you; it means everything to you.

“You’re right. I’ve been holding out on you all this time,” you say, and he can hear you smile through the roses of your words. He slowly and with purpose lifts his head from your embrace so that he can look up at you, maybe even catch a glimpse of that pretty grin of yours and burn it onto his lenses.

“I’m not confident that you’ll ever know how fortuitous I was the day I met you.” Ezra’s voice is low as he speaks, his drawl stretching and fraying the ends of his words, and you soak in every last syllable. You soak in the meaning of his words. He feels lucky to have you.

You look down at him, bringing a hand to run through his hair. That stupid blonde streak snatches your attention for a moment and you thumb at the strands. You want to tease him about it, mock him a little, but you don’t. The moon marine in your arms holds so much unbridled beauty, and it’s all yours to look at.

Ezra is all yours to look at.

Ezra’s hand travels up to your face, cupping your cheek while his thumb toys with the corner of your mouth in a way that makes you bite your lip through a smile. Throwing all caution to the wind, you turn your head and press a shy kiss to the heel of his palm. Ezra’s skin burns where you’ve sanctified him. His hand begins to crave your touch in other ways, he is craving something more from you, but he knows he does far too much taking. He’s already taken so much from you, has already stolen so many moments from you out of sheer gluttony, but it’s not always his fault because you’re so giving. He knows you were a little hollow from the start, knows you were a little frayed in the first place, but still you share your thoughts and companionship with him because whether you know it or not, you’re a little taken by this space mutineer. If you fled this little thing you’ve built with him, you’d be leaving the prettiest parts of yourself behind for him to keep taking care of the way a mother makes her son’s bed after he leaves for college because what if you want to come back?

But you haven’t left, haven’t abandoned him and in turn, yourself. You’re right here, letting him bask in your reverent lavender radiation, and as he looks at how you’re giving off your own intrinsic glow because the shitty orange light on the ground isn’t enough, he knows he hasn’t earned it. He doesn’t think this is a very fair transaction at all, but he’s too selfish to stop you from paying a little extra. You’ll let him keep the change.

Ezra wordlessly lifts his head, nosing at your wrist so that you’ll bring it lower and let him kiss the delicate skin there. He looks up at you with wide, eager eyes of adoration. His feelings for you are beginning to bubble underneath the surface of his silk-lined thoughts and he is willing them to stay at that low simmer because he doesn’t want to think about anything except how fucking gorgeous you look in the lamplight.

“I’m growing rather fond of the way you feel against me,” Ezra finally says. Everything is so foreign now, so new, so he tries to do the one thing you both know, the one routine you can both dance without needing to think about it: talking.

“I like it too Ezra,” you giggle. Not a long, flittery one, but a pass of air with a note under it. You’re a little nervous too.

“I reckon I could get accustomed to this,” he whispers. Your lip betrays you, curling itself to reveal your reply before you even say it. Your teeth capture your lower lip for the act of treason, but it’s too late. “But I’d just hate it if I made you feel like you’re bearing my baggage.”

“Ezra, you don’t have crippling baggage,” you insist. What is this man talking about? You were the one with issues. You were the one that had to be convinced to stay with him, you were the one that insisted on the right cot, you were the real coward here. You were broken. “Everyone has their demons. There is so much more inside of you. You’re so full.”

Ezra’s eyes go a little wide at your words. You didn’t think he was half a man? Some incomplete mosaic that would never find his missing pieces?

“You flatter me,” he chuckles; no, he giggles.

“Well…I just figured there’s no way a broken man could handle his broken partner the way you deal with me.” His expression melts into something more than pity and less than ignorance - confusion. The tap in Ezra’s tongue pops loose and his words begin to cascade from his lips like some majestic phenomenon, like holy water spraying the filth off of your brow.

“I need you to look at me, firefly.” His voice is more stern now, his words more articulate as he shifts up the bed slightly so that he’s eye level with you. He’s still on his side, his left hand is still gripping the flesh at your hip. “I don’t think you’ll ever truly comprehend how much you’ve done for me these past cycles, but this life is quiet and toilsome. You’re capable of recognizing beauty in things I wouldn’t have even taken note of in the first place, and I hang onto your every utterance whether you’re aware or not. It’s easy for me to sit here and tell you how bad I always want you because you fill my thoughts, pretty dandelion. And if someone came here and regurgitated your exact words to me, it still wouldn’t hold a candle to the way you sing when you wonder out loud. I don’t need to ‘deal’ with you, sweet rose. I want you.”

Your lip quivers a little; you know Ezra likes talking to you, he’s told you before. But you couldn’t help but assume Ezra just likes talking, period. That he liked having you around about as much as he’d enjoy the company of any other talker. To think that someone wants you, your passions and afterthoughts and pondering notions, meant more than anything you could articulate.

“Ezra-” you start, but you cut yourself off. You want to let his words turn into condensation on your skin, to form little rain clouds above your head so that they pour back down on you in delicate drops. You want to let him linger, to sit and hang above you like the sky hangs above the ocean.

You look straight at him, deep into his inquiring brown eyes as you both begin to breathe the same air, scents mingling between you like the heat between two stars. His nose is right up against yours and you can feel his lashes caress your cheekbone. He’s so close, but you want him closer, need him to move his hand or blink his eyes or do something, because you can’t take the nothingness anymore when you’ve got everything pressed right up against your face.

Ezra decides he wants one last thing from you.

“My rose, I don’t want to ask too much of you, but I suppose if that were true I wouldn’t have invited you to stay with me anyway. In the tent, of course. Not the cot.” Fuck, what was he saying? He lets out a soft laugh as he tries to reorganize his thoughts, a blushing mess under your gaze because he’s so used to knowing exactly how to get what he wants, but he’s really pushing your boundaries and bending your fence posts now. You’re turning him into a man who fumbles, a man who doesn’t always have to know what he’s about to say, and he doesn’t mind being a little less talk around you and a lot more touch.

Suddenly, he’s reminded of what he wanted to ask you.

“Sweet creature, could I kiss you?”

You don’t miss a beat in this soft ballad you’re playing with him, letting out a gentle “yeah, Ezra.”

You don’t like homes, don’t like to be told that you’re forever nailed to walls and wood. But maybe, as Ezra’s scruffy chin leans up to slot his lips against yours, you could build a tent in him. Maybe this leaky soul was your permanent, your unyielding, your perpetual.

As Ezra tilts his head towards you with a soft moan so he can kiss you the way you deserve, speak to you through the blinding sensation of his mouth telling you how he wants you, needs you, loves you, without using a single word, he is confident that his hollow cavities are beginning to be filled by your amber essence. He can tell you’re letting yourself finally take root in him, clearing out the wretched foliage so that you can curl up in the meadow of his soul and rest your bones within him.

Yeah.

You’re home.

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[editorialsonlife]

Well

Welp, feeling like doing an update because there's been a lot going on to be honest. its one of those weird dichotomies where every day feels like an eternity and there's so much going on and then you look back and you're like oh, ok its just my brain making it difficult and making things take forever but anyway.

LOCKDOOOOOOOWWWWWWNNNNNNN

Lockdown life was good, apart from being thrust into it so suddenly dave left a banana on his desk. Wasn't great to come back to after 5 weeks out of the office - mummified mouldy banana!! Classic. We luckily got our first jab before lockdown started so that was good, and we were reasonably well stocked up on food and were generally a lot healthier this lockdown that last. honestly, there's a level of chill and serenity in lockdown that i just love. the ability to set my own schedule and only work the hours I actually work to get the job done? Amazing. getting 8.5 hours of sleep each night without having to wake to an alarm blaring? AMAZING. getting to go for walks every afternoon? SO FLIPPING GOOD. I love it so much, I really really do. I need this to be my life permanently.

WORK

Work is just ongoing and draining and honestly, coming back to the office was so fucking stressful and it was only one day. Being at home is just the fucking bomb. Pending home decisions, I wanna go contracting I think, but also ideally two part time contracts to have more flexibility? I dunno. You'd think a big 4 would provide variety but it really doesn't and honestly, with Richie leaving, wellington is just a sinking ship. Sean's off on parental leave, Kirstyn is down to four days a week, ben will be gone if he doesn't get promoted (and I don't think he will be tbh). Jack is just muddling along, Nigel wants to swap to consulting as well, Matt's going to be a shit leader in terms of bringing in work so it's just not going to work. and in our wider group it's going to get even more messy with heaps of the analysts leaving and a couple of senior hires too. so I think it's probably time to jump ship in general, pending the home stuff below. Also, coming back after a break again, I'm like, I don't actually like a lot of you? All the people I enjoy here are in other teams and groups, and I'll be sad to leave you all, but like, not enough to stay anyway lol.

Pending the home below, two options are to just going and get a job with a $30k payrise to make up for the maternity leave benefits I'm gunna leave behind when I leave this role - 18 weeks full pay, $100 a week for the first year back and a full year of maternity leave. It's basically 30k post tax which is a bit nuts to walk away from to be honest.

Otherwise the other option is to go contracting. Less security overall but holy shit so much money. If I went in as a project coordinator at the lowest rate to build up a bit of a portfolio I'd need to work 40 weeks of 40 hr weeks and Id basically match my current salary plus the lost family leave benefits and still qualify for govt maternity leave payments. Realistically I could go in as a project manager for $140 an hour ($60 more an hour than the above math) and absolutely smash it at that level as well so ya know, there's a bunch of other info. I like the idea of the flexibility of it and only having 6 months even if its a shitshow and beign able to walk away at the end of it. I really don't want to get a govt job and this is a v govt town which is fine but also, if I can avoid it that would be great. I just know I'm not gunna thrive in that environment.

Need to talk to Dave to get him across the line on the security issue part of that though. I've mostly come a long way in terms of my financial management (thanks YNAB) so I think he'd be ok with it mostly.

So there's a lot to toss up there because......

HOME

We got the reno plans done during lockdown, finally. which was super good. but holy fkn jesus $$$$$$ ++++++++++. The guy is coming around for the final quote on Thursday. We indicatively said $100k total because we're doing kitchen laundry bathroom and toilet. so only the most expensive rooms and when I was talking to him last week he said 'that might cover it' and they're seeing cost escalations of 7-10% a week which is just insane. we're not doing anything structural apart from putting in a cavity slider in the bathroom, and the quote they'll give us won't include flooring since they won't do it.

Meanwhile, the prefab homes I were looking at for our site were $425k fully done. Like, I'm not going to spend $130K on doing up my 1940s ex state house ya know? That's not good cost benefit ratio.

So depending on what that comes out at on thursday we'll be able to make some plans.

We also want to start trying for kids next year and need these renos done first - I am not having kids and no dishwasher lol.

Also we need bank financing so good to be in a permanent stable job for that application. the good thing is we have so much equity we know we can borrow whatever we need, I just don't want to spend that much money on it because it's fkn ridiculous. and if I'm going on maternity leave we need to be able to cover it all on dave's salary and whatever benefits I have as well so there;s a lot of financial planning and spreadsheeting going on at the moment lol. it's fab.

either way. we've got plenty of options up our sleeve. we've got friends who's brother owns a building company so we can talk to them, we've got the garage so we can get things prefabricated even if they're not installed til next year, Dave can get shit at cost through his work for whiteware, there;s plenty of things to like cost control we can do, we just need to know where we're starting from basically. thats the challenging part. but we'll figure it out, its just taking longer than I want it to basically.

We also planted up the vege garden for the spring/summer which was lovely, super jazzed about that. we've finally got the garden to a reasonably low maintenance level where everything is mostly under control and it's such a relief, honestly.

PERSONAL

Man what a shift to lockdown last year honestly. I think the last 8 weeks in particular has just been like, a massive reality check of how absolutely shit the last year was and how fucking glad I am to be rid of it. I spent a week absolutely spiralling 2 weeks ago now and honestly, I don't know how I lived in the state for more than a year. I actually don't know how I did it. and I could not be more glad that I'm finally on the other side of it, for the most part. There's still a bunch of other stuff to work through (hahahahahaha when is there not like damn) but fucking hell its nice to just not be anxious and nauseous and wound up constantly. life is actually accessible. miracle.

My workmate had his bebe - I went round and got newborn cuddles and was like, oh, is this what it is to be clucky? this is odd. so there's that as well. I think we'll probably start trying next year pending renos and jobs etc. If the renos can be done in jan I'll prob just stick it at the job to get the benefits but I dunno. it's a tough call to make really. we shall see. This all assumes we get knocked up without any issues which is questionable these days. I really want to feel healthier before getting pregnant as well, and part of that is losing weight. however, given discussing that is what triggered the spiral we're working on that one slowly.

Also, lets have a moment for counselling, because fkn bless anne and all her hard work honestly. I actually ended up emailing her being like, I;m losing my shit on the monday and then talked to her on thursday. And its so funny because it's such a counselling thing but I didn't realise until afterwards what she'd done but she was like you're clearly not doing well and then the night before dave got a fkn miserable migraine and he was up for like, 2 hrs powerchucking except he didn't make it to the bathroom in time so guess who was cleaning up vomit at 130am trying not to chuck herself but I digress. anyway, not doing well, couldn't even explain why, didn't even have words and super tired and she's like, what lynaire up to this week how's she going with izzy and chat about that and then be like how are you feeling about your body and then 5 more mins of chat about the cat and the chickens and then like bam hard question and then hows it going with x and y and z and its like, it wasn't til I was on my walk afterwards when I FINALLY started feeling marginally better I was like damn woman work your magic for figuring it out for me and helping me reregulate. all over the phone as well since we were still in lockdown. GREAT WORK FRIEND.

and then last week was like totally fucked theoretical discussion about religion and the role it's played in my life and fate vs free will and all this nutty shit but genuinely just a great discussion. She's the best and I love her. thank good for good counsellors. thank god I can afford to pay for it honestly.

Dave and I are just chugging along, god bless that man. I love him. its amazing. I miss having friends close by but understand why they had to move (boooooo f u house prices). Family is pretty chill, still not really talking to dave's parents which is nightmarish but we'll deal with that when we need to. gunna have to go and visit them at some point coz dave misses them and I feel for him, I really do. It's the whole boundaries renegotiation I went through with my family last year post wedding blow up and its just not a fun place to be. oh well. can't fix it for him but also I'm not putting up with that level of BS from either of our families once we have children. not gunna happen.

Either way, life is busy and full and fun and I'm enjoying it. Daylight savings starts this weekend too, its october next week WTF and I'm just waiting for 4pm to find out what's gunna happen to our girls trip. Clearly we cancelled our sept trip to christchurch and akaroa and hanmer springs so my covid travel curse continues. fkn ridic. Still dunno what we're gunna do with $2500 of flight credits coz if we get knocked up theres def no international trips happening any time soon.

thus concludes the almost 2000 word write up of life. hope you've enjoyed it. I'll throw up some pics in a separate post if people care about reno plans. such a good time!

[goldeneyedgirl]

Part 2 of MCU/Twilight verse

“That MCU crossover I’m writing that actually hasn’t mentioned the MCU at all yet.”

Alt 7: Found Family 

Rating: T for swearing

Words: 2,551

Summary: Twilight X MCU crossover. The Snap doesn’t just kill humans. What happens next?

Notes: Is this even Whump-y enough to count to Whumptober? I don’t know, everyone’s grieving. I made myself watch Endgame again and I found something useful. I know it probably feels like I wiped out a lot of characters, but there’s method to my madness. I’m desperately resisting the urge to make some obvious corrections to the MCU, and I’m pretty sure the last two chapters are going to be needlessly self-indulgent. And yes, I need a title. 

Part One here

two. survivors

What happens next?

It’s a good question, and one Alice used to be able to answer. Her predictions have… well, they haven’t stopped, but there are less. Maybe she’s not saying everything but he doesn’t press.

They stay in Forks. It’s the easiest option, really. They have resources at the Forks house - all of Jasper’s computers, Rose’s cars, Carlisle’s medication stash. And for, now, it makes sense to keep up the masquerade - the orphaned Cullen kids, in that big old house.

And Seth Clearwater. Neither of them have made more than polite inquiries about the Quileute reservation, because what can they do, really? They weren’t allowed on the land, and nothing they offer will be accepted. Seth doesn’t want to talk about it either, so they just… don’t. Not yet.

The first announcements and news reports are hard to listen to - half of all living creatures. Humans, animals, plants, sea-life… just gone. Then there are the people who survived, but died in the aftermath; the patients in surgery with the dust of their surgeons sinking into their chest cavity, the passengers on an airplane, the school bus with no driver. The news plays on, listing losses and catastrophes until he loudly asks if Seth wants to play Xbox instead.

Alice goes with them, and sits crosslegged on a recliner, watching them.

“Carlisle would have liked that,” she says suddenly, when Emmett realises the error in picking a war game - should have opted for a racing game instead.

“Liked what?” he asks, as he gets up to change the disc. Seth doesn’t say anything, playing with the recliner buttons instead.

“‘Half of all living creatures’,” she quotes. She’s been wearing one of Jasper’s t-shirts under her cardigan, and the scent of his brother is fading the longer she wears it. “Carlisle would have appreciated that. That the universe thought we were living creatures. Might have convinced Edward that we weren’t total monsters, either.”

Seth looks up at her, confused. “Why wouldn’t you be living creatures?” he asks, concentrating at the recliner tips him right back.

“We don’t breathe or age or change,” Alice says, a smirk playing around her face as Seth yelps when the entire chair begins to tip, but luckily it doesn’t fall.

“But you eat,” Seth accepts the controller Emmett passes him. “And you’ve got families. That means you still count.”

“I wish we didn’t.” Emmett doesn’t realise he’s said those words aloud until he realises Seth and Alice are both staring at him. He wants to explain that if they didn’t count, then there wouldn’t be five vases lined up on the mantel (three empty) full of dust. That he wouldn’t be sitting here playing Xbox with Seth Clearwater, and Alice wouldn’t be wearing leggings and her husband’s t-shirt, looking brittle and tired. That he wouldn’t go into their room every night, and bury his face in Rose’s clothes to keep himself from going insane.

But he doesn’t need to. They both understand - Alice sits with Seth when the boy sniffles and tries to hide it; Emmett hears Alice padding around Jasper’s office, having a conversation with thin air, questions asked to silence. If there was some loophole they could grab with both hands and exploit, he knows he and Alice and Seth would take it, humanity and life and all those upright and moral things be damned.

“Just what everyone needs,” Alice muses, leaning back and stretching like a cat. “A world where humans and animals were cut in half but the vampires weren’t.”

And she’s right. That would be a mess. The fucking end of times.

“That would be a cool movie,” Seth says absently, focused on the screen and forcing Emmett’s car off the road and into a ravine.

Alice watches them play for awhile before getting up. A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door and low voices. Charlie Swan, with Carlisle’s phone.  Emmett lets Seth win a second race, focused on the conversation Alice is having - why it took Charlie so damn long to bring the phone, how they’re holding up; his irritation at the delay it took to get Carlisle’s phone is tempered when he hears the genuine concern Charlie has for Alice. He doesn’t know much about Bella’s father, but he seems like a good guy.

Not that Alice needs to act the part - she looks broken. Most of the time he feels like he’s seeing a part of her that he shouldn’t be seeing, that the loss and grief that becomes her is somehow shameful to witness; it’d be less awkward to see her naked than to see her twisting Jasper’s t-shirt in her hands with that glassy look of hopelessness she tries to hide.

Alice feels the same about him; that Emmett without Rose is devoid of that joie de vivre, that endless good humour, the extra joke. He feels tired in his bones, deflated, and distracted with the space in his chest that Rose used to fill. He feels like an old man, when he was never finished being a young man, never made it to middle-age.

But they are trying. Especially with Seth in the house - he’s taken over the bedroom that Esme planned to give to Bella, mostly because it didn’t stink of vampires as much as any other room; and neither of them wanted to dismantle Esme’s studio or Carlisle’s office. It wasn’t really much - a mattress and boxspring, a dresser and desk. Alice had given him a laptop to use, and found some new bedding for him, and occasionally even remembered that a fourteen year old boy shouldn’t be eating pizza six nights a week, and probably needed more boundaries than they were giving him. But Alice isn’t maternal, and her attempts at forcing vegetables and a bedtime on Seth usually get forgotten within a day or two.

Charlie Swan leaves, and he listens as Alice puts Carlisle’s phone into his vase, and then he focuses on the game so that Seth doesn’t think he’s letting him win because of pity or anything.

—

It’s not until late summer than people start bothering them. Parents of classmates who suddenly don’t have any children of their own to worry over. Colleagues and acquaintances who feel some kind of lingering responsibility. Busy-bodies, usually a part of some self-aggrandising self-appointed community group butting into everyone’s grief.

Alice ignores the early attempts to interfere, to crack open both the metaphorical and literal door for anyone who isn’t Charlie Swan. She’s taken to doing the oddest tasks, but Emmett doesn’t ask. At the moment, she’s painting every single door in the house with a swirling pattern of flowers that is tiny and detailed and fills up the day. Esme would have a conniption if she saw her lovely doors like this (he remembers when Alice and Jasper first arrived, and her art projects ran afoul of Esme - she had apologised and channeled that manic energy into embroidery instead; there’s a pair of unspeakably ugly curtains hanging in the Vermont house from one panicked week when Jasper went off with Peter and Charlotte).

Then the harassment starts - both her and him, since he’s apparently considered her ‘guardian’. Alice hangs up the phone numerous times wordlessly before being so outstandingly rude to Mrs Newton that both he and Seth stare at her before Emmett remembers he’s actually supposed to be in charge - as far as the rest of the town knows, at least - and calls to deter any more visits or phone calls or casseroles because Alice isn’t well and the disruptions are upsetting her.

If Carlisle or Esme were here, they’d think to send Mrs Newton flowers or something as an apology, but they aren’t, and no one can get Alice to apologise when she doesn’t want to, and Seth confided in him that she’s crying when he’s hiding in the garage and Seth is totally at a loss over what to do about a crying girl that isn’t Leah, so maybe they’ll just leave it at that. Give the town something new to gossip about.

But it does spark sudden realisation in both Cullens about a topic that has been long forgotten - school. Alice and Emmett have both graduated, but Seth had not. Seth had another four glorious years in high school, even if the Res school is down to double digits of enrolments, and probably won’t even run every weekday.

Seth whines and begs and negotiates until Alice stamps her foot and demands to know what Sue Clearwater would say and that makes Seth all small and miserable, and Alice hates herself and Emmett solves the problem by making a large donation through one of their anonymous charities to the Res school so that Seth can at least do online learning, and apparently that’s a huge deal that is on the local news, and that makes Alice and Seth laugh because only Emmett would stop a teenage boy’s whining by revolutionising a tribe’s educational provisions with a cheque large enough to sustain a small city for a year.

But it’s good help - it means the children who suddenly have no parents and have to raise siblings can still study; it means that half-empty classrooms don’t necessarily mean half-empty classes; it also means that other tribes with larger losses and no way of schooling are invited to join them.

That’s one good thing they’ve managed.

He also fixed the backdoor as good as new, so it should be two, but he’s pretty sure that doesn’t count now that Alice has painted flowers blooming and dying all over it.

At some point they both bully Seth into going home again, to get his own stuff - clothes and bedding and photos and all those things you look for when you’re in a house that isn’t yours. He yells at them, they yell at him, and he storms off. But now there’s a photo of him with his parents and sister on his dresser, and a bunch of books crowding his desk, and the world’s most beat-up DS under his pillow. There are more photos, somewhere - Emmett knows that because Alice knows where they are and then one day there are two framed photos joining the vases on the mantle - one of Sue and Harry Clearwater on their wedding day, and one of Leah laughing. Neither of them knows what happened to Sue or Leah precisely on that day, but Seth doesn’t bring the ashes with him, so they don’t ask.

Summer folds into fall, and what’s left of Esme’s gardens wither up. Charlie Swan checks on them every few weeks, sounding tired. There’s a lot of work for him right now - mostly community and social issues, like scared and orphaned children hiding, people struggling with money, grief, religion. There’s been some shortages of food, since there’s less being grown, less people to process and package and ship it, and a little town hours outside of Seattle is not a priority to whomever is deciding where to send a milk delivery.

They order Seth’s food from high-end places online that deliver them quickly and quietly; Alice starts choosing long-life and bulk items, and no one needs to ask because it’s obvious things will get worse before they get better. Seth holds a pretty intense grudge against the powdered strawberry milk, though.

But food shortages are the least of their worries, as Alice uses the dining room wall to start taking nonsensical notes, and Emmett’s heard enough stories to know that losing a mate can be… well, he’s not having much fun, but the very last thing he needs is to wrangle Alice if she’s lost her mind. Dead or not, he knows he could never lay a hand on her even if she did go nuts out of love for his family, out of respect for Jasper, and out of this funny bond they’ve somehow formed, being the last ones left.

The notes turn into lists, lists of everyone they’ve ever known, in her swirling handwriting. Even people they know are gone, like Bella, goes on the list.

Then she starts striking out names, like she’s slashing with a knife - Carlisle, Esme, Jasper, Rosalie, Edward, Bella, Charlie, Sue, Leah, Sam, Jacob, Paul… Slash, slash, slash.

Then it starts getting interesting. Peter and Charlotte are gone, but so are half the goddamned Volturi (Alice smirks as she crosses out Caius, Jane, Alec, Dimitri because imagining Aro on his throne with grief-mad Marcus and only the minions is a pretty picture indeed). Carmen and Tanya have survived, but Kate, Irina, and Eleazer are gone. Garrett is alive, but Randall and Mary aren’t. J Jenks didn’t make it either, which makes things… difficult.

Alice scowls darkly as she scratches out Maria’s name, and Emmett wonders if it’s because she didn’t get to do the honours of destroying the Mexican harpy herself. Or because wherever Jasper is now, so is Maria, and Alice is left behind.

Finally, she is done, and the list is nearly balanced in living and dead. Alice’s left eye twitches, and whatever she’s thinking she doesn’t say as she stands up.

“Alaska and then Mexico, then,” she says to him, and he gives her the Look that he gives her and Edward and Jasper every time one of them forgets that not everyone has a gift and some of them have to use their words.

“We need to check on Carmen and Tanya; I think they need us,” Alice explains, still examining the list. “I saw that we need to go. And then we’re going down to Mexico.”

“Maria’s dead,” he gestures at her list, and Seth wanders in stuffing his face with Pringles, and turns white at the sight of Esme’s freshly defaced walls; evidently Motherly Wrath is something universal across all of the species.

“Maria’s dead, and left behind a bunch of fresh newborns,” Alice sounds tired. “There’s no one left for clean up, Em, no one who knows. And it will be bad if we don’t step in soon.”

There might be something cathartic in that for Alice, undoing Maria’s life’s work. Maria’s lands weren’t exactly in the wealthiest or most populated lands these days - Jasper kept a secret map that wasn’t at all a secret - and if going down there and taking off a few heads saves a mother or father or child, then maybe it’s worth the hassle.

“Fine. Alaska and Mexico,” he agrees, and Seth cheers.

“Road-trip!” he declares around a mouthful of chips. Alice rolls her eyes.

“I’ll make you up a passport,” she says, not even bothering to argue with the younger boy that he’ll be joining them. “We’ll take the Jeep, Em - Rose just finished it.”

The words hang in the air for a second, and he nods in agreement. There might be something in that, taking the last gift-gesture-offering Rose ever did for him on their End-of-the-World Road Trip. Alice can rip the heads off newborns, he can drive around in the SUV his wife carefully and lovingly put together just to please him, and maybe he’ll buy Seth a beer in Tijuana.

Closest thing they’ll ever get to therapy, he supposes.

#my fic: jar of hearts #alice cullen #emmett cullen #seth clearwater #twilight fic #i should check the jalice prompts again for ch 3 #but is this crossovery enough for a crossover? #like we're aggressively not talking about the avengers yet #we'll get there #i promise the roadtrip isn't just an excuse to run into captain america buying a milkshake or something #there is plot and purpose #we are above that sort of cloying and anemic meet cute #in this fic at least #others not so much

[yeeterparkersblog]

Last Days | PART 1

Pairing: 6 Underground! Four/Billy x reader

Word Count: 6.1 k 

Warnings: Stealing is bad, kids; Sugar baby/daddy jokes; Mentions of stripping 

Summary: To everyone else, he was a suave young man in a gang of thieves, someone they would rather not get tangled up with. To you, he was a cheeky bastard who wouldn’t get out of your hair and most of all, a rival thief. But one day, Billy decides to reach out to you, proposing that you work together.

A/N: Right. Hello. This is my first fic for the Ben/Borhap fandom. If it sucks I sincerely apologize from the bottom of my cavity. So this story is not taking place during the events of 6 Underground, its more of a prequel to the movie. So basically there might be some foreshadowing, but there are no direct relationships to the movie. Also this fic time jumps a lot, so I hope you guys can keep track of it.

This fic is dedicated to @benhardyisdaddy​ . Faith, you are amazing! No more than a week after 6 underground came out, Must Be A Dream was up and posted. Imagine the amount of dedication and hard work that you give. Congrats on 3k, you deserve all of it.

The Pasteque Necklace. An emerald necklace worth almost 3 million, unveiled at the National Museum 2 months ago, and soon to be yours.

You’ve already knocked out the three guards making their rounds in the museum. Easy enough. And now comes the fun part. You rounded the corner into the large hallway that would lead you to your treasure. You wasted no time at all. You quickly made your way to the showcase room, careful to shoot out any security cameras with a silenced gun.

After the necklace had first been revealed on TV, you went straight into planning mode. Now you knew there was an electric field around the pedestal. It took you time to assemble the proper apparatus that could deactivate the filed. It hadn’t been cheap either. You’ve spent so much time and resources on this heist, and after two months, your hard work could finally bear its fruit.

You jogged towards the pedestal and you were prepared to take out the gadgets, but then as your neared it, you quickly realized you didn’t need it at all. The electric field had already gone, the velvet box had already been opened, and the necklace!? Well! It had already been taken away.

In its place, stuck neatly onto the smooth velvet box, was a small sticky note. Your lips snarled with annoyance. You had a feeling you knew who’d done this.

You snatched the note from the box, ready to get this over with. And sure enough…

“i told you i’d beat you to it  -B” 

—

“You absolute wanker!” you fumed, snatching away the bottle of beer he had been drinking. You slid into the booth opposite him and downed the rest of his drink. “Have you pawned it off already, you cunt?!”

He threw his hands up innocently. “Hello to you too,” He straightened up in his seat and beamed at you. Christ, he was enjoying this a bit too much. “Fancy seeing you here, then.”

“Please!” I spat. “You know I work here!”

“Yeah, shouldn’t it be your shift right about now?”

“Well I took the day off. Thought I wouldn’t need the extra money.” You leaned in, giving him a wicked scowl. “But of course you know all that, don’t you?”

“You seem like you’re in a bad mood” He pointed out. “Let’s have a drink. My treat! I’ve recently come into quite a bit of money.” And the fucker winked cheekily at me.

You groan exasperatedly. You fell against the seat and ran your hands through your hair, defeated. You probably invested a thousand pounds or so into this heist, thinking you’d get millions in return. But nah, all you get to do is to beg your manager for extra shifts.

Your hands were covering your face, slightly muffling your words.

“Out of all the heists that you could have hijacked-”

“Hey you were the one who challenged me.”

True. You really should know better than to wager your most important heist. The smug blonde had more experience than you had, with his little pack of trapeze thieves.

“Yeah?” You shot up straight. “You had help. That little gang of yours.”

“Oh no I did it alone. Like last time.” You didn’t think his face could get more pompous. You wanted to wipe that shit-eating smile off his face. “So this is on you, yeah?”

Ugh. ‘Last time’. It was what had started this whole thing in the first place.

—

3 MONTHS AGO

It was your first big heist. After years of petty theft, pickpocketing and larceny, you wanted something more challenging. A lot more challenging.

Go big or go home, you went for The Blasé. A diamond ring from 15th century Germany. The Blasé will set you up quite nicely.

Standing at the very end of the large hallway, you could see it from here already.

The Blasé, its large gem glittering in its glass case. The moonlight hit it through the glass ceiling overhead, and the diamond seemed to beckon you in with its shine.

Now you weren’t daft. You knew there were additional security measures set in the glass case. If you were to smash the glass and just snatch the ring away, that wouldn’t do. That would just set off the weight sensor below, and blaring alarms that would alert the police of your presence immediately after. You’d rather do this a bit more discreetly.

You chuckled, remembering how proudly the museum director had bragged about having attained the ring. “The Blasé is in very safe hands. Our security will make sure of it. No lowly thief would get their hands on the jewel,” he had said to the interviewer. “Hundred percent guarantee.”

You scoffed. Bet you wish you didn’t boast about the weight sensors now huh, Mister big shot Director?

You took out a small glass cutter, but before you could make a move, someone cleared his throat behind you. You whipped around and pointed the glass cutter at the man. But instead of a burly security guard whose knock-out gas had worn off, you were met with a fit young blond, who was staring at you intensely with the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen.

You froze in place, not really knowing how to act. How would you?

Now he was definitely good-looking. If this were anywhere else, say a café, you’d make a move. But no, you were trying to steal a 2-million-pound ring here. And how would you know that someone would be stealing the same thing you wanted to steal?! And on the very same date and time too?! And on your first big heist. What were the fucking chances?

“How cute.” The blond chuckled, pointing at the mask around your eyes. He took your mask off faster than you could react. “You know you don’t need this if you’ve already turned off the security feed?”

“Hey give it back…” It came out more of a plead than a command. You mentally cringed at how you sounded. But what’s more was that the man was acting so casual, as if this was a friendly conversation and not a crime taking place.

The man squinted his eyes and took a closer look at you, and you couldn’t help but divert your gaze. His eyes suddenly glinted with recognition.

“Hey you’re that girl from that pub!” he laughed. “When I saw the knocked-out guards up front, I knew someone was in here. But I didn’t know it was the waitress from Ritter’s Bar.”

You rolled your eyes. A chat wasn’t what you came for. You turned your attention back to the case, getting ready to slice it with your glass cutter. However, the man put a hand out to block you.

“There’s no need for that, love. I have a more efficient way.” He gave you a sweet smile.

In one swift move, he had smashed the glass case to pieces. The case shattered with a deafening clash and fell to the ground in tiny fragments. He had grabbed the ring and sure enough, the alarms came blaring.

“Shit! What did you do?!” You scolded. “We gotta go NOW!”

“I couldn’t agree more!” He grabbed your wrist and dragged you to wall, pointing up at the tiny window high above it. What the hell was he trying to pull?

And to your surprise, he put the ring on and started to climb up the wall like fuckin’ Spiderman. He got to the window and broke out.

“You arsehole! What am I supposed to do?!” I screamed at him. The front gate has definitely gone to lockdown and you were hearing sirens in the background. He was your only way out. 

“I have a name, you know? It’s Billy.” He threw down a rope. “I didn’t quite catch yours?”

“Oh sod off!” You pulled yourself up the rope. “Give me back the ring!”

“Sorry no can do. If you’re gonna be like this, I’m going to have to let you go, literally.” He dared to wink at you. You were only halfway up the wall when the rope suddenly went loose. You grabbed yourself onto a ledge before you could fall back onto the ground. You looked up to the window to see him smiling at you.

“But if I ever change my mind about the ring, I’ll know where to find you.” And with that he ran away. All that stared back at you was the moon in the night sky.

Godammit.

You used the ledge to push yourself up to the window and got out. You looked around and saw that he did in fact give you back something. But of course it wasn’t the ring, it was your ‘cute’ mask.

“JESUS CHRIST, BILLY!” You groaned in frustration. You couldn’t do anything else after that, the cops had come at that second and you had to flee before your night could get any worse.

ONE MONTH AFTER THE RING HEIST

Ritter’s Bar. Not exactly the best job in the world. Not exactly in the best part of town either. No scratch that. Civilians would actively avoid this part of town. The only people here are your own. Like a twisted and tight-knit community of thieves.

“Let me guess, Meg.” You said to a regular sitting down at the bar. “Whiskey, neat.” She gave you a small smile and you poured out some liquor for her. Just as you were setting down the shot glass, a blur of blond passed by you.

Your eyes darted to the image. It was him! Billy! The man who stole your fucking ring!

You watched him as he headed for one of the booths at the very back. He turned back and gave you a little wave. A little smirk to indicate that he knew you were watching him. You involuntarily let out a low growl of anger.

“You can let go of my glass now.” You looked down to see that your hands had gripped tightly around Meg’s glass, knuckles white. You promptly apologized, giving her the drink. “But hey. Blondie, huh?”

“What?”

“You were looking at the blond.” She shrugged. “He’s easy on the eyes but I wouldn’t do anything about it. His trapeze friends are fucking feral. Don’t trust them one bit.”

‘I’m all ears.”

She told you a little bit more about Billy and his gang. You would listen to her, but you could feel Billy’s gaze prickling the side of your neck.

You knew he was here to talk to you. Every time you took a glance at him, he would be staring right back. But he wasn’t initiating the conversation. He was waiting for you to give in. You weren’t going to. But then your manager saw him there sitting for 30 minutes without ordering anything and he ushered you over there.

“Order something or get out.” You folded your arms. “Dipshit.”

Billy smiled at you. “I’ll order a beer if you sit down with me, love.”

“Get out.” You started to walk away but he held you back by your wrist.

“Okay alright.” He pursed his lips and gave you a twenty. “I’ll buy a beer. But I want to talk to you, alright? It’s about the ring.”

You glared daggers at him, trying to see if he was just playing if you. Maybe he’s finally come to his senses and has decided to give you ring.

“Fine.” You said. “Hold on.”

You came back with a warm bottle of beer and sat down, pocketing the change. It was the least he could do for you. You shoved the bottle towards him. “Well?”

He shot you a look before he started talking. “Look I’m very sorry to have left you behind like that. I’m glad you got out fine, yeah?”

“Good, thanks.” You mumbled. It was nice, but not quite what you wanted to hear. “So I’ll be taking the ring now.”

“W-What? No?!” Billy looked almost baffled. “I already pawned it off! Where do you think the money for this disgustingly warm beer came from? And the ring is rightfully mine, by the way.”

“Am I to believe you’re just here to apologize?”

“Um. Yeah?! I’m not giving you the bloody ring!”

You scoffed. “It should be mine. I was there first.”

“That’s exactly what a child AND a bad thief would say.”

“I’m not a bad thief.” You shot back. “YOU just happened to be there!”

“Oh so you admit I’m a better thief then?”

“Wha- NO!” You were fuming. Your face was probably as red as a tomato by now.

The chattering of the TV caught your attention. And there it was. The Pasteque. Just brought in from France, and unveiled at the National Museum right now. An idea popped into your head.

“I’ll prove it to you, then!” You shot up, slamming down on the table. “Two months from now, I’ll have stolen something worth even more than the stupid Blasé!”

“I’ll just beat you to it.” He said with an air of confidence.

“Oh please, you don’t even know what I’m stealing!”

You stormed off before Billy could get another word in. But little did you know, Billy had noticed you darting your eyes towards the TV, and connected the dots.

“I’ll see you in two months then.” He chuckled.

—

PRESENT DAY

“Wanker.” You muttered.

“I believe you’ve already said that.” Billy shrugged. “Now, care to admit who’s the better thief? We’ve got an obvious answer.”

“Yeah yeah. It’s you. I’d buy you a beer but you’ve possibly left me broke.” You looked up at him with tired eyes. You were slightly surprised when you were met with worried ones.

“Hey I’m really sorry. Honest.” He clasped one of your hands. You were startled but you didn’t pull away. Yet. “I can help you if you want. How much do you need?”

“Maybe this isn’t cut out for me.” You pulled away from his grasp. “A few things from the supermarket or wallets from pockets? Sure. Jewelry worth millions?” You gave Billy a shrug. “Perhaps not.”

You tried to take another sip from Billy’s bottle but then you remembered it was empty.

“There’s a strip club a few blocks away.” You continued. “Maybe I could get a job there when I don’t have shifts here. I’ve been told I have ‘nice tits’ by some of the customers. I’d bet some rich old white dudes wouldn’t mind throwing some money at them.”

Billy raised his brows, pausing a second before shaking his head frantically.

“As much as I would hate to disappoint rich old white dudes. I think I have a better solution.”

“Better than having strangers grope my arse?”

“(Y/N)… you could work with me.”

It took you a second. “I’m sorry?”

“Honest, (Y/N). I think we’ll work well together.”

You scoffed, waving your hands about. “I thought you had your theatre troupe.” He rolled his eyes. “And I thought I wAsN’t a GoOD EnOuGH ThiEF.”

“Right first of all, it’s not a theatre troupe. Second, I sometimes do work alone. Like the ring and necklace, as you should know.” Now you rolled your eyes. “Third. How about we do a test drive?”

You shot him a questioning look.

“We can try working together on one heist first. See how it works out. And if we pull it off and you think we’re good together,” He shrugged. “Maybe we can do it again.”

Your fingers fiddled nervously with the bottle. The offer did sound tempting. It’d be nice to have a partner in crime. And it would be nice if the things you wanted to steal didn’t get stolen first.

“Well how do I know I can trust you?” You glared at him.

“See I knew you would say that. That’s why I didn’t pawn off the entire necklace.”

…What?

He took out a small box from his pocket and slid it across the table to you. “Consider it a peace offering.”

You accepted the box warily and opened it. Oh…wow.

“These earrings are gorgeous.” You laughed. The earrings were a pair of studs, with beautiful little emeralds on them. “I’ll assume the emeralds are from the Pasteque?”

“The very same.” He gave you a contagious smiles. How cute. “It was the least I could do. You could even wear them to the test drive if you’d like. That is, if you agree to do it.”

You held the earrings up to eye level. “Why would I wear such bling to a heist? Wouldn’t want to draw attention.”

“This time it’s to blend in.” He explained. “There’s going to be a gala at a country club down south in a month. Snobby rich trophy wives will be waltzing around with millions around their necks.”

You held the earrings up to Billy’s eyes and you couldn’t help but notice they were the same brilliant green.

“I think they’ll notice if we steal it from right under their noses, Billy.”

“That’s not the entire idea. But, I won’t go into detail until you’ve agreed. And I understand you’ll need to time to think this through. If you agree, we’ll get right into it.” He stood up from his booth and brushed himself down. “I’ll be back tomorrow for your answer, yeah?”

He stuck out his hand. He looked at you expectantly, his own pair of emeralds looking back at you. You clasped his hand with both of yours, as he did moments ago and returned his smile.

“No need. I’m in.”

The corners of his lips hinted at a smile. “I’ll pick you up after your shift tomorrow.” He paused to give me a wink I knew so well. “Feel free to quit.”

—

THE NEXT DAY

“So what’s the plan?” You slammed the car door shut, fastening your seat belt. “Better have a 100 percent success rate if you had me quit my job.”

“There’s always a certain risk involved, (Y/N).” Billy put the car into the drive. “If we succeed, we’ll be living lavishly for quite a long time. If not, then I guess you’re left to fend for yourself then. I’m not doing charity work.”

Your head snapped towards him so quickly you swore you heard a crack. “You shithead!” You took a jab at his shoulder. “I don’t have a job anymore. And I can’t go back to Ritter’s.” You sunk down into your seat in embarrassment. “Certainly not after what I’d said. And I don’t have money now! Imagine unemployment.”

“Didn’t you mention that stripper job yesterday?” He chuckled as he swatted and dodged at your feeble attempts to jab him again. “But look on the bright side. The necklace we’re stealing is gonna be enough to free you of your troubles.”

“Easy for you to say. You have money from the Blasé ring to hold on to.” He gave you a sideway glance that you brushed off. “Wait. Necklace? As in singular?”

He nodded. “Just the one.” He paused to think. ‘Well, two necklaces. But we only get to keep the one.”

“A bit stingy, innit?”

“Hey trust me a bit here! Besides you said it yourself. They’re going to notice if we steal it from right under their noses.”

“I’m still not aware of the plan.”

“Patience, love. I said I’ll explain it at my place.”

“I wasn’t aware of that either.”

“Oh pipe down, we’re here!’

He pulled into a small driveway. You took a look at the house while you stepped out of the car. Not the prettiest house, but certainly better than your apartment. You still felt the need to insult him, though.

“You couldn’t get yourself a better crackhouse with all the money you got from the jewelry?” You sassed, crossing your arms.

“Christ! You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“You’re bloody right I’m not.”

“Oh just get in the house!”

—

“So basically the whole reason the gala is happening is because of one necklace.” Billy explained. On his laptop, he looked up the country club’s website, pulling up an article on said necklace. “One of the country club members recently got his hands on an artifact. Apparently the necklace used to belong to a Russian Czar. ‘S called The Ruza”

“I assume he wants to show it off to his snooty friends?”

“Like a little boy with a brand new toy train.”

With a little more digging and scrolling, Billy finally found a picture of the necklace.

“Oh I see why you’d gone for this one.” You pulled the laptop closer, squinting your eyes at the small picture. “It’s blurry. But I can definitely see the gold.”

“It’s probably blurry on purpose.” Billy said. “Rich fucks trying to get more hype for the reveal.”

“Right so I believe this is the necklace we’re keeping?” He nods. “What about the other one. What else are we stealing?”

“Oh any piece of jewelry, really. But it needs to be a piece whose absence will be noticed when it goes missing.” You look at him questioningly, trying to get him to elaborate. He catches your look and sighs.

“Fine. You’ve ever watched Ocean’s 8?”

You tried to fight back a grin by fiddling with your cup. You weren’t looking at him but you were sure he was slightly red. “Yeah, sure.”

“Oh don’t laugh. Helena Bonham Carter was brilliant in it.”

“Bloody brilliant.” You chuckled. “But I get understand the plan.”

“Recite it to me.”

“Get into the gala. Steal someone’s bling. There’s an evacuation. And when everyone’s out, you perform gymnastics and steal the Ruza.” You shrugged.

“Right. Let’s get to work.”

-

A/N: Okay so the next few scenes are like a montage. It is not taking place on the same day. It is taking place during the days leading up to the heist. So basically it’s happening over a month long period. I hope you understand what I just said lol. I’m not really good at explaining things? Oops

-

“What about the funding.” You asked. “I haven’t got any money. I’m pretty sure banks won’t lend us any either.”

“I’ll use the money I got from the Pasteque.”

“You’d really do that? That’s your money.”

“I’ll just consider it an investment.” He thought out loud. “For an even better necklace. And for your sake too.”

You smiled to yourself.

-

“We’ll have to dress the part, won’t we?” Billy asked. “Snobby gala and all.”

“Does that mean I get to take you shopping?” You smirked. “Probably get you some fancy shoes and all.”

“Oh I think I can choose for myself, thanks.” He’d interrupted before you could get anymore ideas. “And don’t you forget about the earrings.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

-

“Coffee break?” You asked, offering him a cup.

“Thanks.” He graciously accepted, sitting down next to you. “Hey can I ask. Why are you in so much debt?”

You sipped from your cup. “Went to uni so, student loans.”

“Ah, understandable.” He put down his cup. “But why were you working in a bar? You could have been working in something in your field.”

“I majored in accounting and graduated with good enough grades.” You said nonchalantly. “Really thought I’d get hired immediately. How naïve of me.” You scoffed.

“Doesn’t explain why you ended up being a bartender.”

“I was broke. Didn’t have any family to ask for money too.” You swirled the coffee in your cup. “Tried stealing food at a store but the owner had me fucking arrested. Then no firm wanted to hire me at all because of that little record.”

“I’m sorry.” He gave your shoulder a friendly tap. “Well sucks on them right? Now you get to be a millionaire.”

You let out a light-hearted laugh. “I’m not sad about it. I don’t regret at all, really. I’m glad I’m plotting a heist, and not working 9 to 5 for the rest of my life.”

“I’m glad too.”

-

“Hey what’s wrong?” You nudged his knee with your heel.

The two of you were on his couch with you taking up most of the space. You were laying down and had your legs sat on Billy’s lap who was sitting at the other end. Billy was staring at phone, troubled. Seconds ago, he had been fine before receiving a text.

“Oh get your feet out of my face!” He playfully swatted at them, putting on a smile.

You put away the floor plan you were observing and sat up next to him. “Don’t try to change the subject. What’s wrong?” He opened his mouth to object it but you interrupted him before he could. “I can see it on your face. It’s quite obvious.”

“Right.” He sighed and threw his phone into the couch. “Remember my ‘trapeze friends’?” You nodded. “Well they just completed a heist that I helped plan a few months back. And they said that I’m not getting my share because I didn’t actually do anything.”

He threw his hands up in a rage, standing abruptly from the couch. “Didn’t do anything?! I was the one who got the blueprints and shit! I came up with the heist too!” He massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to calm down.

“Why didn’t you go?” You asked. But you think you knew the answer.

“(Y/N), the two of us only had one month to plan this out. It demanded my full attention if we wanted it to succeed.”

“Oh, Billy.”

“But the other heist was done. The only thing left was the execution. They said they were fine without me. They said it’d be okay and I’d get a small share for helping out.” He crossed his arms, the veins in his head were prominent with anger. “Apparently not.”

“Billy I’m so sorry. If I had known about the other heist, I wouldn’t hav-”

“Hey it’s alright don’t apologize.” His face had softened up looking at you. “It’s not your fault. I just didn’t think they’d cut my share. Alright, look.”

He grabbed his phone. “I’m gonna talk to them. Make sure there’s no bad blood.” He headed for the kitchen to talk in private. “Don’t worry, alright?” You heard him call out.

His words had put you at ease for a while, but you couldn’t help but feel worried for him. The fact that his so called ‘team’ would cut him off so willingly was unnerving.

You grabbed the floor plan you had put down earlier and continued your study. Billy had already suffered a loss helping you, might as well make sure it’s worth it.

-

“I need money.” You nudged his shoulder.

“Who am I? Your sugar daddy?” He didn’t bother to peel his eyes from his phone. “If food’s what you want, I already bought lunch. It’s on the table right there.” He vaguely waved in the direction of the kitchen.

You rolled your eyes. Oh well, if he’s gonna be like this.

You propped yourself in front of him, pouting and giving him the biggest puppy eyes. “Yes, daddy. I need money for a new dress and shoes.” Oh dear Lord this was killing you on the inside. “So you can show me off at the gala. Please, daddy?” That caught his attention.

“W-What?” He finally looked up from his phone to you with widened eyes. “Are… are you? Is this actually happening?” To your amusement, his voice was choked up and he had gone red.

Your face did a 180 and you scoffed. “I need money, you horny cunt!” You doubled back with laughter and slapped him on his shoulder. “God! How long haven’t you been shagged?!” You gripped your stomach in pain from the laughter, ignoring his mumbled protests. He curled into a fetal position with his hands over his face. If it was possible, he was even redder.

“Let’s never talk about this.” He sighed. You watched as he shifted awkwardly into the couch, desperately trying to hide his front from you. Why would he- oh. OH!

“Bloody hell!” You stood up, your fit of laughter returning immediately. “Did I give you a bo-”

“I SAID DON’T TALK ABOUT IT!”

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing once more, dropping on the ground with hysterics. He pushed himself off the couch and marched himself to a room, coming back with a few wads of cash.

“Take it and go. I’ll even give you extra for your silence.” He shoved the money into your hands without looking at you. You giggled, despite your best efforts to hold it in. You settled for a cheeky grin when he shot you a dirty look. “Can you go already?”

“Right, fine.” You started to walk away. But, oh what the hell.

You couldn’t help but turn back with a smile, blowing a kiss in his direction.

“Thank you, da-.”

“OH, PISS OFF!”

-

Tomorrow would be the heist you had been preparing for. Everything was already prepared and gone over a billion times. You could recite every detail of the plan word-by-word without an error. And since everything was ready, Billy had given you the day off. A possible ‘last day’, he had said.

“The day before a heist, I’d do something I’ve always wanted to do but never did.” You remembered him saying. “I’d have that ‘last day’, you know, in case something goes wrong, or I get caught by the pigs the next day.”

It was your first day to yourself in weeks, you could do anything! You could have slept in. You could have gone out. You could have had that ‘last day’ Billy was talking about.

But instead you were where you’d been for the last month. You didn’t know what brought you here. You had no legitimate reason to be here. You stared at Billy’s front door, unsure whether you should knock or not.

“Christ.” You mumbled to yourself. “What am I doing?”

Just as you were about to turn and leave, the doorknob twisted open and out stepped Billy. The car keys in his hands jingled when he hastily put on his coat, still not noticing you standing there.

Oh well, too late now. You cleared your throat.

“Heading somewhere, then?”

Billy jumped and whipped his head to you. “(Y/N)!” He proceeded to stutter, the words coming out of his mouth barely intelligible. He looked like a deer in headlights, caught off guard. “What are you doing here? We uh… had the day off.”

I gave him a look that mirrored his own- deer in headlights. “Well I just … I um.” You adjusted the strip of your bag uncomfortably. You could feel his piercing green eyes on you.

“I had questions about the plan?” You looked up to see him confused. Yeah, you weren’t convinced yourself, either. “But I can see that you’re going out so I’ll just… go?”

“Wait no.” He gripped you by your wrist. “I was actually going to see…”

He trailed off when you looked at him. He put his hands back into his pockets awkwardly, clearing his throat. “I was going to see a movie. Do you want to come?”

“Oh I don’t really fancy a movie right now.” You mumbled. “Sorry.”

“Oh okay.” He caught his bottom lip between his teeth. “How about coffee? You said you had questions about the plan?”

“Oh I um. I just thought of the answer, so.” You cringed inwardly, unable to bring yourself to look at him. You never really had questions in the first place. “I’ll just go. Wouldn’t want to disrupt your ‘last day’, right?”

You had only made it to the sidewalk when he called out your name. You left out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“How about a ride back to your place then?”

You spun around and were met with a small smile. Billy fiddled with his car keys, expecting your answer.

“Alright.” You smiled back.

—

HEIST DAY (yay!)

You stared at yourself in the mirror, smoothing down any wrinkle in your dress, or any stray strand of hair.          

The bright emerald dress was simple yet it had a dash of elegance to it. It had no lace or complicated designs. The silk dress hugged your torso and cascaded down smoothly. The plunging neckline and the slit along the dress brought a teasing element to it, leaving just a right amount to the imagination.

Your hair was tied up, showing off your neck and of course…

“How could I ever forget you?” You picked up the velvet box, admiring the emerald studs Billy gave you. To tell the truth, the only reason you chose this dress was because of the earrings. They matched perfectly.

You smirked as you put them on. It didn’t hurt that the dress matched Billy’s eyes too.

Just when you were finishing up on your makeup, there was a knock at your door. Right on time. As you made your way, you impulsively smoothed down your dress.

God, why were you such an anxious mess? This wasn’t senior year prom.

You shook off the oncoming jitters and opened the door.

“Hey.”

“HI!”

Your response came out a bit more enthusiastically than you had hope. But to good reason. You discreetly checked him out, head to toe. Impeccably dashing and smart, he pulled off that white tux effortlessly. His hair slightly slicked back and a lazy smile present on his face. You suppressed the butterflies that were fluttering about in your gut.

“You look g-”

“Ready to go, then?” He cut you off, pointing at his watch.

Your face fell. Why do you care what he thinks? You roll your eyes, grabbing your coat before stepping out and locking the door behind you. You don’t care. You don’t care. You don’t ca-

“You look beautiful, (Y/N).”

There it was.

A grin involuntarily made its place on your lips. “Thank you.” You hid your face, saying it nonchalantly as if it wasn’t bothering you for the past minute.

You suddenly hear him laugh. “Is that what you wanted to hear?” Your grin dropped. “Is that why you’re all moody? That I didn’t compliment you?”

You shoved him back, the blush on your face now of embarrassment. “Dickhead.” You muttered, walking hurriedly towards the elevator before he could make another comment.

“No hey (Y/N)-”

“Shh!” You pressed on the down button of the elevator, impatient. You hear him make his way towards you.

“(Y/N), I’m-”

“SHH!” You hushed him louder. You frantically pushed the down button. Come on come on come on.

Ding!

Christ, finally. You step into the elevator, now repeatedly pushing on the ‘close’ button while maintaining direct eye contact with him.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” You hear him mutter. He runs towards you, just barely making it in before the doors close. You lean against the banister and glared at him with crossed arms.

“Watch your mouth next time.”

“Sorry.” He mumbled out, scratching the back of his neck. He made his way beside you, leaning on the banister as well. You chose to stare at your shoes. The two of you stood in silence, only the occasional ding of the elevator cutting in.

It was times like this you wish you had rented a room on the lower levels.

“(Y/N).” You hesitantly turn your head to him, but he points at the elevator doors instead, a silent instruction to look at them.

You see both of your own reflections staring back. He had his head against the wall, but he was without a doubt, looking at your mirrored image.

“See all that?” He pointed at your reflection. “I’d be a fool to not notice how good those earrings look on you.”

You sputter out a laugh, finally filling out the awkward atmosphere. You manage to muster a grin and look into his eyes. “Thanks, my sugar daddy got them for me.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “He has nice taste.” You reply with a hearty laugh. “Suppose he paid for those too.” He gestured at your dress and shoes.

“I’d say it’s money well spent.” You mockingly give him a twirl, showing off the dress. “So generous of him.”

“He’s a lucky man.” A playful smile poked at his lips.

And the two of you shared a laugh, glad to diffuse the tension, even if it was just for a while.

But it was short-lived.

The elevator doors finally opened with a final ding! And it rang like a bell to bring you back down to earth. To remind you there was a necklace made out of £5,000,000 waiting for you.

The two of you regained your composure, stepping out of the elevator. Your heads turn towards the sleek BMW that Billy rented just fort the occasion.

Beside you, Billy takes out the car keys. “Well let’s get to it then.”

A/N: I hope that didn’t suck, for any of ya’ll who made it to the end. Also would anyone read a Bucky Barnes fic if I wrote one.

#ben hardy #6 underground #billy x reader #6u!four x reader #queen #6u!Billy x reader #ben!roger taylor #ben!roger x reader #Ben Jones #this is so bad I'm so sorry

[bubmyg]

trophy - myg

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre/warnings: lawyer!au, established relationship, fluff, angst but it’s not really related to the couple, implications of misogyny/sexism, angry yoongi is a warning right?, ft intern jeongguk, also ft yoongi’s ass in dress pants

word count:  2,440

summary: in which you hold your own against yoongi’s clients or i won’t ask again. leave.

Somewhere between shoving earrings through weeping, pierced skin, swiping the wrong color to your lips, and centering the chain of a necklace, a disconnected pair of hands worked at the cool zipper fitting to your spine with each ascending link, lips connected to those hands pressing to your shoulder while a soft voice told the cusp of your ear you’re beautiful. 

You shared the sentiment when you routinely looped a tie, classic black, around Yoongi’s neck, letting him knot it but taking the extra step to straighten it on his throat (a step you normally avoided in the mornings when the people he’d be interacting with were limited to Jeongguk and an elderly landlord with a difficult tenant in his apartment complex), lips landing on the heated apple of his cheek to profess, “Handsome.”

And when he turned in the bathroom mirror, your eyes traveled to the generous stretch of fabric on his ass, “Is this how you woo all your clients?”

He had to lift on his toes to peer closer in the mirror anyway, a teasing lift of his eyebrows at your reflection as delicate index fingers continued to fiddle with styled fringe, “I don’t know. You can ask them tonight, if you like.”

“I’d rather not find out that Janet from accounting that you helped with divorce papers last week thinks your ass is nice,” You leaned into the doorframe, easy smile laced on your lips. 

Yoongi mirrored your expression as he brushed past you in route to snatch his suit jacket where it was meticulously sprawled across the edge of the bed, making a point to pause, dramatically swing his arm backward, and get a handful of his own ass. 

“It’s all yours, anyway.”

And somewhere between realizing this party wasn’t filled with Janet’s from accounting but rather assholes from Yoongi’s various corporate partners, the jewelry swaying off your ears seemed to pick up a five pound dumbbell on each side, lipstick flaking it sizable chunks onto your tongue, and necklace drowning in the clamminess that sprung underneath the collar of your dress. 

The rectangle of cheese delicately clutched in your fingertips tasted sour next to the clump of toothpaste still clinging to your back molars and the visible wince on your features and the half eaten block of sharp cheddar made you long for pained dinner parties with business sharks who had Yoongi at their every beck and call if trouble ever were to arise within their companies where you could simply excuse yourself to your kitchen and feed Holly the disgusting hunk of fucking cheese. 

Your closest thing to Holly was a one Jeon Jeongguk, irises rounded like the cheap chandeliers barely emitting any light into the banquet room of some building placed just inches away from a golf course. You flaked away the parts your teeth had touched with a delicate fingernail, uncaring as you smashed the bits into the velvet, forest green carpet below the sole of your shoe as your path became purposeful for the lanky intern clutching a champagne glass in white knuckles.  

You nudged his arm once you reached him. “Alright?”

Jeongguk barely confirmed it was you and half considered the object you stretched out to him, stressed mind registering food! and snatching it to push between puffed cheeks, mumbling a fine and thanks all the same as he chewed. He swallowed, seeming to calm at the amused and comforting smile you offered when he glanced at you. “Sorry…” He tried this time, sheepish as the smallest sliver of his teeth appeared. You followed his gaze as it flitted away from you, slow in pivoting a short distance across the room to the small group of men gathered just beyond a table full of empty chairs. 

You noticed Yoongi first, the other faces vaguely familiar, but Yoongi’s easy stance, sat into his hip with one knee slightly bent, glass of water clutched in loose fingertips almost empty, wrist swirling the last of it at the bottom as he nodded along to the dialog of one of the other men, cracking an easy smile paired with something, a joke apparently, that earned an audible melody of chuckles. You couldn’t help but smile too, some sort of proud fond swelling your heart into your throat but you tended to Jeongguk first. 

“You can go over there, you know.”

Jeongguk peered at you like you’d grown a second nose on your forehead, covering the feigned shock with a cough and he shook his head, “No...it’s okay. Maybe later.”

“He’s proud of you, you know,” You patted the younger man’s arm, “I’m sure he’d love to brag on you. What’s that called? Networking? And with your reference in person!”

Jeongguk laughed, shoving his free hand deep in the pocket of his dress pants and one curly hair escaped from where he’d styled it over his ears, “Maybe...have you met them yet?”

“Not them specifically. I’ve met some people here.”

Another laugh, this one more tender and Jeongguk nudged you back this time, eyes soft under a lidded gaze, “You should go over there. He’s probably talking about you, anyway.”

Something burned at your skin, paired to your oversized heart still throbbing in your throat and you coughed when your chin dropped, shy at Jeongguk’s admission. You recovered with a shrug, scuffing your foot into the carpet floor and more cheese trailed in its wake. “Eh, probably not.”

Stupid cliche’ timing called your name in the form of Yoongi’s voice and you found three pairs of eyes resting on you, the one of home negating the scrutiny of the other two. Your joints seemed to lock you in place and it was only Jeongguk’s teasing told you so in your ear that had you shuffling a step forward at the beckon of Yoongi’s encouraging smile and outstretched hand. 

“Come with me,” You managed to corral at the last second and you twisted your fingers in the cuffed fabric at Jeongguk’s wrist to yank him the first few steps after you, releasing him with an easy smile directed only at your husband as you took his hand when you came close enough.

Yoongi pulled you against his side, dropping a kiss to your temple as he murmured, “How are you?” against your skin. You squeezed his hand in response, opposite hand stretching for the man closest to you, customer service smile happily in disguise. 

“Chang Jung,” The first informed, tight lipped and tight gripped. 

“Park Heechul,” The second lingered, eyes cast across your face as he gripped your hand in two palms for longer than necessary, “and you must be the wife Mr. Min speaks so highly of.”

You subconsciously shuffled closer to Yoongi’s side, the soft bump of your presence making him defer to the swaying figure beyond your shoulder, “And this is my intern, Jeon Jeongguk. Very talented, probably did the bulk of the paperwork you all have received in the past few months.”

Another few easy chuckles. Mr. Chang, the more soft spoken of the two elicited the quieting of the laughter by speaking between the two of you. 

“So, you two attended the same universities?”

Yoongi nodded, “Undergrad and beyond.”

“A great masters program in business goes in tandem with a university that has an excellent law school, I suppose,” You agreed and another discreet squeeze to your hand had your shoulders setting when you were addressed for the first time by Mr. Park. 

“We understand you work with...animals?” His gaze shifted to Yoongi who was already nodding. The snort that came from deep within his nasal cavity didn’t settle right with you as he continued, “...what exactly does that entail?”

“I don’t directly handle the animals. I make it so the great individuals at all the shelters in the area have the means and funds and paychecks to be able to handle animals,” The ease that came with talking about your passions helped you along, “I work in finance but my specialty is nonprofit. The vast majority of my clientele are the animal shelters in the region. I attract and manage funds for them. Essentially.”

“Ah,” You glared at the bob of the man’s throat as he took a disinterested gulp of his wine, “Charity.” 

“Animal shelter employees are paid?” Mr. Chang spoke, “I thought that was on a volunteer basis?”

“Some are, some aren’t. Each is different in what they receive as far as tax dollars, city funding, the like,” You frowned, “Running a successful animal shelter is a full time operation, sir.”

“I guess I need to check where my tax dollars are going,” Mr. Park laughed as if it were a joke and as if he had a choice or say in the matter. “And you, dear, I can almost assure would make more by simply becoming his secretary.”

Yoongi tensed next to you but you spoke before he could, bristling on the verge of your patience, “I help when he needs me to. Doesn’t require me being on the payroll.”

“Speaking of help, I hear you’re a fantastic cook,” Mr. Park considered the empty table beyond him, a nearby plate clean aside from a few crumbs decorating the lipped edges, “Was the pork your recipe?”

You shouldered the insinuation, knowing Yoongi certainly didn’t sell you as a housewife with a knack for a stack of untouched cookbooks displayed on some rack in the middle of an expensive kitchen island. 

“I’m not on the payroll but I’m informed enough to know we have enough of a budget to hire a caterer for that,” You nodded, smile on your lips a line of cordiality. 

“Feisty too,” Mr. Park’s eyebrows lifted as Mr. Chang began to chortle along with him, “We could use someone like you at my company, answering phone calls, filtering out the particularly difficult patrons…”

You didn’t realize you’d let go of Yoongi’s hand until you hit his elbow in route to cross your arms over your chest. 

“With absolutely no respect at all, Mr. Park—” You bristled into the widest smile you’d cracked the entire interaction, “—I believe I’m overqualified to work at any position at your company. Particularly yours.” A curt wave of the top hand folded over your chest and you quipped, “Have a good evening.” before fleeing off into the dim room. 

Yoongi barely glanced at Jeongguk, an unspoken request to go after you while he tended to the mess before him. The decision was easy, and he approached it with the powerful aura that encompassed his previously relaxed state, seeping into the way a veined appendage was pointed in placing his glass of water down on the table, fingers folding at his belt buckle as he sucked air in and out through his nose. 

“As my wife put it,” Yoongi started, smile not quite reaching his teeth like yours had but similar in meaning all the same, “With absolutely zero respect, sirs, I think it’s unspoken that our contract is terminated. I suggest you seek out another attorney to handle your affairs.”

“Mr. Min, there was no offense meant by—”

Yoongi held up a steady palm the other fishing for the chair Mr. Park had previously been seated in, easily sliding it until it touched the table cloth fluttering off the table. “I also suggest that you leave. Immediately.”

Another laugh, cocky at best, slipped into the two hands Mr. Park held up now. “Can’t we speak about this as men?” 

The smile met Yoongi’s teeth now, leaning a fraction closer to the older man. 

“I won’t ask again.”

Jeongguk was stationed in front of the bathroom door like a coondog who’d just treed a frightened animal except the roles were reversed. He was the frightened animal, eyes growing wider as Yoongi’s purposeful stride approached and when he pointed to the door, Yoongi broke into a jog, shrugging past his younger friend to shoulder his way through the swinging door. 

The singular stall door was closed, your earrings abandoned on the lip of the sink bowl, phone and purse on the tiny couch with unidentified stains dotting the blue velvet. 

“It’s me,” He breathed after a moment, knuckles gentle on the locked door. 

“Can’t come to the phone right now,” He would have smiled if he wouldn’t have heard the clear sniffle in your voice. “Try again later.”

So he paused, knocked after a dozen heartbeats, and then, “This is later. Hello? Is anyone home?”

The door opened to your red eyes and defeated stature, shoulders slumped as you tried to smile through the tracks of liquid still slipping down the slope of your cheeks. It barely twitched high enough to be considered a smirk until it broke again, directly preceding the step you took to get to Yoongi. 

“Did you kick their asses?”

Yoongi laughed, genuine as his palm cradled the back of your head against his rumbling chest, “No. But I wanted to.”

“You should have,” You clutched the lapels of his jacket as he walked your statures backward, falling gently to the tiny couch, “I would have bailed you out of jail.”

He shifted you in his embrace, hugging you against his side as you kicked your shoes off to curl completely into him. Lips found your forehead this time, “Violence is never the answer but...I would have enjoyed seeing you sock one of them in the face. Both, preferably, but one good punch would have sufficed me for at least a couple years.”

A tiny laugh emitted from your lips, but it sobered when your voice broke in a whisper, simple in your obvious feelings but it broke Yoongi’s heart all the same.

“I didn’t like that.”

“I’m always proud of you, you know that, right? I’m continuously awed and inspired by you,” Yoongi took your face in his hands, swiping at fresh tears that angrily curled into your skin to look directly into your eyes, “I love you.”

You sniffled unattractively and you were partially kidding but the largest part of you in that moment helped you inquire, “I’m not just your trophy wife, huh?”

His chaste kiss lingered on the softness of your lips, mumbling between the seam of your mouth, “Absolutely not. Don’t let two dumbasses belittle the high regard I hold you in but especially not your opinion of yourself.”

“You’re badass, angel,” Yoongi’s lips pressed against your cheek, rubbing your nose with his as he grinned, gums and all, “If anything, I’m the trophy husband.”

You buried yourself in his neck, smile hidden against his shoulder, “Flattering ourselves, are we?”

“...but frankly, your ass doesn’t disagree with that label—”

#bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts imagines #bts fluff #bts x reader #yoongi imagines #min yoongi imagines #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #fic: lawyer yoongi #i've had this planned since like the beginning of the au owo #also!!! we know oc's occupation!!!!!!