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bothsandneithers · 8 months

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Day 4293

It feels weird to be these three things at the same time: childfree, a remote worker, and priced out of the housing market. The first is a choice, the second is happenstance, and the third is an artifact of late-stage capitalism. Yet, taken all together, they impact my sense of belongingness. In other words, they make me feel like I don’t know where I should be.

Of course, also taken together, they have their own set of affordances: an abundance of time to be spent awake, to be spent asleep, to be whoever I want to be, to do whatever I want to do, and to live wherever I want to live. This last one is tricky because it is hard to know where to live without some type of purpose or sense of belonging (most traditionally induced by children, a job, or a mortgage). In these circumstances, one has to think differently about what it means to belong. But, that is difficult, and so – at least right now – we return home to Colorado.

Here, I can save money because it feels problematic to be almost forty with no tangible assets, or, admittedly, no prospect of tangible assets. At this point in the conversation, somebody will interject, but Don owns a house! Surprisingly, my first wave of indignation triggered by this comment isn’t a feminist rage: of the assumption that I somehow subsume my partner’s wealth. But, rather of workers’ rage: of the acceptance that it is no longer feasible for a single person to own a piece of property, and of the quiet acquiescence that it only makes sense to share this investment with at least one other person.

Per the recommendations, the downpayment should now match my childhood home’s cost. This, then, allows me to pay a monthly payment that would make me “mortgage burdened” for almost the remainder of my life. I’m not going to do that. Nonetheless, I do save. Right now, I save to at least be able to eat food and rent shelter when I am old. But the goalposts have shifted so much for those without inherited wealth that trying to secure the future feels silly.

But, to disrupt these spiraling thoughts, I will say that home, no matter who owns it, is a privilege, and saving for the future, no matter how bleak, is also a privilege.

This sounds dramatic, but I miss California the way I grieve for those who are still alive, but are no longer in my life. The air that is not too hot and full of oxygen. The plum trees, the lemon trees, the lime trees, the orange trees, the bay leaf trees, the redwood trees. The soft ferns and the soft moss. The lightness of both the low altitude and of moving through a space where nothing sad has ever happened to you. The short drive to the coast, where as soon as you emerge from the forest and you turn left, the sun glistens off the ocean, and especially at the tallest points of the emerging waves, and causes you to utter, “we are so lucky.” If you go down the coast, you think that this is the most beautiful place in the world, and you stop for coffee and artichokes and beach walks and cafes overlooking cliffs. If you go up the coast, you think that this is the most beautiful place in the world, and the redwoods become wider and the air becomes cooler and the people become more sparse. You pick up soft, round glass at the beach and you stop for coffee in the forest where you immediately note that the vibe has shifted and you are now in another county. You go all the way up to the lost coast where the salt air, loud waves, and empty beaches make it feel prehistoric.

I don’t think that Colorado feels soft nor light, but I still appreciate its madness. The mountains are tall, and they are almost all bald because living things like trees can’t survive at their height. They aren’t even bald at the tippy-top, but rather, like, two-thirds of the way up, which infers a towering height that you become used to if you were born here. Summer activities always involve poor sleep. They sometimes involve hiking over the saddle, or the point where the one tall, bald mountain intersects with another tall, bald mountain, and you then continue down a ravine. If there is a trail, it doesn’t show, because there is still a lot of snow and you never know if you will step into an inch of it or three feet of it. The payoff is when you find yourself making morning coffee under the reflection of peaks on a high altitude lake, or accidentally falling asleep in the middle of the day because the mountain breeze rustles the tall pine trees in a way that makes your brain feel like nothing else exists, or making a short visit from your dispersed campsite to hot springs where you watch the trillion stars emerge faintly, and when you blink, they boldly reclaim their space in the sky.

Even in the shadow of the madness of the very tall mountains, there is a good quietness right now, and a space to attend to things that I know would make me happy but I didn’t have the time, money, or willingness before. This includes physical therapy to finally be able to run without pain. And also writing classes. As it turns out, an upside of years of navigating various flavors of criticism during PhD school, makes learning to craft and share fiction feel like a delightful undertaking (at least at this point).

Even as I indulge in the world of characters, perspectives, suspense and tension, mathematical frameworks still help me make sense of at least my human condition. Not having children, not having anywhere to be, and not having any security in my future shapes the vector space that I think that I occupy: (1, 1, 1). I use this to compare my location to others, which is either (0, 0, 0) or some combination of 1s and 0s. This makes me feel far away from most people and places. Of course, there are more dimensions, and the features aren’t always binary. It will just take some time to figure out – and, lucky for me, time is an asset I can stake claim to.

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the-yearning-astronaut · 2 years

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Currently feeling anxious and very on edge and I was going to say idk why but I actually very much do know why I just don't know what to do about any of it.

Under the cut because there's a lot and I don't want to big down anyone's dash....

I'm in a sort of limbo right now. School has finished. It's been my literal driving force and my primary routine for three years. That routine and security is now completely gone.

I have an awkward 2.5 weeks between finals ending and my internship starting. That is both too much time (I'm doing too much overthinking and dwelling) and not enough time (I have so much to do and pack and idek where to start).

I don't know what to pack and no one seems to be able to get me a clear idea of what I should bring. I know I need to pack for essentially three different seasons because the temps can have a 40°F difference between night and day. Gotta love the desert. I know I need bedding and towels and basic kitchenware. But that's it. Do I need hangers for a closet or do I only have a dresser? Do I need a bath mat or shower curtain or is the place I'm staying basically fully furnished? There are no TVs -- is taking my own too excessive? What about taking my playstation? My houseplants? How much space in the kitchen will I have to store food in? Why does no one else seem to have these questions and why are they ok with just... Packing a few things and moving somewhere for 3 months?

Also I'm supposed to have been paid my first lump sum last Monday so that I actually had money to get the food and supplies and gas I'll need to get down there but ofc someone in HR or wherever fucked up and I haven't received a payment and no one seems to know where the money is coming from or who's in charge of making sure I get it.

Idk how to handle disability disclosure. My disabilities have the potential of putting my safety at risk -- especially considering where I'll be -- so for safety reasons alone I feel I should mention POTS at least. But the entirely new routines, new people, new location, new everything is.... That's gonna really mess me up for a while or will at least be a recurring issue through the duration of the program. I feel that I can count on at least few meltdowns. I'll be at high elevation, outside, in the desert. My medications make me more sensitive to UV rays than my pasty skin already makes me. I burn really easy, really quick regardless of whether I remembered sunscreen or not. And I have NO idea how to bring up the issue of fibro flare ups. Like hi yes I know I have a full schedule today but I'm gonna have to either limit my hours or not participate at all because I'm currently in bed experiencing full body pain and I can't think clearly atm. No idk if I'll feel better in 4 hrs or 4 days. And ofc high stress and anxiety situations are triggers for flare ups so it's basically a vicious cycle.

I'm scared because I really really want this. I've been wanting this internship for a full f-ing year and it's doing exactly what I want to do in one of my absolute favorite places and it's going to open doors to other jobs but. I'm so worried I'm gonna f-it up. That I'm gonna have to quit early with my tail tucked between my legs and I KNOW sometimes you have to stop and acknowledge that some things just aren't possible and it's not your fault but I've already done that again and again and I don't know what else I'd do with my life if not this. I can't keep living at home but I can't move out unless I have a full-time job and even the I probably can't afford rent anyway and I don't have friends I can move in with.

I'm so tired and overwhelmed and I feel like I can't turn to my mom for help because she's working two jobs and is already providing emotional support to her sister as she works through the death of my uncle. My bro is working two jobs and has far too much of his own BS to worry about and I definitely can't count on my dad for anything.

I'm just. Really at a loss rn and after that fiasco of a semester I don't have the emotional energy to deal with any of it.

#fox thoughts #tbd #actually autistic #disability #fibromyalgia #chronic pain #adulting #summer internship #POTS #dont mind me just having a panic spiral as i lose every routine ive had for the last three years #overwhelmed #suggestions would be welcome if anyone has any #just gonna go... eat one of my safe foods and turn on Leviathan Wakes while repotting some of my plants

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yee-fxcking-haw · 3 years

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•Affirmation•

Summary: Reader's dad is a dick, Bakugo does the big comfort. Just a short little comfort piece.

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x Reader (both 18+)

Warnings: Little bit of angst, degredation (not the fun kind), bad relationship with father, Bakugo is not great at comfort but he gives it the old college try.

Word Count: 1,640

A/N: This was for a request, the basic gist of the request was the reader having an asshole dad that doesn't support them, Bakugo over hearing it, reader breaking down a little then Bakugo giving some comfort. I hope you like it!❤️

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"You shouldn't have moved out so young, it was stupid and impulsive." The harsh, too familiar voice barks over the phone.

"I know." You choke out.

But you left me with no choice. You want to say that, but you don't have the guts.

"You knew damn well you'd never be able to make a living off of doodles."

Another wave of nausea washes over you, your hand tightens around your phone and starts to shake.

"I know…" You don't know, you don't agree, but you can't argue, it would be useless.

"Dad, please don't." You beg, voice wobbly with the tears you're holding back.

You should never have called them for money, you knew better. What choice do you have though? With three dollars to your name, rent to pay and groceries to buy.

You should be able to call your parents… should be. They've never supported your choices, especially your dad.

"Look, you've gotta figure this one out, I can't cure incompetence." Ice settles in your gut as he hangs up.

He wouldn't help you, your mom wouldn't help you.

They had always laughed at your desire to become a comic book illustrator, calling it a useless path, a waste of time. Defeated and helpless, you crawl into bed.

You'll give your two weeks tomorrow, find a real job, maybe keep drawing as a hobby.

The thought makes you sob, the feeling settles into the base of your being, deep and aching.

"What are you crying for?" A grumble of a voice echoes from your doorway.

"Suki, please, not now." Katsuki is a lot of things, comforting is not one of them.

He waits for a moment, you just bury your face further into the blankets, clutching a pillow to your aching chest.

"Was that your dad?" He asks, his voice taking on a softer tone.

You don't answer, just nod and sniffle.

You hear him whisper something about shitty people, then feel the mattress dip.

"He's an asshole, he's gonna act like an asshole."

Not helping.

You flop onto your back, tears pouring out of your eyes as you glare at him.

"Shit, you're actually crying." He scrambles up the bed, he grabs you and hauls you into his lap, almost cradling you like a baby.

"What happened? Do I finally get to blast him to pieces? Just say the word baby, I'll-"

"I'm gonna stop drawing." You admit quietly.

"Huh?" He sounds almost offended.

You snuggle into his warm chest then blink up at him, ruby eyes look at you with honest confusion.

"I can't keep doing it. I can't afford anything, I'm not that good, my parents hate me for it." God it hurts, it makes your insides feel so raw.

He grabs the side of your cheek, forcing you to make eye contact.

"Fuck that, fuck them. You're incredible, -hey, look at me-" Halfway through his sentence you pull your head away and press your face into his chest.

"Hey, firecracker, look at me, please?" The nickname pulls at your heart a little, he's called you that since you met, since you were the only one with enough balls to give his shit right back to him.

When you refuse to look up, he just holds you tightly to his chest. You soak up the body heat, inhale his smell, revel in the way he clings to you.

"Listen to me, then, you're talented, you're capable, and you're so fucking beautiful. Parents are just a bunch of old dumbasses that get off on telling their kids what they can't do." He's trying so damn hard to keep his voice down, you can tell by the way he's gripping you.

"I'll help you with whatever you need." He places a kiss on top of your head, a little rough, but that's just Katsuki.

"No, I can do this, I just have to get a better job." You insist with a pitiful voice.

"I know you can, but you don't have to. I can't let you give up on drawing, not with the talent you have." He runs a hand through your hair as he talks, the motion soothes you immensely.

"I know parents suck, especially when you don't do what they have planned for you, but you have to keep doing what you love. Please, let me help you." He almost sounds frantic, it makes your heart melt.

Katsuki loves you, you know he loves you, he'd bring buildings to the ground for you.

"It's too much, I can't ask you to help with all of it." You wipe your eyes with your sleeve before looking up at him again.

"Is living here the biggest issue?" He asks, still running his hands through your hair.

You nod, defeated and overwhelmed.

"Move in with me." When he says it, he sounds almost as shocked as you feel.

"What?" You ask.

"I'm serious, when was the last time we actually slept in our own homes? Or even showered separately, there's no point in living apart anymore."

He has a point, a very good point. Though, something doesn't sit well with you.

"I'm not a charity case, Suki, would you even be asking me this if I wasn't crying over my dad?" Your question is genuine, but he seems so hurt by it.

"I would be, I've wanted to."

He's dead serious.

You scramble to sit up straight, moving so you can straddle him as he leans against the headboard. You grab the sides of his face and make him look directly at you.

"Katsuki, if this is a prank I will fucking kill you." You say, shaking him a little as you talk.

A small smile creeps onto his face, eyes full of adoration. He reaches up to hold your face as well, thumbs catching the remaining tears.

"You couldn't if you tried, but it's not a prank. Please, come live with me." He grabs one of your hands, brings it to his mouth, then kisses your palm.

"I'm also serious about you being talented." He kisses your wrist.

"And capable." He pulls you in to kiss your neck.

"And so fucking beautiful." He plants one, dedicated kiss to your lips.

"Ok." You say, breathless.

"You will?" He asks, his voice taking on a giddy tone.

His hands snake around your waist and starts kissing you wherever he can, frantic and needy.

"And you're gonna keep drawing?" He pauses, looking up at you with sweet, honest eyes.

You turn to mush when he looks at you like that, without fail.

"Do you think I should?" You play with the collar of his t-shirt, quickly forgetting your father's harsh words.

"Baby, I love your work, I love watching you work. Please don't stop because of some fuck head that couldn't see talent if it hit him in the nuts." He lays his chin on your chest, still looking up at you with a devoted gaze.

"Can we get a dog?" You ask, hands coming up to play with his wild, blond hair.

He gives you a dramatic pout before pressing his face into your sternum.

"We can get a cat." He says against your chest, voice muffled by your body.

You giggle as he pulls you closer.

"I'll keep drawing if we get a dog." You bargain.

He grumbles against your chest before pulling away to look up at you.

"A rescue?" He asks, bright eyes looking up at you hopefully.

There he is, the giant teddy bear hiding under the man that swears like a sailor and makes threats like a hit man.

"Of course." You lean down and kiss his nose.

Somehow, through his reassurance and his desire to have you close, Suki has managed to dull the ache of the parental disapproval.

"I love you." You sigh, hands snaking around his neck.

"I love you more, and I'll wipe the floor with anyone who makes you feel like you're less than incredible." He leans up to kiss you long and hard, lips working perfectly against yours.

"Can we go look at dogs now?" He asks when he pulls away.

"Oh? Mr. 'We can get a cat.'?" You tease him, ruffling his hair as you slide off his lap.

You try to walk towards the closet, but he catches you around the waist from behind, caging you with his strong arms.

"You're talented, say it." His voice is low in your ear, making goosebumps raise on your flesh.

He has this thing that he makes you do, something about verbally affirming yourself until you believe it.

You roll your eyes and pull at his arms.

"Huh uh, no dog until you say it." He kisses your neck gently.

"No dog, no drawing." You shoot back.

"Baby."

"Fine, I'm talented." You huff.

"You're capable." He continues, squeezing you tighter.

"I'm capable." You don't believe it, but Suki does, and that's what matters.

He spins you in his arms, hands coming up to cradle your cheeks.

"You're beautiful." It's more of a breath, a whisper, his voice soft and soothing.

You glare up at him, not willing to say those words. He gives you a serious look, all stern and unwavering.

"I'm beautiful." You say as quietly as you can.

"You are." He kisses your forehead, breathing out as he pours his love over you.

"Who's a badass?" He says as he pulls away, a smile cracking across his face.

"I'm a badass." You can't help but laugh, chest bubbling with admiration for your determined boyfriend.

"Hell yeah you are," He presses one more kiss into your lips, "Let's go get that damn dog."

Katsuki Bakugo is many things, maybe comforting isn't one of them, but he's learning.

#bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugou #bakugo fluff #katsuki fluff #katsuki x you #bnha bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #bnha bakugou

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bonktime · 3 years

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Weather the Storm

Prologue: Lay of the Land

Ezra (Prospect) x f!reader (no y/n) 1861 Lighthouse au

Masterlist // Chapter One: Taken Aback

Rated: Explicit (bit of a slow burn but we’ll get there)

Warnings: Language for now (smut will come later)

Summary: Ezra travelled with the tides, let the sea carry him where it willed and never stayed long. The lighthouse keeper was the opposite. Where he moved she stood firm, defying the waves and the tide as if carved from the cliff herself. They’re drawn together, but opposing forces so strong are always destined to cause a storm.

A note: I kinda apologise for historical inaccuracies but 1861 was a proper shite time to be a woman so we’re mostly glossing over that. Also the lighthouses mentioned hadn’t even been built yet. Another thank you to @danniburgh who I threw ideas at to see what stuck. As of right now this is shaping up to be 7 chapters and an epilogue of sea puns, yearning, angst and definitely smut. I intend to update weekly but that may vary depending on work! I’ve put glossary at the end so you know what I’m talking about. Written in the third person.

Let me know if you wanna be tagged!

Wordcount: 851

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Everything Ezra could see was grey. Heavy clouds loomed above, threatening rain but not ready to give it up, their reflections transforming the sea into mercury. Even the huts in the bay appeared drab, colour sucked out by the beating of the weather. He wondered if the people would be the same, colourless and cold like the land that surrounded them. He had often found that humans adapted to their environment so well they almost became a part of it, blending slowly together until inseparable and indistinguishable. In a way he was envious of them, to go where the work was had never allowed him to stay too long and get too comfortable. It made him stand out, always a newcomer, an outsider unable to make real acquaintances. He liked it though, the freedom, the adventure of it. He was certain that he always left an impression when he’d gone: a bruising kiss, a couple missing teeth, a scar. He marked the places he'd been, like carving his name into a tree.

The North Sea was an apt name, he decided. He’d read that it had once borne many others, Morimaru, Oceanum, Mare Germanicum, but only North had stuck. There appeared to be no other words that could correctly depict it. North as in north of everything, north as in cold, north as in nothing else is important except it's northernness. It seemed curious that it had managed to shuck the title the Dead Sea, where floating freshwater stilled the waves and becalmed boats, where hidden reefs wrecked ships making it one of the deadliest coasts in the country. He supposed with the new technology, those aboard had ample warning to avoid getting dashed upon the rocks, only needing to keep a weather eye and ear out.

Finding work had been easy, the fishing season was starting, and with his experience the trawler ‘Mistress’ was all too eager to have an extra set of hands, willing and able to pay the devil. It was dangerous work that paid adequately and offered some compensation, money to a family he didn’t have if he died, a stipend should he be crocked into retirement. Enough that, if he scrimped a bit, he should have no trouble travelling wherever he wanted to go next.

"Four days at sea, three on land. You're lucky, we used to run six and one but tired men make mistakes that cannot be afforded." Ezra nodded in response, dead sea indeed. The man in front of him was writing the ledger and had barely glanced at him the whole time, giving Ezra ample opportunity to stare. He was probably in his sixties and had clearly known the sea well before taking to the books when his bones could no longer bear it. His face showed every year of hard work, of the wind and the salt but as much as he appeared like the jagged cliffs of the bay, his ruddy cheeks surprised Ezra and there was a twinkle of good humour in his eye. Not all cold and salt after all.

"Do you know of any pleasant lodgings in the local area? I'll need somewhere to find respite when on land." At this the old fisherman sat up and for the first time properly looked at Ezra. Sharp eyes scanning his face, focusing on the scar on his cheek and then his eyes, so intensely he could feel the man making his judgement. There was a moment's hesitation.

"3 miles up the coast there's a lighthouse, the keeper rents out a room in the cottage. You'll have to get there quick though, else you won't beat the tides" he stood creakily and stuck his roughened hand out for Ezra to shake "See you Monday, 3 hours before dawn. If you're late, you get left behind." Ezra shook it and, with a nod, left him to begin his walk up the coast.

The wind bit his face as he looked up at the looming tower across the causeway, from here the island seemed lonely, a last stand against the beating of the waves. The lighthouse itself had once been painted white but Ocean spray had dirtied it, turning it the same grey as the sky. The Old Salt had been right about the tide, it had begun its approach. Slowly covering the rough path to the island where the lighthouse and its cottages sat, cutting it off. Crossing it wet his feet and numbed his toes but guaranteed a room for at least the night. He would be stuck there until the water receded.

As if warding him away the water rose around him, appearing to speed its ascent and forcing him to lift him bag high as he waded, knee deep through the icy water. Reaching the island, a solitary figure appeared out on the rocks, it turned and headed towards him, sure footed despite the terrain.

Ezra hadn't known what he was expecting from a lighthouse keeper. Probably an old man with a large beard, weather beaten and bad tempered.

Whatever he was expecting, she certainly hadn't been it.

⧫⧫⧫

Morimaru: Celtic for dead sea

Oceanum: latin, literally means ocean ,you probably got this one

Mare Germanicum: latin for germanic ocean

Becalmed: stuck without wind or currant

Trawler: sailing fishing boat invented in Brixham 19th century

Pay the devil: tarring a part of the ship called the devil, known as one of the worst jobs

Crocked: injured, I dunno how rare this one is but I’m never entirely sure if I’m using geordie words or not

Old Salt: means old sailor, endearing

If I missed anything let me know. If you read all this I hope you enjoyed my love of research and homesickness coming together!

#ezra prospect #ezra x reader #ezra x you #ezra (prospect)#ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect smut #pedro pascal #ezra prospect victorian au #ezra prospect au #ezra prospect 2018 #ezra prospect fanfiction #victorian au #x reader #prospect #prospect 2018

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maeviana · 3 years

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Lorelai Gilmore & Luke Danes Analysis & how I would change the story

A Lorelai Gilmore analysis because apparently I'm doing this for everyone on the show now!

Lorelai Gilmore...how do I begin to describe Lorelai Gilmore. There are times when Lorelai can be my favourite character and times where she can be my least favourite character.

I think Lorelai denying the fact that she is still very privileged despite leaving her parents world when she was 16 is one reason she can drive me up the walls. Lorelai is a conventionally attractive white woman who fits the trope of 'single mom but my child is really smart so men don't see it as a turn off' - she seems to be able to get any guy she wants, the whole town falls at her feet and are willing to do pretty much anything to help her, she was promoted to Manager seemingly above Michelle (who actually went to school to train to be a concierge or whatever he is and who we know started at the same time as Lorelai) Lorelai has all the advantages of someone who spent their whole life in a small town but whenever she needs it or wants it she always has her parents money to fall back on or their connections which I get makes her uncomfortable and I don't hold her privilege against her - no but what I can hold against her is the fact that Lorelai Gilmore is not a pay it forward kind of gal.

When I say that Lorelai is not very "pay it forward" I'm going to talk about three incidents where Lorelai benefitted from something in the past which she does not need anymore and which she very begrudgingly relinquishes.

1. The first is when Suki wants to ask her if Rune can sleep in the potting shed while he is out of work. Lorelai's response to this is "Suki that's where Rory and I stayed when she was a baby" Just to recap Lorelai was allowed to stay in the potting shed rent free when Rory was growing up until Rory was 11 until she could afford to get a place of her own. Which is fine. But Lorelai has her own place now and now she is in a position to help someone else who could use the same help that she was once given and her first instinct is to keep it for herself which is made worse by the fact that Suki is asking her - Suki is Head Chef at the Inn and so she equals Lorelai in rank - as long as Rune staying in the shed doesn't interfere with the running of the inn, it should not be Lorelai's place to deny her.

2. When Jess comes to town. When Jess comes to town Lorelai doubts Luke's ability to care for a rebellious teen - which again is fine. She tries to reach out to Jess twice and ....things don't go well which I also think is fine (except for her essentially telling Jess that Dean is better than him ummm wtf Lorelai he's 17) ...look I could do a whole other post about Lorelai and Jess' interactions (Jess is my absolute favourite character on the show so you can probably guess what I'm going to say) and why they don't get on but I'm going to focus on Lorelai's reaction to the car crash and what she says to Luke in 'Teach Me Tonight' when Luke tells her he has an obligation to Jess and she responds that he had an obligation to the town and to her and to Rory. We are shown and we are told that Luke has done a lot for Lorelai and would do a lot for someone that he cares about, however, I think again that on some level Lorelai thinks of Luke's generosity towards her as a special privilege just her own. I don't think Lorelai views Jess as someone like herself who needs a "Mia" or a "Luke" to help him get through a difficult time to let him stay in a metaphorical emotional "potting shed" but look having said that she does cut Jess some breaks and does help Luke understand things about Jess.

3. Her not wanting Mia to sell the Independence Inn because she wanted a memory home....ummm what. the. fuck?

Growing up Emily tried to control almost every aspect of Lorelai's life and this has impacted Lorelai by her being ultra controlling in her own life. I think her need to have complete control over her life made it very difficult for her to get serious with anyone because to do so you need to have a 50/50 say in a shared life. I think it's really telling that her two major love interests even over the guy she was engaged to are two men who have been in her life the longest.

I think at the end of the day when it comes to relationships Lorelai just wants someone to love her and to listen to her. She wants someone who would be willing to sleep on a park bench outside her window and someone to call at 2am. i think Emily and Richard we’re a real unit in their household and I think Emily was a Wife first, a lady of high society second and a mother third. Richard was well emotionally shut down and was all about appearances. But Emily and Richard work well as a unit, they are kind of like Lorelai and Rory that way they have their own way of doing things, their own language. I think it was hard for Lorelai growing up an only child next to that kind of relationship but not on the inside.

The story line I'm most annoyed about the writers dropping for Lorelai was the story line of her now living her life as an adult woman without a child - about her not wanting to be pregnant. The offer from her Dad's friend to buy the inn and for her to go travelling by herself! But if there is one thing that comes for all television characters in shows in the 00s it's hetero normative ideals those relentless bitches! Because...here is the thing I think that the life Rory thinks she wants for herself travelling and seeing the world as an independent woman that life is really the life that Lorelai wants. Lorelai is very like her Dad and she even says that she wants to travel like her Dad always travelled and I'm so annoyed that THAT wasn't the major Luke and Lorelai conflict instead of April Nardini. (who I think was in part written as a way to give Luke a biological child of his own and still get with Lorelai ....because again hetero-normativity) (its a trope *cough* How I met your mother *cough*) That's why the whole "Wild" trip was written for Lorelai in my opinion it's because Lorelai does want to go out and have an adventure and she does want to find herself. What's more annoying about this story line being dropped though is because the seeds for it being a major Luke and Lorelai conflict are there. Dean telling Luke that Lorelai wants more than Stars Hollow, Lorelai's curiousity about the job offer from her Dad's friend and Lukes reaction to that, Lorelai realising that some of her aversion to certain paths in life come from her parents wanting them for her which may include "going corporate" which could open doors for travel. That’s how Luke lost the last love of his life - Rachel. It was potrayed that she was always leaving - but it could also be interpreted as Luke never following her. Then Lorelai wants to travel to run incorporations of an inn that Rachel introduced her to through her pictures.

Think about it Luke's major character flaw is that he finds change very difficult. He lives in the same town he has lived in his whole life, he doesn't change his clothes, he can't make a move. This made sense for Luke before - he needed to be so solid because his family was so erratic, he needed to be there for his dad, he needed to be there to bail his sister out but at the end of the show Luke has no reason not to change, his business is well established enough that he could trust Ceasar to run it while he was away, he (would not have had) any children, any real reason to stay in the town other than stubbornness.

I don't find April annoying as a character - I find why she was written annoying. Luke didn't need a kid. The show is filled with biological parent child relationships that don't work, that show that bonds are more about being there for someone than being in their DNA. I feel like writing as if Luke needs to have a child is just weird (it's stated and shown on multiple occasion he in fact really doesn't like kids), when he's been a relative hermit up to age what 35/40 means that maybe he'd be ok without kids and the fact that Luke is loved like a father by Jess and by Rory but no Luke needs biological children because? why?

And then Jess (who was always ready to leave and never shows his cards when it comes to love) could show up and tell him that he should go be with Lorelai wherever , that he’ll make sure Liz and TJ don’t join any vegetable cults. Because Luke now has someone else in his family that he can rely on and he doesn’t have to plan funerals and interventions for his crazy family members on his own and also the this plot line would fall in nicely with the GG theme song but that’s not that big of a deal.

#gilmore girls #rory gilmore #lorelai gilmore #lorelei gilmore #GG #luke danes #jess mariano

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megaera-of-pigeon · 3 years

Text

[Shining Nikki fan fiction, 3,447 words, superhero au concept courtesy of @deadcereus. Janus content courtesy of @just-love-nikki-things]

Mercury stood outside of the door. In one arm, he was carrying a duffle bag stuffed so full it was straining at its zipper. In the other, he held a top-of-the-line luxury cat carrier. As he brought a fist up to knock on the door, he glanced down into the cat-carrier and caught the glowing golden topazes that were his cat’s eyes looking up at him.

He bit his lip and slowly lowered his fist. Was he really ready to do this?

It was much too soon, wasn’t it?

Did he really need to go to this conference?

Before he could manage to second guess his decision and get out of the building before he was spotted, the door flew open.

“Mercury! You’re late! That’s unlike you.”

Mercury managed to tear his eyes away from Janus’ and meet the gaze of his younger half-sister. “Ophelia,” he nodded to her, banishing any trace of worry and allowing his face to settle into its comfortable frown. “Traffic was backed up.”

“Oh, no! The morning you’re to leave on your big exciting trip, too! Well, come on in; I’m all ready to see my pretty little nephew Janny-poo!”

Mercury bristled as he stepped into the apartment and kicked the door shut behind him. “I’ve told you not to call him that.”

Ophelia just grinned. “He likes it, though! Don’t you, Janny-poo?”

The cat in question, who’d been calmly sitting in his carrier for most of the journey like the well-behaved little gentleman he was, had perked up at the sound of Ophelia’s voice, and now started to claw at the fabric and meow in indignation. Mercury heaved a sigh and knelt down so that he could set the carrier on the floor and unzip the door. The second there was enough space open for Janus to get out, he scrambled his way out of confinement and dashed across the floor to jump into Ophelia’s waiting arms.

“Oh, I’ve missed you too, my little angel!” Ophelia cooed as she cuddled his cat into her chest and stroked his head. For his part, Janus seemed to return her greeting with a loud, rumbling purr. Mercury did his best to stamp down his jealousy at how openly affectionate his cat was acting towards his sister. It was just a fact of life that everyone loved Ophelia—animals, small children, all of their relatives. She couldn’t walk down the block without finding something or someone to befriend. It was her naivete that held the effortless charm that drew everyone in, and he’d long outgrown his envy of that particular characteristic. He had honed his own brand of ‘charm’ that served him just as well, after all.

As Mercury stood up and slid Janus’ bag off his shoulder, he happened to notice that unlike the last time he’d visited Ophelia’s apartment, there were about a dozen pairs of shoes sitting next to the front door. Several of them appeared to be thin, strappy heels, which didn't suit his sister’s style. He furrowed his brow and glanced around, and noticed some other things that had escaped his notice before: two coats hanging on the hooks; two purses sitting on the table. That was twice as many as one young woman needed.

“Is there someone else here?” He asked, gesturing towards the purses. She’d have told him if there was a girlfriend in the picture, and his sister didn’t strike him as the type to do a one night stand, so he was having trouble coming up with a logical explanation….

Ophelia’s shoulder tensed as she leaned down and released Janus, who strutted off to begin his inspection of the apartment. When she stood back up, her face had gone blank.

“Uh, yes. There is. Didn’t I mention? I have a roommate now. She moved in two weeks ago.”

Mercury gaped at her. “A roommate?” He’d never have agreed to leave Janus in an apartment with a stranger! He’d have at least had a background check done at first! “Please tell me one of your friends from London moved here and needed a place to stay, or something like that, and that you didn’t invite a random person to come live with you!”

Ophelia tucked some of her hair behind her ear and glanced at the floor. “Um. Well. I put up some flyers…”

Mercury took a deep breath and then exhaled as slowly as he could, but when he finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “Where did you put them up? How many were there? And what personal information were you publicly advertising?”

“I put up maybe half a dozen here and there… you know, the coffee shops down by the college, the student center, places like that. I just had my first name and phone number, not my address! They had to call for that—”

“You’re getting a new phone number,” he said firmly, glaring at her. “God, Ophelia, how could you be so foolish? Do you even know what types of dangerous people lurk in this town? For all you know, this ‘roommate’ of yours is one of them!”

“Calm down, Ashley is fine. And I’m not changing my phone number, that’s such a hassle!”

“We can talk about it later,” Mercury said firmly, although he was already planning on instructing his assistant to take care of changing his sister’s number once he made it to the airport. “Tell me why you decided to get a roommate in the first place. We never discussed this as an option when you were moving here.”

Ophelia shrugged, still refusing to meet his eyes. “I’ve been struggling to make the rent on this place with my budget. I can’t move to a cheaper part of town, because if my mum comes to visit and my living situation is not up to her standards, I’d never hear the end of it! You know how she is, she’d have me moving back to London before I could even defend my choices!”

“If you need money, you are to come to me,” he said sternly. “Taking care of your rent would be nothing to me, but instead you neglect to tell me there’s an issue and decide to invite a stranger off the street into your home? How irresponsible can you get!”

Ophelia scoffed. “You’re right, it would have been nothing to you. What about for me? I can’t come running to my brother to fix every little problem I have for the rest of my life, now can I? I’m an adult, I need to find my own solutions to things. That’s being responsible. The solution to making rent on this ridiculously huge apartment that you found for me is to split the burden with a roommate!”

Mercury opened his mouth to continue berating Ophelia for her ridiculous views on something as trivial as asking for his help, but before he could, his watch beeped, notifying him that he was running out of time to get going and make his flight. Despite his personal, feline-related reluctance to leave the city right now, this conference was one he couldn’t afford to miss. He’d have to deal with Ophelia’s roommate situation when he got back… although there was one thing that had to happen. “Where is this ‘Ashley’? I need to meet her before I leave Janus here.”

“Is that really necessary—?”

“The other solution is for you to go pack a bag right now, and go stay with Janus at my house for the week. I am not leaving my cat in the hands of someone I’ve never met!”

Ophelia glared back at him for a long minute, before finally sighing and looking over her shoulder. “Hey, Ashley,” she called. “Can you come here?”

A moment later, light footsteps sounded down the hall as the mysterious roommate approached. “What do you need now? Is your brother gone yet?”

The owner of the voice turned out to be a slender young woman with long, dark hair, and large, bright blue eyes. With her high cheekbones, symmetrical facial features, and full, red-tinted lips, she’d be considered conventionally attractive in most people’s estimation—but most people were incapable of looking past a surface appearance and judging what truly lurked beneath. And Mercury happened to know first hand that this woman’s angelic beauty was all a lie; she was none other than Lilith, a master manipulator and a scourge he’d thought he banished from his city long ago.

For her part, Lilith looked just as surprised to see him as he was to see her. Her eyes grew wide as she glanced between Mercury and Ophelia, and Mercury could almost see the wheels turning in her scheming little brain. After a moment though, her neutral mask fell back into place and she stuck out her hand. “You must be the big brother I’ve heard far too little about. I’m Ashley; I moved in with Ophelia not too long ago.”

“Ashley?” He tried a smile, so as not to make Ophelia suspicious of any prior involvement with her new ‘roommate’, but he couldn’t stop it from turning into a sneer as he shook her hand, squeezing more firmly than was strictly necessary. “And what brings you here?”

A sneer of her own pulled at Lilith’s lips as she returned his iron handshake with just as much force. “Just a job. I won’t bore you with the details; from what I hear, you’re quite busy. Don’t you have somewhere to be?” She nodded to the door behind him, and he decided that her smug little dismissal wasn’t going to do at all.

He dropped her hand and stepped back, his eyes never leaving Lilith’s. “Ophelia; I’d like to have a word with Ashley for a moment. I just need to make her understand the responsibility that comes with living in the same apartment as my… cat.”

Ophelia glanced between the two of them and seemed hesitant to leave them alone, but he gave her a pointed stare, and that was enough for her to clear her throat. “Alright, I’ll just go find Janus wherever he’s wandered off to so you can say goodbye. Uh. Be nice.”

Once his sister had disappeared further into her apartment, Mercury stepped closer to Lilith again so he could tower over her and hiss into her ear. “What the fuck are you playing at? You moved in with my sister?”

“Well I didn’t know she was your sister until two minutes ago,” Lilith snapped, taking a step back and crossing her arms while glaring up at him. “Trust me, if I had, I definitely wouldn’t have signed the damn lease.”

Mercury glared at her for a minute, trying to decide if he should believe her. Because honestly, what were the odds that his old, forgotten rival would move in with one of his family members? Although, no one at the League besides his assistant even knew he had a sister, as he’d hidden her existence for years, and Ophelia didn’t know what he actually did for a living, so it was somewhat plausible that this was just an unhappy accident. In either case…

“You’ll have to move out immediately.”

Lilith gaped at him. “What? No way! I just finished unpacking yesterday, and I already did all the paperwork—I can’t afford to break a lease!”

Mercury narrowed his eyes. “So whatever ‘job’ lured you back to my city doesn’t even pay well? I’m very curious to know the details.”

She scoffed and flipped her head to send her curtain of dark hair back back over her shoulder. “My life these days is none of your business, actually. As is who I’ve chosen to be my roommate. Trust me, I’m not stupid enough to do anything to your precious little kitten while Ophelia is catsitting. So you can go ahead and go now. We wouldn’t want you to miss your big photo op with the UN.”

“Your life became my business when you chose to involve yourself in my sister’s affairs,” he said through gritted teeth. “And that’s another thing—you can not say a word to Ophelia about our past or reveal my secret identity.”

Lilith blinked several times. “Wait… she doesn’t know that you’re Silver Boy?”

“It’s Silver Bullet now,” he snapped. “And no, she does not; I don’t like to bring my work home with me. She’s clueless, and she will stay that way if you know what’s good for you.”

Lilith furrowed her brow, but nodded slowly. “My past is dead and buried, so she won’t hear it from me.”

Mercury pursed his lips, but glanced at his watch. He would have preferred to keep talking so he could get more information about Lilith’s sudden return as well as impress upon her further the importance of keeping his secret from Ophelia, but he really had to get going this time.

“Hey, are you two done yet?” Ophelia asked as she entered the room again, this time with a wriggling Janus in her arms. “I thought you had a flight to catch.”

“I’ll have to leave in a minute,” Mercury confirmed, stepping closer to take Janus from her so he could say goodbye. Learning that Ophelia had a roommate and then Lilith’s reappearance had distracted him from his previous worries, but now they all came rushing back as he was moments away from stepping out the door. Janus leaned his head into Mercury’s chest and purred softly, and all Mercury could think of was how he was abandoning his son. They hadn’t been apart for any extended period of time since Janus had come home with him! If Lilith hadn’t been standing there, he would have told Janus that he loved him very much and would be back soon, that he was sorry to have to go and would rather just stay with him. As it was, he simply squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a firm kiss atop Janus’ head in between his ears.

“Cute cat you’ve got there,” Lilith said, and Mercury glared at her again. “How old is he?”

“About six months,” Ophelia answered as she reached out to stroke Janus’ fur. “Mercury found him when he was a kitten. Isn’t he just the best little boy?”

“You found a kitten six months ago, huh? I just bet there’s some great pictures of the two of you together back then.” Lilith smirked at him, and Mercury knew that she’d just figured it out. His grip on Janus tightened.

About six months ago, he—well, the superhero known as Silver Bullet—had raided an underground lab belonging to the evil scientist known as Gray Raven. After the fight, the League’s Media Liaison had shown up and had him pose for pictures holding some of the rescued animal test subjects—including a very young black kitten. After the photos, the League’s cleanup crew had taken all of the animals away so the results of Gray Raven’s experiments could be professionally monitored. It wasn’t until he’d gotten home that night that he’d realized the tiny black kitten he’d posed with had somehow snuck its way into his bag as he was leaving, and fallen asleep!

He should have notified his handlers immediately and turned the kitten over to the League like the rest of the rescued animals, but… he couldn’t bring himself to part with the little guy. So the kitten was named Janus and became his companion, and no one at work needed to know he’d gotten a cat. Ophelia had only found out after an unannounced visit shortly after that, which he’d never regretted, at least until now. Her mother had allowed her to have cats and other pets while growing up, an indulgence their father never allowed for him, so she had been able to fill him in on some of the knowledge he was lacking. It also meant that he didn’t have to trust a stranger in his home or consider boarding his precious cat when compelled to travel for work.

If he’d known Lilith would be in the picture, though…

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he knew it would be his assistant checking up on him to make sure he was on track to make his schedule. There really was no more time to linger.

Mercury sighed as he released Janus and tried to brush some of the cat hair off of his suit. He kept a lint roller in his car, so the rest of the evidence would be gone by the time he made it to the airport. “I really need to go now, but this discussion isn’t over,” he said, glancing at Lilith before fixing his gaze on Ophelia, who had the good sense to appear guilty about the shock she’d put him through at such an inopportune time. “I’ll see you in a week. Behave yourselves until then.” After a forced smile and quick hug from Ophelia, he turned and left. With every step he took away from the door, he was regretting his decision. It had been hard enough to agree to this when it was just leaving his cat with his sister, but now she was there!

He swore to himself that if any harm came to his cat or his sister and he could find the slightest bit of fault with her, then that demon woman would have hell to pay.

“So.” Ashley was standing with her arms crossed and was glaring at the door that Mercury had vanished through just minutes ago. “Your brother is Silver Boy.”

Ophelia took a deep breath and stood up from where she’d knelt to comfort Janus, who had started mewling in protest when his dad left, but had quickly been soothed when she dug out some cat treats from his bag. “Well he’s the Silver Bullet, now. The League rebranded him when he turned twenty.”

Ashley rolled her eyes. “Right. Rebranding. I’m forever thankful I ditched the League before I had to go through my own stupid ‘image update’. But regardless of what he goes by these days, did it not occur to you that this fact might be something I needed to know? We’re supposed to be partners!”

Ophelia crossed her arms to match Ashely’s stance. “You’re the one who said that just because we’re assigned partners doesn’t mean we’ve got to spill all of our secrets! You weren’t supposed to meet him in the first place, I told you to move your stuff from the entryway and keep quiet while he was here!”

She scoffed. “I forgot, ok? But this is a pretty big secret, a little heads up might have been nice! And he thinks you don’t know? What’s that about?”

“He and dad always made such a big effort to keep their identities from me when I came to visit, I didn’t have the heart to tell them mum had spilled the beans ages ago. So I played dumb… and so they just keep assuming that I am dumb. Anyway, it works to our advantage now, right? If I had been part of his Super world when my powers showed up, there’s no way I’d get a chance to complete the Justicar Trial with you. I know him; he’d have me carted off to the League and working as a registered Superhero on his team faster than you could say ‘Solar Flare’!”

“Right. Does Zoey know?”

“Zoey knows everything,” Ophelia confirmed, and Ashley finally relaxed her arms and shook her head.

“Well, as long as Ms. Butterfly is in on it, I suppose I can’t complain. She’ll have made all her little plans with him in mind. Your brother has no idea you’re powered?”

“None whatsoever, and it’s going to stay that way for as long as possible.” Ophelia tried to fix Ashley with a fierce stare to let her know Ophelia meant business. She knew she wasn’t nearly as capable of intimidation as her brother, but she had picked up a few things from him.

Ashley just scoffed. “No need to worry about him hearing it from me; I’d have been happy never to see his face again, and shall strive to avoid him as much as humanly possible while living with his sister. Next question: that cat. You do realize it came from an evil scientist’s lab, likely has some sort of mutant ability as a result, and will now be roaming freely around our apartment?”

That made Ophelia smile. “Yes, I know that, and understand where your concern is coming from, but there’s something you have failed to consider.”

“And what’s that?”

“He might be an evil science experiment, but Janus is also a very good boy.”

#my writing #fanfiction #shining nikki #mercury #lilith #ophelia #superhero au #cat sitting au #you know cause why not #long post

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lostinfic · 3 years

Text

Art for Hearts’ Sake

Pairing: Jean-François Mercier/Betty Vates

Rated E | 4400 words

Summary: Betty works in a care home and every week she sneaks out one of her elderly patients to a nearby art gallery. There she meets a mysterious Frenchman. He's an art dealer of some kind, or so she thinks, until he takes her on whirlwind escapade.

Fluff and smut / Art thief AU (loosely based on The Thomas Crown Affair)

Ao3

Betty peeked outside the room, left and right. At the end of the corridor, Mrs. Mansfield opened the door to the stairwell. As soon as it closed behind her, Betty whispered: “The coast is clear.”

“Let’s go.”

Eighty-three year-old, Maurice Delorme, donned his fedora, pushing it low on his forehead to shade his eyes.

Betty pushed his wheelchair out of the bedroom, down the corridor and into the hall. She winked at 92-year-old Annette who shrieked, clutching her chest, thus distracting the nurse away from the front desk. Betty and Maurice rushed past the reception area, out the front doors and around the building.

Betty stopped to catch her breath. Maurice laughed wheezily, slapping his thigh.

“We did it, ma chère.”

“Remind me to get that fudge Annette likes.”

“Did I ever tell you I once saw her perform at La Scalla de Milan in 1963?”

“Have you?” Betty replied though, of course, she had heard the story before. She didn’t mind, Maurice had had the most amazing life, and she enjoyed his reminiscence however embellished they might be.

The St. James, where she worked, was a small and exclusive care home for elderly millionaires. Certainly nothing like the conditions in which her mother had lived. For many years, Betty had taken care of her mother, who suffered from an early-onset form of dementia, in their small flat in Leeds. When her mother passed away, Betty not only had to grieve for her parent, but also for the many years during which she had put her own life on hold. The day after the funeral, she’d looked at herself in the mirror and realized she didn’t know who she was. On a whim, she had moved to London and promised herself to live life to the fullest.

Things had turned out significantly less glamorous than expected. She couldn’t afford a home in a desirable neighborhood. And, with no formal education or work experience to speak of, she had found employment doing the same chores she had done for her mother. At least, at the St. James, she was paid for it, had real days off, and suffered less verbal abuse. Most of all, moving away had not magically rid her of her shyness and anxieties. Wherever she went, they followed, but she was getting better at giving them the slip.

Part of living life to the fullest had involved letting Maurice convince her to sneak him out of the care home. His doctor advised against any taxing activities and public spaces where germs abounded. But he longed to visit a museum or a gallery.

“What is a life without art, but a body without a heart?” he’d complained dramatically.

And thus had begun their weekly escapades.

Just a few streets away from the care home was Kinwood Palace, an illustrious property with a world-class art collection open to the public. Betty loved the gorgeous gardens, but Maurice was here for the Rembrandts and Vermeers.

Betty pushed her accomplice over the gravel leading to the neoclassical villa. Despite being hot from the physical effort and warm summer air, Betty kept her cute coat on to hide her unflattering scrubs. She liked the coat’s sixties vibe with its big black buttons and bright colour, something she would never have worn before.

Tourists already filled the great blue and white entrance hall of Kinwood. Maurice flashed their English Heritage membership cards to the box office clerk. Betty scanned the crowd.

“Shall we pay a visit to Boticelli today?” Maurice asked. She nodded inattentively. “Or shall we visit Ringo Starr?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

“Betty, are you looking for him? The Frenchman.”

“Dunno what you’re on about.”

But her blushing cheeks betrayed her.

“You should invite him for— what is it youths call it?— ah, yes, for Netflix and chill.”

She burst out laughing. Her laughter echoed in the gallery, and she promptly slapped a hand over her mouth.

“If I were your age, I would invite him,” Maurice said.

“You were married when you were my age. And you loved Felicia.”

“Yes, yes. I could never love another woman after her. But I was always curious about sodomites… Do you think you could find me a rent boy, dear?”

She giggled and rolled her eyes.

“Well?” he insisted.

“Oh... Maybe?”

“It was good enough for Leonardo, after all,” he said as they stopped in front of framed sketches drawn by da Vinci himself.

Every room of Kinwood palace was breathtaking, Rococo frescoes decorated the walls between Roman columns, and hanging from the coffered ceiling, massive chandeliers sparkled. And there were books, so many books, and vases of fresh flowers everywhere. As Maurice admired the masterpieces in gilded frames, Betty imagined herself living in a place like this, a century ago, or imagined being an actress in a period drama.

“He’s here,” Maurice whispered.

“Who?”

“Who?” he parroted; She wasn’t fooling him.

She glanced sideways and spotted the Frenchman, smoking just outside the garden doors, his jacket hooked on a finger over his shoulder. His hair was neatly pomaded, his trousers tailored, his shirt smooth and sharp: an old-fashioned sort of cool, straight out of her wet dreams.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she bit back a simper. She knew that from behind his sunglasses, he was studying her. One corner of his mouth rose in a languid, crooked smile.

Five times now they had visited Kinwood at the same time. Five times he had watched her from afar, with that penetrating gaze of his, the hesitated— no, not hesitated, evaluated or calculated— and finally approached her. Though he never stayed long in their company, he’d made a lasting impression on both her and Maurice.

He’d said he was a subcontractor for Kinwood, as an art appraiser, she assumed because of the way he observed everything. Including Betty herself. Being seen, it unsettled her. Most days she felt indistinguishable from a potted plant. Perhaps a side effect of having lived with a mother who couldn’t recognize her anymore for years. Though Betty considered herself plain by contemporary standards, she liked to think that, on a good day, she had a hint of beauty from another era. Perhaps he could appreciate that.

He greeted Maurice warmly, in French, then turned to her, “I thought I’d recognized your laugh.” He pocketed his sunglasses, then took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

To anyone, she would have claimed he was laying it on a bit thick, but deep down she melted.

“Son nom est Betty et elle est célibataire,” Mr. Delorme said to the Frenchman.

Betty glared at him, though she didn’t know what he’d said beside her name.

“I’m Jean-François,” he said, mostly to her.

They walked together through the rooms, and soon forgot about the art. He had a way of mentioning things she had said in previous conversations: he’d read a book she liked, and he asked after the stray kittens she worried. Betty, too, remembered every word he had ever said to her, but was trying very hard to look like she didn’t. But here he was, being so openly infatuated, she’d convinced herself it was too good to be true. Yet every time they met, her misgivings vanished, and she let herself be thoroughly charmed.

They stopped in front of a small canvas, “The Enchanted Castle” by Claude Gellée, and this time Betty paid attention.

“It’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?” Jean-François remarked.

“I like landscapes the best. They’re like a window to another place, another time. I can almost… jump in. Escape.”

She covered her mouth, regretting that last word. But Jean-François brushed her hand away.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Emboldened by his touch, Betty said, “Would you— I mean, I’m working now, but later, maybe we could— if you’d like…”

“Yes,” he said again.

“Okay.” She laughed and bit her bottom lip.

“But first, I have a painting to steal.”

“What?”

He slipped his jacket on and popped the collar. He said a few words in French to Mr. Delorme, then vanished out of the gallery.

Betty blinked, mouth agape. Well, that’s one way of getting dumped.

“Oh, no, I think I dropped my pills,” Mr. Delorme said, patting his breast pockets. “I swear I had them.”

“I’ll go look for them,” she said, thankful for an excuse to get away.

Fifteen minutes later, she found the bottle of medication in the antechamber thanks to a security guard. After that, Mr. Delorme asked to leave.

On the way back, Betty didn’t say a word. In her mind, she kept replaying the scene, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong. Her eyes teared up, but she blamed it on the dry wind. Humiliation, sadness and anger warred in her chest.

They weren’t careful going back inside the care home and were caught by the nurse at the front desk. Mrs. Manfield was a real stickler for rules and disliked Betty.

“We were only out in the garden,” Maurice retorted before Betty could gather her wits.

The nurse narrowed her eyes at them. “If I find out otherwise…” she warned.

Betty could lose her job over these little escapades, all for what? A rich old man and a weird Frenchman?

She took Mr. Delorme back to his room. With an unusually cold attitude, she helped him out of his outerwear and onto the armchair in front of the TV. Her behaviour shocked him, and he tried to soothe her with jokes and charm, but she ignored him.

“We won’t be going back to Kinwood palace,” she announced and left his apartments.

She went back to work, to menial tasks and being called by other carers’ names.

By the end of her shift at 5 pm, on top of the humiliation, sadness, anger and fear of losing her job, she was now feeling guilty about having been so cold with Mr. Delorme. She changed out of her dirty scrubs into her own clothes. Putting on the yellow sundress and cardigan cheered her up. She decided to pay Maurice a visit before leaving.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Delorme. I panicked.”

“Don’t worry about it, ma chère.” He patted her hands. “You will feel better soon, I just know it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just am.” He winked.

She chalked it up to his eccentric nature, but then there was a knock at the door.

“Told you,” he said.

Betty opened the door and gasped at finding Jean-François standing there.

“Good evening, Betty.”

“What— what are you doing here?”

“I have some unfinished business.”

He closed the door behind him and walked to Mr. Delorme’s wheelchair. He knelt beside it and fiddled with the underside, finally pulling out a slim leather case.

“Let’s see it,” Mr. Delorme said, rubbing his hands excitedly.

In a smooth move, Jean-François set the case on the table, flipped the locks and revealed its content: a painting. A painting from the Kinwood collection. One of her favorites: a moonlit forest by Joseph Wright of Derby.

“Tell me it’s a very good fake,” she whispered.

“There is a very good fake,” he said, “whether it’s in that case or at the gallery, well…” he smirked.

He closed back the case and checked his watch.

“Perfect.” Jean-François offered her his arm. “Are you ready for our date?”

Betty rubbed her brow and laughed incredulously. She cast a glance at Mr. Delorme who was nothing but encouraging.

“Where would we go?”

“First, I am going to hang this in my home, then we can grab a bite to eat. Is that all right with you?”

Mr. Delorme whispered, “Netflix and chill.”

Betty felt rooted on the spot. Her first instinct was to refuse. Going to a stranger’s house on the first date, a stranger who might be a thief? That was a bad idea. A fantastically terrible idea. A terribly alluring idea.

She looped her arm through his. Striding out of her place of work on his arm, she felt like a million bucks. Which is to say, less than what that masterpiece was worth.

Outside the doors, a gleaming vintage Jaguar awaited them, chauffeur standing straight beside it. They slipped in the backseat. When the door closed, butterflies erupted in Betty’s stomach.

The chauffeur smoothly navigated the traffic and drove them just outside London, to a private aerodrome. Jean-François opened the car door for her just as two men in coveralls rolled a ladder up to a small aircraft.

In a daze, Betty held Jean-François’s hand and followed him inside the cockpit. He buckled her seat harness and gave her some instructions she barely registered. He flicked switches and talked to Ground Control.

“Ready?” he asked her.

Betty should have been scared, but she couldn’t muster any fear, only excitement. Perhaps that’s what should have scared her.

She took a deep breath. “Ready.”

He taxied the plane into position and down the runway, faster and faster. Betty’s heart rate accelerated. Jean-François pulled back the controls, and as they rose in the air, a flush of adrenaline tingled through her body. Soon, they were flying over twilit London.

“Where are we going?”

“Like I said, to my home, first.”

She laughed as the blue-grey waters of the Channel appeared on the horizon. France straight ahead.

Her cheeks ached from smiling, and her heart never slowed.

They landed on a small strip in the middle of a wooded area. Betty’s legs wobbled when she stood up. Jean-François offered his hand to help her deplane. He was so frustratingly cool and composed for someone who’d just flown a stolen masterpiece across the border.

The country air was pure and warm. They weren’t in Paris, but in southern France. They walked along a trail then a grand villa came into view. Whitewashed stone, terracotta roof and blue shutters among ambitious vines and towering cypresses. Dogs ran in the tall grass, and wildflowers decorated the lawn. Solar panels hinted at an off-the-grid lifestyle.

“So?” he asked with a sweeping gesture.

She rolled her eyes with a grin. “Showoff.”

“When else can I show off if not on the first date?”

“All I’m saying is you’re setting the bar pretty high for the second date.”

She thought, even if this turns out to be all a ruse to get her in bed, even if he sends her back to London tomorrow without a goodbye, she didn’t care. It would be worth it. She deserved an incredible fling.

A middle-aged housekeeper came out to greet him and narrowed her eyes at his guest.

“You brought someone with you, monsieur?”

“Don’t worry, Marie.”

He stepped forward, still holding Betty’s hand, but she tugged him back.

“Hey, if I’m not back for my shift tomorrow morning, Mr. Delorme knows I’m with you and what you did.”

“Understood.” He bowed slightly. A curl fell to his forehead. “Smart girl.”

Although the house was old, the interior was modern. Selected antiques blended harmoniously with the warm, minimalist style. Crown molding and tapestries hid a high-end security system. She caught a glimpse of a library and of a workshop filled with art supplies. Portraits hung on the walls, going back generations. A photo of a younger Jean-François with a woman stood out: a wedding portrait. At the sight of it, Betty stopped dead in her tracks. Her nails bit into her palms. She didn’t trust her voice to ask a question evenly.

“Ah.” He scratched the back of his head. “She… she passed away five years ago.”

“I’m sorry. I thought— well, I’m sorry.”

He hesitated by the photo. For the first time, he looked almost destabilized.

“You thought what?” he asked after such a long pause she didn’t understand his question right away. “That I was a playboy?”

“Maybe. Are you?”

“Is that why you came with me?”

“No.”

He studied her for a moment then brushed a knuckle along her jaw. Without another word, he resumed guiding her through the house.

He led her to the living room. There was another painting in here: a large canvas of hazy water lilies.

“Another very good fake?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

He carefully removed the Wright of Derby painting from the leather case.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She had many thoughts, mostly about all the people who wouldn’t get to see it now.

“Dunno,” she said. “Will you sell it?”

“No. I will deliver it to Maurice’s granddaughter in Vienna. But until then...”

He placed the canvas upon a wooden picture ledge above the fireplace. The moonlit landscape shone against the plain wall.

“Hold on. What? Mr. Delorme?”

“The painting belonged to his wife’s family, but it was stolen by Nazis in ‘38.”

“Are you telling me you’re some sort of Robin Hood?”

“Oh, no. My fees are exorbitant.”

She snorted a laugh.

“Couldn’t they get it back legally?”

“They tried. In the 1960s, I believe. But they’d lost proof of ownership during the war, and the family at Kinwood denied any transaction with former Nazi officers, as one does.”

Betty puzzled over this new information. In less than twelve hours, her idea of him had shifted so many times she could hardly keep track. But one thing hadn’t changed: her attraction.

“You know, you nearly derailed my plans,” he said.

“How so?”

“A year of meticulous planning and then, out of nowhere, comes this lovely woman I cannot stop thinking about. I shouldn’t have let myself be seen talking to Maurice so often.”

“You’re having me on.”

“I brought you here, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I gave in too easily. Where’s the challenge in that for you?”

“Where’s the challenge in letting someone get close to me?” A rhetorical question veiling a confession.

She tilted her head to the side and considered him. He let her.

“Was anyone hurt by your plan?”

“Not a soul, I swear.”

Marie brought in a bottle of red wine with two glasses and a plate of cheese, bread and thin slices of roasted duck.

Jean-François pressed a button on the wall. Curtains swayed aside, revealing tall sliding glass doors that framed a landscape not unlike the one in the painting. One of the doors was open, warm air swirled in, balmy with dew and night blossoms.

He opened the wine bottle and sampled its bouquet. Satisfied, he filled their glasses which they rose in a silent toast to whatever delights the night might bring. Drinking, she stared at the landscape outside. Beyond a small terrace, the ground sloped to a valley where centennial trees grew around a lake, mist skated upon its silvery surface. Away from the city lights, myriad stars shone in the night sky.

An escape.

The glass pane hazily reflected Jean-François as he came to stand behind her. She felt his warmth radiate over her skin though he wasn’t touching her yet. Drawn in, she leaned back, just a little, an invitation, an ouverture.

He trailed a single finger from her earlobe, down her neck, to her shoulder. And she shivered with longing. He gently swiped her hair away, and his lips replaced his finger, careful, precise kisses, inching towards the strap of her dress and sliding it aside.

“What does it feel like, striding into a gallery and taking whatever you want from the walls?”

“Calming. At that moment, I am utterly focused and in control. Then when I slip away with my prize, my blood begins to sizzle.”

“Is it still sizzling now?”

“Yes.”

He met her reflected gaze on the glass pane.

“Mine too,” she said.

She turned around in his arms, and he watched patiently as she put their glasses on a side table. Placing her hands upon his chest, she felt his sharp intake of breath, his rapid heartbeat. She slid her palms up to his neck, and his eyelids fluttered when her fingers delved into the locks at the back of his head. With a gentle push, she guided his lips to hers. He let her take the lead, modest and timid at first, then slowly yielding to instinct and hunger. When she opened her mouth to his, he cupped her cheek and leaned into her until her back pressed to the window. He kissed her with dedication, with utter focus, tasting and caressing her lips, intent on making her tingle all over. Heat flared through her, and she arched into the curve of his body bent over her.

Oh boy.

Eyes still closed, she broke the kiss for air and licked his taste on her lips.

“That was some grade-A kissing,” she whispered.

Jean-François laughed and pecked her forehead. “I like you.”

“Yeah? ‘cause I stroke your ego?”

“Because you’re honest.”

“Well, if I’m being honest I'd very much like you to sweep me off my feet again.”

“As you wish.”

In one smooth move, he grabbed her thighs and hiked her up on his hips. Betty squeaked and held onto him. He kissed her against the glass door, exploring her neck and cleavage, all lips and teeth and tongue. She wound her legs tighter around him, seeking friction to soothe the throbbing he’d triggered. He sucked in a breath and bucked his hips.

He carried her outside, to a nearby wooden chaise lounge and laid her on the striped cushion.

She expected him to flip up her skirt and pound, but he knelt beside the chair. He rubbed her ankles, then slid his hand up her leg to her knee. Betty’s breath quickened. She parted her legs. The ascension continued, his hand slipped underneath the hem of her skirt and up inside her thigh. He stopped inches from her underwear, and kissed her again. It was agony to have his hand so close to where she needed it. His mouth traveled to her breasts, he pulled down the bodice of her dress, just enough to access a nipple. Betty squirmed and keened, and finally his fingers slipped inside her knickers.

She looked like a Renaissance muse, lounging, with her arms over her head, one breast bare, and layers of fabric bunched about her waist. And he studied her as he sought the spots that made her sigh and cry. Her lewd noises accompanied the cicadas’ song. And she should’ve been ashamed to make such a wanton display, but the heat in his eyes was worth it.

This man could take anything he wanted, and he had chosen her.

She came embarrassingly fast.

He licked his fingers and grinned.

“Showoff,” she said again.

She grabbed his tie and pulled him over her. He laughed against her lips, and it hurt with how good it felt to share this joke, this joy.

She blindly unknotted his tie as he fumbled with his buttons. Unable to wait any longer, she cupped the tantalizing bulge in his trousers. He groaned and that filled her with pride.

He stood up to take off his trousers, and she made him recline on the chaise. With half-lidded eyes, he observed her straddling his legs. She admired him, as he had her. His hair was completely disheveled now. His open shirt revealed a lean, firm chest and taut stomach down which she dragged her fingernails. His cock twitched as she neared it. She teased the surrounding skin until he growled her name. She stroked him to full hardness, enjoying the way he hardened in her hand. Because of her.

And now, for the pièce de résistance. She rose to her knees, and Jean-François’s jaw went slack. She had barely had time to enjoy his fingers, but she planned on savouring this. Slowly and with a long, luxuriating moan, she slid down every inch of him, wetting him to the root.

He gripped her hips, urging her to move. His chest heaved with panting breaths. She gorged herself on his lust and desperation. With every bounce, her dress slid lower down her torso.

She held onto the top of the seat for leverage, but she must have been too vigorous for the adjustable back suddenly collapsed. Betty yelped and Jean-François caught her.

“Crikey!” she said, pressing a hand to her heart.

“Are you hurt?”

“Scared me half to death, but I’m okay. You?”

“I’m fine.”

They looked at each other, then broke into a loud guffaw. Mirth and embarrassment heated her cheeks. She truly couldn’t stop laughing. Jean-François even teared up.

“You’re so beautiful when you laugh,” he said. It came out so naturally, it was almost reckless by his standards.

Her heart swelled, and she kissed him. He rolled on top of her, spurred on by this small shot of adrenaline.

Betty shivered; it was getting cold outside.

“Shall we go back inside?” he asked.

“If you don’t mind.”

They picked up their clothes and closed the patio door. With a remote control, he turned on the fireplace.

He picked up his glass of wine from where she’d left them. He drank while watching her undress and lie down on the plush carpet, in the orange glow of the flames. With a beckoning smile, she extended a hand toward him. He removed the last of his clothes and crawled over her.

Skin to skin, bodies entwined, they moved together. And suddenly it was so tender and so very real. A leisurely give-and-take of pleasure. Delight and satisfaction mirrored in each other’s face. They gasped and moaned and laughed, then fell silent, foreheads together, fingers entwined, staring in each other’s eyes, toeing the edge of bliss.

Even after climaxing, they didn’t part. Jean-François buried his face in her neck and held her even closer.

Betty looked up at the stolen painting, and, for once, didn’t feel the pull to lose herself in its landscape. She closed her eyes and stroked his hair and thought nothing would ever be this perfect.

Eventually, hunger and thirst caught up with them. They put their underwear back on, and Betty borrowed Jean-François’s shirt.

They ate, sitting on the carpet, their legs still entwined. The wine, the cheeses, the meat, everything was unbelievably tasteful. She licked her fingers clean and refilled their glasses. Jean-François slouched down, head against the couch, unwound like she had never seen him before.

“Betty, do you still want to go back to London in time for your morning shift?”

“Goodness no.”

“Good. I know an excellent restaurant in Vienna. It’s inside a tropical greenhouse, you’ll love it.”

“Vienna?”

“How is that for a second date?”

#Mercier x Betty #spies of warsaw #a passionate woman #teninch fic #lostinfic writes stuff

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smol-and-grumpy · 4 years

Text

Cross My Heart - CH.16

Pairing: Bodyguard!Dean x Reader; Chuck Shurley x Reader

Summary: After opening up a letter, the life as she knows it, changes forever. Her husband hires Dean Winchester to protect her but is Dean really who he said he was? And is her husband really worried about her safety?

Warnings: Flangst

WC: 2759

SERIES MASTERLIST

As soon as they’re back, Dean places the groceries into the kitchen and Y/N was right about her period because it starts to kick in as soon as the stress level wasn’t that high anymore.

It’s not long before she finds herself cramping up a little so she uses her first tampon and plants herself on the couch, lays her head on the pillow and pulls the blanket up to her chin.

Dean walks in, grins a little before he scoops her up and sits her on his lap, still with the blanket and all. She curls up above him, presses her face into the crook of his neck.

“You need anything?”

“Nuh-uh,”

“Nuh-uh?” Dean kisses her temple, and then he whispers, “Okay, I know you’ve been dying to ask. Shoot, I’ll answer all your questions.”

Y/N actually doesn’t really know what she could ask, she doesn’t want to come across as jealous, when that’s actually what she is.

“The boy looks like you,”

“Yeah, but I can guarantee you that I’m not the father.” Dean’s voice rumbles underneath her.

“How do you know?”

He shrugs, his one hand rubs along her thigh over the blanket, “I came back from an eight month deployment. And after two months she told me that she’s pregnant. Turns out she was already four months along, so no, I don’t really think it was possible that I’m the father. Unless she kept one of the condoms in the freezer and kind of houdinied the semen out and injected it into her uterus.”

“You used a condom?” She raises an eyebrow, she’s curious, not because it’s supposed to be a dig at him.

“She insisted we always use one. Because she didn’t trust me and according to her, I could technically be having sex with everyone while I’m over there.”

“Wow,”

Dean lets out a soft chuckle, “Yeah,”

“She wanted you to trust her but she didn’t give you her trust in return?” She looks up at him, his scruff rubs along her forehead before he tilts his head down to look back at her. From this angle, Dean’s has a double chin but he looks cute with it and that again, is not really fucking fair.

“Apparently, trust in a relationship is not a two way street for her.” Dean just shrugs, “It’s in the past. I don’t even know if it was love at that time or just the comfort of having somewhere to stay with, and someone to be comfortable around with without having to pretend and hide. It took a big chunk of burden off my shoulders too, because I couldn’t afford rent and paying for Sam’s education at the same time.”

“You two already lived together?”

“With her parents,” He says with a chuckle.

“Oh my god,”

“Her parents were nosy,” Dean’s laughing now, probably thinking back to the memories, “The thing was, we were young, I was maybe too comfortable with what I had, too tired from war to make a change, and that’s why I stayed with her and then when she said that she was pregnant, I kind of rolled with it. I didn’t even think that I ever wanted kids. We never really talked about it. Looking back, I don’t think I did love her and I’m glad that I could walk away from it. I don’t think that I was ever really truly happy with her. And I have proof that she wasn’t really happy with me either. We were two cowards who were too scared of what was out there, and we were afraid to leave our comfort zones.”

“Were you ever truly happy in your life?” It’s not meant as an offense but the more he tells her, the more she gets the impression that Dean’s life was hard. Full of responsibilities and making choices that he shouldn’t make from a young age on.

“I am,” He smiles a little when he cradles her face with one hand and pushes his thumb under her chin to make her look up at him, “You don't see it, do you?”

“See what?” She frowns a little.

“Baby, you make me happy,” He kisses her nose, “Yeah, there are some minor inconveniences along the way but the truth is, I’m the happiest I’ve been in years when I’m with you.”

“Oh,” She really didn’t know.

Dean chuckles and kisses her and she grins against the kiss. She wonders if he feels it too, feels the butterflies fluttering around in his tummy, feels the stinging in his heart that hurts so good.

Their kiss gets more heated, gets deeper, and she really wishes that she’s not on her period. But there’s something that pulls both of them back to reality.

“I think that is really your phone in your pockets,” She jokes, mumbles the words against his lips and Dean chuckles while he pushes her off his lap playfully to take the phone out of his pants.

He stops and frowns when he looks at the caller ID, shows it to her before he picks it up.

Chuck.

“Mr. Winchester, where the fuck are you?” Chuck’s so loud on the other end.

“Uh, we moved,” There’s no sir at the end. She can tell that Dean’s sick of pretending.

“I know that. Where did you take my fucking wife?”

Oh, now she’s his fucking wife.

Dean places a hand on her shoulder, somehow it soothes her. It would feel a lot better if he wouldn’t be shaking himself, though. He’s visibly upset and the crease on his forehead deepens.

“I took her somewhere safe. Because that’s my job.”

Chuck laughs, it’s loud and mockery, “That’s not your fucking job anymore, is it? I haven’t paid you to do your work for over a week! Now tell me where she is or someone gets hurt.”

They hear someone whimpering, it’s a female voice. She realizes that she knows that voice.

Oh god, no.

“Why do you want her? It was you wasn’t it? It was you who sent that hitman after us!” Dean growls, his voice is deep, he’s angry. She’s never seen him like this.

He has Meg, She mouths to Dean and Dean’s frowns some more at that.

“I knew I shouldn’t have hired an ex-marine who left on his own will. I should have gone with an army outcast, someone who’s paid to do what they should and not fucking second guess everything I say!” Chuck snarls, “Look, Winchester, fair trade. You bring her to me and in return, I won’t kill off her best friend, how does that sound?”

“Yes,” Y/N whispers.

“No,” Dean’s voice is louder, it’s a deep growl, it makes her flinch.

“A life for a life, sounds fair to me!” Chuck says and he must be doing something to Meg because she cries out. It’s a terrible sound. Something hurts inside of her when she hears it.

“I’ll text you the address and I give you 12 hours, because I know that you’re far away and traffic is a bitch. Don’t even tell me that I don’t give you a fair chance.” Chuck sounds proud, “No police. Just you and me, Winchester. You pull something, she’s dead and I have friend in high places, Winchester, so don’t fucking play with me or I’ll send someone else, every fucking day.”

He hangs up before Dean can even answer.

“No,” Dean says and gets up to pace around in the room. She opens her mouth to say something but he holds out his finger, repeating himself, “Don't even start, the answer is no!”

“But—”

“—I’m not fucking losing you!”

“We have to! He’ll hurt Meg!” She argues and stands up too.

Dean’s phone pings with a message. It has the address on it and a picture of Meg. She’s been beaten black and blue.

Y/N feels nauseous and needs to sit down again after seeing that.

Dean moves over quickly to sit down on the chair, typing in the address into google maps, “Okay, we need about six hours to get there. We still have time to form a plan.”

“You’re going to help Meg?” She walks over to stand next to him and then he looks up to her.

“Of course I’ll help Meg,” He pushes his chair back, pulls her into his lap, “I’m not happy about it but I’m helping where I can. She’s important to you and you’re important to me, so.”

“I’m sorry I pulled you into this.”

Dean sighs, “We’ve been over this, haven’t we?” He says, places his chin on her shoulder as he wraps his arms around her waist, “We’re in this together. And now we need to see how we can all get out of it, Meg included.”

They arrive at a record shop. It doesn’t look like anything impressive on the outside to be honest, but they found out through google, that it has a recording studio in the back. Of course it would. That’s Chuck for you. He knows that it’s soundproof, he probably rented it out under a false name, either.

Y/N gets off the bike, takes off her helmet and waits for Dean to do the same.

He’s standing before her, “Remember what we said, okay?”

She nods.

“And here’s your gun,” Dean hands it to her too, “Just, this time, if you shoot, try to hit what you’re aiming for, alright?” He chuckles but it’s not a light-hearted or funny chuckle, it’s more sinister.

“Okay,”

“Right,” Dean takes a step closer, weaves his arm around her waist, pulls her into him, “Try not to get shot at, alright?”

“And you don’t get dead. Promise?” She stands on her tip toes, their noses touch.

“Cross my heart,” Dean smiles a little, seals his words with a kiss.

She watches Dean leave with a nod.

The plan’s for him to go in first and that they’ll improvise on the rest.

There was no time to plan anything else ahead because they didn't know what would be waiting for them once they arrived.

Of course they contacted Benny because Dean hasn’t heard from him yet. But since it’s now a pressing matter, Benny’s doing his best to inform the local authority, and even drives here himself. It would take him longer to get here from wherever he was, she never asked, but Dean’s phone is on standby with Benny and the call is recorded.

The plan was also for her to wait until Benny or the police is here but she can’t because she hears a dull thud and fuck—

—She runs in as fast as she can, almost trips over a stack of records but she keeps on going and pulls the heavy door open, her gun drawn.

She sees Chuck, and Meg’s next to him on her knees.

“Oh, hey, wifey.” Chuck greets her with a fucking big smile on his face.

The shot was only a bait to lure her in. Chuck has a gun in hand too and he waves it in her direction.

“Let Meg go,” She says with the calmest of voice she can muster up.

Chuck raises his eyebrow, pouts a little, “Where are your manners, Y/N! Say please,”

She looks at Dean and they exchange looks. He’s on edge, is ready to launch forward. There’s so much tension in the air and she doesn’t think that she’s breathing at all.

With a sigh, she says, “Please,”

“Was that so hard?” Chuck mocks, “I only give Meg to Winchester and you’re coming to me.”

“No,” Dean whispers, it’s faint but she hears it nonetheless.

Y/N knows that Dean doesn’t want that, but also she wants her friend safe. It’s the only other person in the world who she trusts next to Dean. She loves Meg. Meg was always here, even when she had a hard time herself with her failed business ventures. Y/N was always there for Meg and vise versa.

Looking at Dean, she nods, and she sees that he doesn’t like it one bit but he nods back.

“Lower your gun and I will, too.” She tells Chuck and that might be the first time in ages that they agree on something.

Chuck lowers his first, Dean follows and then her.

“Now Meg,” Dean says, holds out his hands, beckons her over.

Meg’s still blue in one eye and she walks over, she’s wearing an oversized sweater, something Y/N’s not used to seeing on her. Meg’s always dressed so good. She wonders what happened in the short time that she was away.

Her friend nods at Y/N in passing, and goes to stand next to Dean who’s a couple of feet away from her. And Y/N turns to nod at Dean one last time, sees Dean nodding back, holding Meg up with an arm around her.

Y/N takes a step closer to Chuck, then another one.

On her third step, a shot rings in her ear, it makes her jump. She turns around to see the source and sees Dean on the floor.

“Dean!” She calls out, wants to run back but Chuck’s voice interrupts her train of thought.

“Ah-ah, you stay.” He says calmly and he draws his gun when she sees her drawing hers.

She looks at Meg, sees that woman smiling. She can’t believe that she’s been played by her best friend, “Why, Meg? Why?” She starts to cry.

Dean’s grunting, he’s clearly in pain, blood seeps out from his stomach wound. She knows that she has to stop the bleeding but she’s caught between a rock and a goddamn hard place.

Meg’s smile dies down, “I’m sorry, I really am, Y/N.”

“Did he pressure you into doing this?”

“He offered me a million! Imagine, Y/N! A fucking million! I can start anew! I thought about it long and hard. I love you, I do, but I would also love a new start. You understand, right? I’m sorry but I gotta look out for mysel—”

Meg didn’t get to finish her sentence because Chuck shot her right in her face.

“I never liked her,” Chuck says, “She always talks too much. And she really thinks she’d get away with it.” He scoffs.

Y/N’s full on sobbing, she can’t stop even if she wants to. “So, you’re going to kill everyone? What are you going to tell them, huh? Three dead people?” She knows that she should get going, that she should help Dean, she knows that time is fucking running out.

“I’ll tell them that I’m a hero. I tried to save you from your crazy friend who wanted to take away everything from you. Not even your bodyguard could help protect you. So it was me, the loving husband who has to rush in,” He pauses for the dramatic effect, “But it was already too late.”

Dean’s still grunting, he’s still alive. Oh thank god. She risks a glance. Dean’s visibly pale, the blood starts to pool. His eyes are on her.

She nods at Dean and takes a deep breath before looking back to Chuck who has his gun cocked and ready. It’s really now a matter of who shoots first. His finger is tight around the trigger, but hers is, too.

“Go to hell, Chuck,” She mumbles and pulls the trigger, sees Chuck staggering and losing balance. His gun is still tight in his hand and he pulls the trigger, shooting into the ground before he kneels on one knee. She has shot him in his thigh, right above the knee.

Ready to pull again, a sound of someone barging in stops her, and then, everything happens so fast. Someone’s pointing a gun at Chuck and she sees him raising his hands. Someone has an arm around her, asking her if she’s okay. She hears it faintly, “Ma’am, are you okay? Ma’am, can you hear me?”

But she can’t, she can’t talk, she can’t hear, she can’t see.

She needs to get to him.

Y/N falls on her knees, crawls over the body of Meg to get to Dean. Someone’s already working on his wound. Dean’s face is the palest of pale she’s ever seen in her life. There’s sweat on his forehead and his eyes look empty. But he’s still looking at her. She’s crying, leans her head against his, kisses his cheek, his nose, “Please don’t leave me,” She begs with every fiber of her being.

CH.17

#cross my heart #dean winchester #bodyguard!dean #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester fan fiction #dean winchester x reader #nahtalie writes

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yikesharringrove · 4 years

Note

maybe? 👉👈 steve taking a really long time with college (like on one year and off one yours year, on, off, on, off) and he still doesn't really know what he wants to do and he gets really frustrated bc billy just did college all in one go and steve is taking forever and he feels down on himself? idk im feeling the whump rn???

Steve had left high school having no idea what he wanted from the rest of his life.

That’s not true, he had some idea.

He knew he wanted to leave Hawkins, follow Billy wherever he was going. He knew he wanted to be with Billy for the rest of his life, he knew he wanted to leave the past behind and make new friends, people who were kind, and fun, and didn’t bat an eye when Billy pulled him into his lap.

But that’s about it.

So when Billy graduates high school, and gets a full ride to UC Berkeley, and they move into a cheap apartment in downtown Oakland, Steve is so happy that he got out.

He gets a job waiting tables at a restaurant down the street, pays half the rent and buys the groceries while Billy’s in class.

But then two years pass, and Billy’s soaring through college, working to his degrees, plural, because he just couldn’t decide between studying English Literature or Biology with a focus in research.

So he’s majoring in both and getting a minor in Italian because then I’ll know what you’re sayin’ when you start horny babblin’.

And Steve was at the same restaurant.

True, he was assistant manager now, and it came with a pretty okay raise, and he even gets dental insurance, but he feels so stuck.

So he enrolls in community college.

He starts with some general classes, still completely unsure of what he wants to study.

Billy said it was okay to just rule out things you don’t want to study, to nearly fail a math course and know that accounting is not for you.

So when Steve finishes his first year, he at least knows what he doesn’t want to pursue.

Meanwhile Billy has an internship at a lab through Kaiser Permanente. And he can read and write Italian than Steve can.

Steve is walking home from his job at the restaurant when it happens. He’s crossing the street, and gets hit by a car.

He’s taken to the hospital, where he’s informed of a fractured spine and another concussion.

He’s told his injury could’ve been much more severe, that he will not experience paralysis, but he needs physical therapy and walking will be difficult for a while.

Their finances take a big hit.

Billy’s internship doesn’t pay super well, and with Steve being unable to work for the foreseeable future, he’s fired.

Billy has insurance through the school, but because on paper, he and Steve have no real relation, Steve’s medical bills come out of pocket.

So Steve is bedridden for months. He can’t work or get groceries, or do fucking anything but lay there.

They can’t afford physical therapy.

But Billy has a friend studying to be a PT, and she comes over every Saturday, and practices her technique on him in exchange for ten bucks and a few beers.

And so the money Steve tucked away for school is rapidly diminishing.

By the time Billy graduates, Steve is a year into recovery. He still gets dizzy at odd intervals, and his back gets stiff when it rains, but Billy gets a job right away, doing research on flu vaccines.

And Steve goes back to work.

He gets a desk job, something he won’t have to be on his feet all day for. He works reception for a message therapist, which comes with free massages, which work wonders on his back.

So in the fall, he decides to give his education another shot.

He learns that history is not for him, and that his nutrition course was fine until they began looking into how the body processes nutrients, and he was fucking lost. He takes a few business classes, thinking, hoping genetics would take over and this is something he could do.

But his dad was right to take away the job opportunity at his own firm. Steve was not cut out for this.

After a year of research, Billy is promoted three times. He ends up working on some extremely important study that Steve does not understand for the fucking life of him.

But he sits and listens every time Billy explains what he did that day, even though Steve gets so sad when Billy mentions having to kill the lab mice to study their bodies.

So Steve is two years into community college, five years into living in Oakland with Billy, and he still is lost.

He takes a semester off, working more hours, trying to save up some money.

Because Billy is beginning to think about grad school, and that shit’s not cheap.

But Billy decides to postpone that, work for a few more years, and besides, he’s caught between studying something to put him in a research field, or just straight up going to medical school to study infectious disease.

Because Billy could. He’s smart enough for medical school, smart enough to research and be a doctor.

And Steve has a smushy spine and half a degree in nothing.

A semester off turns into a year.

A year and a semester.

Two years.

They’ve been in California for seven years, and Billy gets into grad school in San Diego. They move south and Billy spends late nights pursuing a Masters in Immunology.

And Steve works the front desk at a pediatrician’s office.

He’s flipping through a course catalog from the San Diego Community College when Billy comes home from his new job, the position he got after applying to only three labs.

He kissed the top of Steve’s head, moving to grab himself a beer from the fridge.

“You thinkin’ of going back?”

“I don’t know.” Steve slid the catalog closed. “Is it even worth it?”

“That’s something you have to decide.” Billy sat down, sliding the catalog towards him. Steve had crossed off the classes he had already taken, the ones he new he wouldn’t like. “And you know, going to school isn’t the only option. You could get an apprenticeship, master a trade.”

“I can’t do anything where I need to bend over for really any length of time. So that rules out plumber, and car mechanic, and anything physical like construction, or landscaping or even general contracting is right out.”

Steve could feel the old shame, the doubt and the self hatred crawling up his spine.

“I have nothing to offer. I have no discerning skills, and in seven years I’ve only made it through two years of goddamn community college, and here you are, ripping through grad school like a fourth degree is easy.”

“Stevie, you’ve got a lot to offer. We just gotta find something that suits you.” He took Steve’s pen, turning to the back page of the catalog. “Okay, we’re gonna write down all of you strengths, and think of career paths that could fit those. I’ll go first, you’re extremely caring. You’d be good at any career where you care for people.”

“But I can’t study nursing or something, I barely understood my biology 101 course. Plus, nurses are strong. I can’t lift more than like, thirty pounds.”

“There’re way more caring fields than nursing, Pretty Boy. Although I would love if you were my nurse.” Billy smirked at him, leaning in to plant a sloppy kiss to Steve’s cheek as he rolled his eyes. “Another strength: your emotional intelligence is through the fucking roof.” He wrote it down. “Okay, I’ve said tow, so you say one.”

“Um, I think that I’m good at making people laugh?”

“Yes! You are. Perfect.” Billy scribbled it down. “You’re a good leader.”

“I’m pretty good at reading people.” Billy wrote Intuitive, can smell a douchebag from a mile away.

“You’re good under pressure.”

“Sometimes.”

“Every time I’ve seen. You’re good at keeping calm and keeping others calm.”

“I guess.”

“Nah, Stevie. Positives only. Say a strength.”

“I’m, uh, I’m good at, bilingual?” Billy stared at him. “Like, I’m bilingual.”

“Are you sure? I don’t think that was English, even.” Steve slapped his chest, Billy laughed. “I’m joking. You are bilingual. You’re also really good at making others feel safe.”

“I was always pretty alright at public speaking.”

“You’ve got a great eye for detail.”

“I’m good at teamwork, and delegating.”

“You’re really compassionate, too.” Billy drew a line under the strengths side. “Okay, so now we’ve got some of your strengths, think about what you’d want in a job, and we can match everything up and think about some careers that could fit.” Steve nodded, racking his brain.

“Um, I would want to work with kind people, I would kind of like to do something, you know, worthwhile. I’d like to be in charge of something. Like it’s fine if I have a boss to answer to, but I’d like to be fairly independent.”

“I already have so many ideas.”

“Lay ‘em on me.” Steve sat back, closing his eyes to try and picture everything Billy threw out.

“I’ve actually always thought you’d be a really good teacher. Especially if you did like, kindergarten. Just got to be around little kids all day.” Steve could actually see it. “I also think you’d be a could social worker, like to work with Child Protective Services, or something. Um, you’d be good at even planning. Or I think you’d be really good working at a nonprofit of some kind. Maybe you could be the event planner for a nonprofit.”

And Steve was sitting there, and suddenly, he had four career paths, just sitting right in front of him. Four super attainable career paths.

“Wait, wait those make sense.” Billy beamed at him.

“Yeah, that’s because I know you, Pretty Boy.” Billy opened the catalog. “So, I think if you choose to enroll, you should pick a few classes, like, Intro to Social Work, Early Childhood Education 100, and maybe like, Sociology, and see from there.”

Steve stared at the course descriptions for what Billy circled.

“Thank you for helping me. I’m sorry this has taken me so long.”

“It’s okay. Everyone is on a different timeline. And it’s not like you got to explore options in high school. You were told business until your dad decided that nevermind. So it’s understandable that this took you a minute. Plus, you went through hell with your back.”

Steve sat up straight, stretching out his back.

“But, I mean, the back thing kinda happened to you too, and you still made it through all your schooling.”

“Sure, I watched you go through it, but I was not in the pain you were. And like, emotionally, it fucking sucked to watch the love of my goddamn life go through something, and I couldn’t even afford therapy. Like, I felt so helpless, but that’s nothing to what you went through literally experiencing it.” Steve took Billy’s hand, linking their fingers together, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“You did the best you could. Everything was shit for like, that whole year.”

“I cannot telly you how many times I would go into an individual study room in the library and just like, sob for a while.And then I’d get so mad at myself, thinking of you at home, hurting and not even able to get yourself out of bed, and I’d race home feeling like shit.”

Steve scrubbed his fingers through Billy’s hair. He had cut it a while ago, kept it short these days.

“You were doing everything you could for me. I would just sit in bed all day, and think about how amazing you are. Like I would just think about all the good times we’ve had together, and how much I love you.”

“That explains why we didn’t fight for like, that whole year.” Steve laughed. Billy leaned to kiss him softly.

“And you know, even now we’ve done this, there’s still no rush on you. You don’t have to go back to school this year, of this decade, or anytime until you’re ready. Until you want to.”

“Well now, I feel like there’s a fucking light at the end of the tunnel. I’m almost, excited. Is this how you feel? Excited to go to school?”

“Welcome to the nerd life, Sweet Thing.” Billy drained the last of his beer. “You wanna go out tonight? Celebrate?”

“Like, go out to dinner, or go out?”

“Oh, just like dinner. Be home by eight thirty, in bed by nine, missionary with the lights off, and asleep by nine fifteen.”

“Sign me the fuck up.”

#billy is based a lot on my sister in this #and steve is based on her best friend #any life path is valid #there's kind of a lot of set up but yeah #also i live for them settling down and becoming a totally boring mundane couple but they're just SO HAPPY toghether that's my shit #yikes writes #steve harrington #billy hargrove #steve harrington x billy hargrove #billy hargrove x steve harrington #harringrove #harringrive #harringrove fic #harringrove ficlet #harringrove drabble

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2manyfandoms2count · 4 years

Text

Friends who cook together...

I saw today's prompt for @auyeahaugust (College AU) and thought it would be the perfect opportunity to share the beginning of this fic I've been working on!

It's actually based on @e-milieeee's post, I couldn't resist the cooking trope 😬

Hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3 (gasp)

---

Lesson 1: Ratatouille

Adrien Agreste was the perfect man. Good-looking, hard-working, charming, he was the prime example of the son-in-law every parent wanted, and the people his age who didn't want to be him wanted to date him.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng wouldn't deny she might be classified in the latter category, although less so than when she was younger. She was good friends with the model now. Voluntarily so. You didn’t fight and defeat Paris’ number one villains for years, growing from a teenager into a young adult together, without getting close. Their respective crushes on each other had faded over time, but it didn’t mean they would’ve said no if all the circumstances aligned, although they wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.

The one thing Adrien Agreste wasn’t, though, was a good cook. Not that he didn’t have everything he could possibly need in his kitchen. The apartment he now lived in, although a huge step down from the Mansion that had once been his home (but what wouldn’t be), was still a lot bigger, and a lot more comfortable than what a normal student should have been able to afford.

It was a lot better equipped, too.

Marinette had told him the contractors were abusing his trust by installing things that were way more expensive than they ought to be, knowing he wouldn’t double check, but he’d waved her concerns away. With his father’s demise, he’d just wanted to move out as quickly as possible to avoid the crowds of paparazzi, and if signing a very large cheque could provide him with the knowledge the workers wouldn’t blab, then so be it. He couldn’t bring himself to sell the Mansion despite the knowledge it had been Hawkmoth’s lair the whole time -there were too many memories associated with his mother there- but he’d had some offers to rent it out for movie settings which would definitely cover the costs of keeping it, as well as his rent. He’d looked into his finances and put all the money he’d earned as a model in a bank account, and donated the rest to a fund to help Akuma victims. There was no way he was keeping his father’s dirty money when so many people had suffered at his hands.

Since then, Adrien had fallen into a nice little routine as he moved from Lycée to University. He made the most of his freedom by exploring every nook and cranny of Paris without anyone being able to say anything about it. No curfews, no limitations, but for his own tiredness and others’ private property, of course.

It left little time for him to learn basic cooking skills. He was often too tired to make anything when he came back from his nocturnal meanderings, so he went for the easy solution: food delivery. There were so many restaurants nearby he could’ve eaten something different every night for a month and still not have gone through all of the options. It was more diverse than anything he’d ever eaten, and it suited him just fine.

Little did he know that this habit would be disrupted by his best friend moving in next door.

Marinette had been looking for a new flat. Not that she didn’t enjoy living with her parents, but she found herself wanting a little more privacy now that she was at University. The reveal that she was Ladybug had brought a lot of attention to the Tom and Sabine bakery, which was good, but a lot of it was journalists prowling around in the hopes of getting an exclusive interview with her. She was tired of being pretty much mauled anytime she left the house, and although she could easily leave via the rooftops as Ladybug, she refused to let them dictate how and when she could get in and out. Which is why, when she’d seen the words “à louer” on a window of Adrien’s building as she visited him for their weekly game night, she didn’t think twice about calling the number. Adrien had been a step ahead of her, so the owners were expecting her call. A week later, she had officially moved into the flat across from his.

She hadn’t paid much attention to his habits at first. She was too busy settling in, and with all the planned evenings with Nino and Alya, plus the ones with the Miracuclass students who remained in Paris, she didn’t see how late he came back at night, and ordering in didn’t seem out of place. What better than a pizza for poker night? Or sushi for movie night? It was easy .

As winter settled in, though, and nights out dwindled to once every fortnight, she noticed the ballet of scooters and bikes that came almost at a fixed time every night. Generally when she was about to fall asleep, doing a grand job at waking her up. Groggily stalking up to the window one evening, she’d noticed Adrien meet the delivery person as he came back from wherever he’d been, paying his due and coming up. She’d dismissed it due to midterm season approaching, but exams had come and gone and things hadn’t changed. She kept an eye out, and after two additional weeks of seeing Adrien collect a brown paper bag, knowing fully well that he ate a sandwich every midday thanks to her father’s well-meaning gossip, she’d decided to take action. She couldn’t let her partner have such a questionable diet.

“What's it going to be tonight?” She asked, leaning arms crossed against her door frame one night as he appeared on the landing.

Adrien froze at the top of the stairs and looked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

“Er…“ He raked his mind for something, anything that would sound even remotely healthy, but nothing came. He sighed defeatedly. “None pizza with left beef.” He mumbled, his head lowered guiltily. He’d seen the meme the night before, and had wanted to try it out.

“What?”

He repeated a little louder.

“Okay that’s it, you’re coming over to my place for dinner.”

He knew from her tone of voice there’d be no arguing with her, so he sheepishly followed her inside her flat, still clutching his pizza box. He wasn’t too unhappy about the outcome, if he was honest. Marinette was a good cook. He’d have a nice meal tonight.

“What about the pizza?” He asked weakly.

“We can use it as… bread, or something.” The girl suggested, crinkling her nose at the thought. For someone who came from a long line of bakers and was part Italian, calling the contents of the box pizza or even bread seemed inherently wrong.

Adrien trailed a little behind her as she walked towards her kitchen, marveling at what she’d done with the place.

Marinette’s apartment mirrored his in terms of structure, but whereas his decoration was very minimalistic, hers was a lot more eclectic, without looking cluttered. Her furniture wasn’t a set, yet fit together very well and gave the space a cozy feel. The painted walls, as well as the coloured posters, curtains, rugs and cushions made it feel very homey. He wanted nothing more than sit on her sofa and snuggle under the knitted blanket with her to watch a movie.

Platonically, of course.

Adrien walked into the kitchen and was greeted by the pastel yellow of the walls and warm lighting. Her utensils provided nice splashes of colour that brightened up the room. He particularly appreciated the Ladybug-themed colander that was drying next to the sink.

“If you look in that bottom draw,” she indicated with her foot before reaching for a jar of dried rice in a cupboard, “you should find some saucepans, if you could take two out please, Chaton.”

He obliged, resisting the temptation to lift her up to help her. He knew she wouldn't appreciate it.

“Can I put you in charge of cooking the rice?” She asked, handing him the packet. Adrien accepted it but looked at her quizzically.

“Sure!” He replied excitedly. “Do you have the instructions anywhere?”

Marinette stopped in the middle of washing vegetables she’d taken out of the fridge and squinted her eyes as she gauged whether or not he was joking. He seemed genuinely at loss for what to do.

“Have you never prepared rice before?”

“No?”

“It’s like pasta.” His clueless face made her sigh defeatedly. “You’ve never made pasta either, haven’t you.”

“Does instant ramen count? Or pasta boxes?” He flinched slightly.

“How you’re still alive and actually fit is beyond me.” She rolled her eyes. “Right, I guess we really are starting with the basics then. Consider this lesson number one: pour some water in that saucepan.”

She moved away from the sink to allow him to access it, but stayed close enough to be able to turn the tap off for him. He clearly had no idea of how much water was needed.

“Right, now put the saucepan on the hob, and turn it on.” She saw a smirk spread on his face. “And don’t even think about making a joke, I know what it sounded like!”

“You’re no fun, Buguinette.” He pouted, pressing the button she indicated.

“Add a little salt, and then we’ll just let it come to a boil.”

Next, she handed him a chopping board and tomatoes. She hesitated before giving him a knife. “Can I trust you not to cut yourself?”

“Har har.” He grabbed the knife. “Joke’s on you, because salad is actually the only thing I know how to make. How do you want these?”

She resisted making a comment on how knowing how to make salad wasn't something he really could brag about. “Sliced. We’re making ratatouille.”

“Ooh, nice!”

He listened as she talked him through the recipe, impressed by the fact she didn’t need a cookbook to remember how to prepare it. She taught him how to prepare an aubergine, which he could recognise thanks to the emoji, but could not imagine how to bring to an edible form.

“We just want to sear them in some oil with the courgettes, then we’ll let them cook gently with the rest of the vegetables and the herbs.”

He’d been quite dainty on the amount of herbes de Provence he’d added, which had prompted her taking his hand and shaking the spice pot to cover the tomatoes with it.

He looked at her concentrated expression as she stirred the pan and couldn’t help but smile, his hand still hovering above the hob.

Marinette looked at him inquisitively. “What?”

“Nothing.” She raised her eyebrows. “I just forgot how cute you are when you’re bossy.”

Marinette stammered in response, her cheeks pinking. It didn't matter how at ease she felt with Adrien now, she still couldn't take a compliment from him. He grinned and took advantage of her distraction to steal the wooden spoon from her and taste the dish.

“Authorisation to add a little salt?” He asked, refilling the spoon with ratatouille for her.

She took it, trying not to focus on the fact his lips had been just where hers were. She let the flavours flood her palet thoughtfully.

"Authorisation granted."

She smiled fondly as Adrien excitedly added missing spices to the mix.

"See? I am a competent cook!" He added with a satisfied smile.

"Please, you're barely a sous-chef." Marinette snorted. She backtracked her slightly harsh words seeing her partner's pout. "Don't worry though, you'll get the hang of it! It's just a question of practising." She rubbed his back encouragingly. "Would making the plates pretty make you feel better?"

"I think so." He mock sniffled.

Marinette made a point of taking out her Chat Noir plates, which she'd been planning on keeping for special occasions. The way Adrien's face lit up upon seeing them made the fact they were her only dishes that couldn't be dishwashed seem irrelevant. Adrien made a mental note to try and find matching Ladybug ones, although he wasn't sure if he would be gifting them to her or keeping them for himself.

Marinette busied herself with tidying up the kitchen and laying the cutlery as he worked on the presentation. Had her phone been nearby, she would've taken a picture of him as he blepped in concentration.

"Does this look good enough for Madame la Chef ?" He asked as he presented the plates to her. He'd positioned the vegetables around the rice so as to make it look like a flower.

"It's perfect, Chaton." She kissed the top of his head as she passed behind him with a packet of smoked ham. She rolled the slices into little roses and planted them in the rice.

"A table?" She asked as she finally sat down opposite him.

Adrien dug in before she could say bon appétit .

---

When Adrien came home from his morning run a couple of days later, a fresh croissant in hand, he found a conscientiously wrapped package on his doormat. The black polka dots on the field of red were a dead giveaway as to who it was from. He grinned as he picked it up and opened the door.

Breakfast and washed hands later, he sat on his couch, facing the present. He was torn between tearing the wrapping, or being civilised about it. Before he could choose, Plagg flew nearby and obeyed his cat instincts, swiftly disappearing back into his Camembert cabinet with a grin to avoid his holder's reprimands.

"Je sais cuisiner." He read the title and laughed, holding the book in front of him. It was an old edition, a yellow hardback with a picture of the author on the cover.

A post-it note stuck out from the top of the book. He opened it to get to the bookmarked recipe.

For Adrien - saw this and thought of you! Since you're so keen on instructions, this might do the trick! Feel free to use it often ;-)

Love, Marinette

P.S.: I suggest we try this recipe next!

Adrien read through the page, and felt his stomach grumble. He was very pleased at the thought that something had reminded her of him and that she'd bought it for him. The "love" and the fact she was obviously looking forward to repeating their cooking experience were added bonuses.

He himself could hardly wait.

#auyeah2020 #mlauyeahaugust #college au #miraculous ladybug #the miraculous tales of ladybug and cat noir #mlb #adrienette #cooking trope #neighbours au #miraculous fanfic #miraculous fanfiction #elle writes

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questionthebox · 3 years

Text

I’m too lazy again.

So I’m writing this via a fancy

Red iPhone.

It’s dawned on me through this output

Via tumblr and Instagram.

That my most dedicated fans

Are people from overseas.

And I love that !

For example the messages I get in my inbox

Are

From people, from Europe, Canada, Latin America and Oceana.

And

I want to say this,

I’m going to move back to writing

“Good” poetry, I don’t want too be all “dark” seemingly,

But you have to understand something

Where I am, in this country,

In America it isn’t like where you all are.

So this is what America is. So that the picture is painted clearly.

Everyone has mental illness here, from the elderly to toddlers, over the past few days, it’s been hitting me, how absolutely nuts everyone is here, and it literally can’t be underestimated, within this rampant mental illness, are physical ailments, take for a moment to think of the pandemic, unlike Western Europe, unlike countries like Vietnam or Cuba, The USA has completely fumbled the response to the pandemic and now as of this week the new “delta variant” is running rampant through our country, and our government is paralyzed, part of the paralysis, is that our Conservatives here, are pretty much “Neo Fascist” they are openly telling people to not get vaccinated and to not wear masks,

Violence is endemic to the mental illness, over the weekend, there was a shooting incident at a sporting event, in the past 3 years, we’ve had a mass shooting every month, Violence is also racial, the police routinely kill blacks, right wing and Neo fascist violence also takes place,

People our people are fundamentally isolated and trapped, it’s worse for our people who live in what we call here “flyover country” where there’s literally nothing, no jobs, nothing to entertain people, over large swaths of our country, areas have basically become hollowed out. Everything’s also very expensive, it’s extremely expensive here in California and New York, they did a study recently, that showed no one in America can afford a one bedroom apartment, that we would have to work 70 hours in one day, to be able to afford rent on our own, in this atmosphere, people rent rooms, in college my girlfriend told me I should rent a room because my family life at the time was extremely dysfunctional. People rent rooms in other peoples homes, people live with a bunch of other people, or they live with their families, and extended families, when I worked for the government last year, and I was going around interviewing people, the majority of people we’re living in small homes and apartments, with all of their relatives, that mix of so many people living in these confined spaces contributes to the insanity and chaos.

Everything’s expensive, and everything has a price, I had to go to an “underground dentist” in order to get the treatment I needed because my health net insurance wouldn’t cover those procedures and the dentist office I go to wanted to charge me hundred and thousands of dollars. Food is extremely expensive, alongside Gas, Rent, Utilities, I don’t mind saying this, I supplement myself with grey area economic dealings, but like everyone else I too worry about the bills, and it’s extremely stressful and makes me suicidal at times. But everything is expensive, from car registration to insurance, everything is fucking expensive.

Mainstream American Culture is super dumb, loud, chaotic, and fast, and over Sexualized, it’s pretty much like that movie idiocracy, that’s why we voted for someone like Trump to lead us, it’s a society, where every song on the radio is vapid, vulgar, extremely corporate, Celebrities are like Gods here in America, and the public follows everything they do, as if they’re part of them, or they’re cheering them on, there’s also this faux progressivism that makes everything polite, and nice, and it’s hated and despised by people, especially right wingers, because it comes off as so fake, and contrived, Mainstream culture has become extremely Bland, they use LGBTQI culture to further that blandness, it’s all so damn fake.

The interpersonal relationships people have with one another, are highly volatile, and weird, you could be literally dating someone, and a little thing occurs, and they block you on social media and that’s it, the vast majority of people are weird, and strange, you meet them at work, college, wherever, and they’ll reveal that shit about themselves. Finding people, like a collection of people, is hard, one of my best friends is a filmmaker lives in Echo Park in Los Angeles, and when I told him I’m going to focus on being in the LA arts scene, he revealed that he wants to too, thus revealing that he still hasn’t found anyone, and he went to art school!

People also don’t like talking over the phone which honestly makes me violently mad, for example my college girlfriend, preferred we’d talk over Instagram, and when I’d be all like, I’m going to call you, she’s be like I don’t like talking over the phone, when we’d be together her vibe wasn’t even like someone you’d think would not want to talk over the phone, but later on while in the car with some friends, one of my friends said, “some people like to talk, talk over the phone, or just text” and I was sitting there steaming, because I couldn’t believe how everyone just accepts this, if you are lucky to make friends with a collection of people, then you quickly have to adjust to what I call “normalcy life” going to bars, going to music shows, etc, and that can be nice up to an extent, but if you want deeper conversation or connection, or some sort of impulse towards adventure, you better look elsewhere. At most those people are just going to be down to snort Coke with you and do drugs.

There’s no conception of the future, having a future, certain friends will try to pretend like they’re going somewhere, but they aren’t, everyone pretty much is stranded, because there’s not enough money anymore in circulation, to live from. I’m 29 years old, I have friends in the same age range who aren’t married and who don’t have kids, and none of us talk about having kids or getting married anymore. Everyone’s more concerned about the struggles and stresses of the present. The friends that did have kids, are pretty much stranded in unhappy marriages or relationships, and it’s hell for them.

There’s no help either. Whatsoever, none of my friends, or people I know can ask their parents for help, either because their parents don’t have the money, or they’re neglectful or they’re totally fucked up.

If anything all these things have revealed a truly barbaric society, that is misogynistic and sexist, that is racist, that is prejudice against people who have physical and mental ailments and so on.

This will be part 1. Of my revealing of American life, diary posts.

#poets on tumblr #writers on tumblr #my thoughts #diary #personal diary #my musings

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 3 years

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If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Seven

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

August 24th, 2000

Remy gripped one of his arms with the other as he stood at the threshold of his new dorm room in college as his mother whined and wailed and generally put on a display of the overly-attached, they-grow-up-so-fast mother. He stood there with an awkward half-smile on, waiting for her to finish her spiel as she crushed him in a hug, and then made her excuses to leave.

His dad was a lot less emotional, giving him a simple smile and a, “Make us proud, son,” before he was gone.

“Your parents are quite the pair,” his new roommate said from inside the dorm.

“Tell me about it,” Remy grumbled, closing the door. “I’m so glad I get to be away from them for a while.”

November 1st, 2000

Remy woke up with a killer headache as someone opened the blinds. “Ugh, d’you have to do that?!” he griped, not opening his eyes and turning away from the window.

A voice, that decidedly did not sound like his roommate, laughed. “Oh, yeah, the hangover has set in. Do you need some ibuprofen?”

Remy’s eyes shot open, and he turned to face Emile, who was still standing in front of the window. He squinted and grimaced. “Ugh. Please?”

Emile silently passed Remy a pill bottle and some water. Remy grunted his thanks after he swallowed. “Ugh. What happened last night?”

“You got pretty drunk is what happened,” Emile said. “You could barely stand by the end of the night.”

Remy groaned and fell back onto the bed. Honestly, sleeping more sounded pretty good right about now.

“Hey, no, we gotta get breakfast, Rem,” Emile laughed. “I know you only have afternoon classes, but you need to eat.”

“Mmph. Says who?” Remy asked.

“Says the shrink-in-training who knows a balanced diet is a key factor to maintaining good mental health,” Emile responded matter-of-factly. “Come on, up. I doubt you’ll be the only one arriving for breakfast in what you slept in last night.”

Remy got off the bed, swaying ever-so-slightly. “Ugh, hangovers are nasty,” he grumbled.

And, of course, to make things worse, Emile looked immaculate; the only thing that could be considered “out of place” was his hair, and that wasn’t out of place so much, because his curly mop could never be tamed. Remy felt like a mess, probably looked like a mess, and Emile looked ready to go to work wherever he might end up. “I didn’t say anything embarrassing, did I?” Remy asked.

“Embarrassing by your standards, or mine?” Emile asked, letting Remy outside the dorm room.

“Mine,” Remy said, wincing as the sounds of the second floor dorms filled his ears.

“Well, you talked about an old stuffed animal you used to have named Bones,” Emile said with a shrug.

“Oh, I almost forgot about Bones,” Remy said. It wasn’t quite true, but he had almost put the hurt of his mind, at the very least. “Anything else?”

Emile hummed. “Not that I can think of?”

“No talk about crushes or anything?” Remy asked.

Emile laughed. “No, not that I can think of.”

“Okay, good,” Remy sighed. “I had a crazy dream last night where I said I would date you, and I wasn’t sure if I had actually just been drunk.”

“No,” Emile said, shaking his head. He stared forward as they waited for the elevator. “Just a dream, Remy, nothing to worry about. Unless, of course, you believe that means you secretly do have a crush on me.”

Remy laughed. “Oh, as if! You’re so not my type,” he lied. He wasn’t even aware he had a type before today, but clearly, with George in high school and now Emile, he was into the nerds and the geeks. Emile wasn’t full-blown crush, not yet, but he was certainly up there on Remy’s potentials. And when a geek trumped the members of the football team or the swim team, you knew you had a problem.

Emile laughed a little. “Are you sure? Brainiacs are the future!”

“You’re cute, Emile, don’t get me wrong,” Remy said, as the elevator doors opened and the two walked in to find two other people already waiting. “Just not my type. Personality-wise.”

“So what is your type?” Emile asked, grinning. “I might be able to set you up.”

“Ah, no thanks,” Remy said. “Friends are enough for me right now.”

“And later?” Emile asked. “If you decide you want to look for someone?”

Remy blew out a breath. “I’ll go up to whoever I like and say, ‘Hey, I’m going thousands of dollars into debt to get this one paper certificate that won’t guarantee me a job but I was told to get anyway. Want to suffer together?’”

Emile laughed as they left the elevator. “Well, that’s an original pickup line, don’t get me wrong,” he said. “But seriously, what do you plan on doing after this semester?”

“What do you mean?” Remy asked.

“Well, midterms are like...next week, Remy,” Emile pointed out.

“Wait, what.”

“Yeah, they’re next week,” Emile repeated, as ice entered Remy’s bloodstream. “Did you forget?”

“Yeah,” Remy said, voice pitched an octave and a half too high. “Oh man, like, I’ve been saving all my cash from the job to pay for the next semester, but I don’t know if it’s going to be enough. I might have to take out more loans than I thought. Oh man. Oh no.”

Emile put a hand on Remy’s arm. “Hey, deep breaths, Rem. Don’t want to go into another panic attack.”

Remy made a pained noise that roughly translated to too late. He tried to breathe, but his chest felt far too tight. He couldn’t, like, at all.

Emile led him to the cafeteria, by which time Remy’s brain had finally sputtered to life again. “I can’t do this,” he mumbled. “I can’t...I can’t...I can’t do this.”

“Hey, Rem, you’ll do fine,” Emile said. “You said yourself you know everything in your classes!”

“No. No, I mean I can’t do this,” Remy said, waving his hands around the cafeteria. “I can’t do college. Not for three and a half more years. Emile, it’s going to kill me. I’m going to die if I keep trying to go to school. I’m gonna grow bored, or I’m gonna grow even worse mental health-wise than however shaky that is right now. I can’t do that. I can’t stand it here. College...can and will kill me.”

Emile visibly swallowed as they both went over to the waffle maker and Remy went first, pouring the batter into the waffler and closing it tight. “Then you really shouldn’t be going to college, Remy. If it’s hurting you, then definitely do not keep coming here.”

Remy sighed. He knew Emile had a point. He knew that. But still... “My parents—”

“—Under no circumstances will be your excuse to stay in a place that is literally going to kill you,” Emile said sternly. “If this is going to drive you to jump off a building, or hang yourself, or do something stupid so you go out as a martyr, then don’t keep doing it.”

Remy stared at Emile in shock and confusion until the waffler dinged. He grabbed the waffle, grabbed whipped cream, and sprinkles, and started making his signature mess of a breakfast. “This is going to come across as really insensitive,” he warned Emile. “But...you genuinely care. Why?”

Emile poured waffle batter in the waffler silently before sighing. “I’ve lost too many friends to suicide already.”

“Friends? As in, plural?” Remy asked.

“Yes, Remy. Friends as in plural. High school was not a kind place. Nor was middle school, for that matter, but high school was the final straw for both of them,” Emile said. “Almost lost a third, too. Walked in on her popping pills like they were after-dinner mints.”

“I—” Remy didn’t know what to say. “I’m so sorry.”

“At least I caught the final one in time,” Emile said with a bitter smile. “She didn’t speak to me for a long while after that. Emailed me right before I went off to college, thanking me. She had finally found medication that actually worked for her. Didn’t get a chance to see her before I left, but we’ve been talking about seeing each other over winter break.”

“I hope you get that chance,” Remy said.

“Me too,” Emile sighed. “But Remy, please. If college will kill you, drop out of college. Your parents do not take priority over your mental health. What’s keeping you from dropping out, other than your parents opinions?”

“Finding a place to stay,” Remy said.

“I’ll help you find a roommate who can pay rent, I know a few people around campus who are desperate to live nearby but not in the dorms. What else?”

“Money for food, transportation,” Remy said.

“If you’re not paying for college you should have enough money so that you can buy the food to get you through, even if you no longer have a meal plan. We can get you a bike, or figure out the bus routes needed for you to get to Starbucks to work,” Emile said. “And if necessary there’s other options around the city that I know are hiring.”

Remy had never seen someone angrily pour syrup on a waffle before, but watching Emile do just that was an experience. “Emile...why would you do this for me? Like, I get the whole wanting me to drop out so I get to be your friend still and I don’t wind up dead thing, but that doesn’t mean you have to help me figure everything out.”

“I’m your friend, Remy. Of course I’m going to help you,” Emile said. “That’s what friends do. They help each other.”

“But...but this feels like going above and beyond,” Remy said, wincing as someone shouted something unintelligible across the cafeteria. “Like, most friends support their other friends’ decisions, but you’re actually mapping out how I would live if I were to genuinely drop out.”

“Friends can and should help you prepare for the future if you need help, or even just want help. If they’re able to offer help, they should, in my opinion,” Emile said.

They moved further into the cafeteria to eat, and Remy was thankful that Emile chose one of the darker parts of the cafeteria, away from the windows and the sunroof. “What’s going above and beyond, then?” Remy asked.

Emile shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think there is an ‘above and beyond’ with friendships, but if you need a threshold, how about...moving in with you and getting a part-time job so you can afford the rent and food?”

“That’s definitely above and beyond,” Remy said.

Emile turned thoughtful, poking at his food. “Is it, though, actually?”

“What do you mean?” Remy asked, frowning and taking a bite of waffle.

“I mean, that’s something I could definitely do. It sounds like a good idea, actually,” Emile said.

Remy choked on his waffle piece, before coughing violently and swallowing the rock that had returned to his mouth. “You serious? I thought...I thought you would want to like...see your friends over the holidays, and your folks. You seem like you’d be close to your folks.”

“Well, I can still see them over the holidays,” Emile reasoned. “But this just means I wouldn’t be moving back home over the summer and then moving again when it comes to sophomore year. I can visit my parents without having to live in their house. We could get a two-bedroom apartment, split the rent and food over the summer, and I could handle the rent during the school year while you worry about food. It could work.”

“Emile,” Remy said. “You’re literally saying you would move in with me. For no other reason than I can’t afford my own place on part-time minimum wage.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Emile said. “It would help me save on room and board, too. Less student loans for me.”

Remy laughed incredulously. “So, is this it? Is this a thing that we’re doing? You’re going to move in with me? I thought it’d be one of your friends.”

“Well, most of my friends would go home in the summer, when you need the most help,” Emile reasoned. “And besides, do you honestly think you could get along with any of my friends long enough to actually share living space with them? I know that your own roommate bugs you a whole lot, because you spend so much time in my room, where you don’t have to deal with anyone but me. And if we can stand each other most days when we don’t have classes and you don’t have to go to bed, yet, I think we can handle living in a place at a point in time where you’re going to work and I’m going to school and going to work. I’ll have to talk to my parents about it, of course, but they aren’t going to say no. They just need to know why my tuition is less than it used to be.”

“So...that’s a yes?” Remy asked.

“Yes,” Emile said with a grin. “You drop out of college, and we move in together.”

Remy whistled under his breath. “Okay, then,” he breathed.

#if there's a place i could be #sanders sides fanfiction #remile #emile picani #ts sleep

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blackssuunn-mandoandyodito · 4 years

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Big dreams, expensive taste

Part two: you can't light a fire without a spark

Read part one here

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x f!reader

Rating: M

Words: 3.3k

A/N: this is still setting ground to the story but I hope you like it. Everything mentioned about NY is written by research alone, I've never been there but I love the city. Also, I need to clarify this is a Modern!AU. Enjoy!

Warnings: SMUT, nervousness, brief f masturbation, slight power kink. Let me know if I should add something.

Summary: What happens after you first met Mr. Lord? How will it go?

(humor me and imagine this is him but blonde please)

The thing about New York is, simply, you either multitask and adapt or die.

Midtown Manhattan is one of the blessings that found your way when you arrived in the city, despite how crazy it mostly is. Filled with tourists that walk through Times Square, cry at the price tags in the Fifth Avenue and stare in awe up the Empire State, so many cultures and languages mixing in the same zone can be quite overwhelming. But that's exactly what New York is about.

After renting with an asshole for three years in a shoebox and saving every single penny you didn't need to spend, you finally had reunited enough money to pay the initial rent that most apartments asked for and enough left of that to fix whatever may need to be fixed.

Back then, your roommate had been taking a girl every night to the apartment you shared, and you could hear the moans and screams that were most likely fake through the wall separating your rooms that resembled more of paper than an actual wall. You were so fed up with it that one day you just decided to go apartment hunting, alone and angry.

You had to go through hours of walking and walking. Anything over 3,000 was too much and even that was pushing it. Most of the ones you could afford were even smaller than the one you were living in, and the ones you liked were way out of your budget.

By some kind of miracle and while you were walking down 53th Street on the verge of tears and with a slice of pizza in your hand, a studio apartment came into your life.

And you didn't even stop to think about it.

It had been three years of 12-hour shifts 6 days a week, and you can't find a good enough apartment for 2,000 dollars every day, much less in New York. So when you saw the opportunity, you took it.

The Third Avenue lets you see the usual office buildings that are often associated with Midtown Manhattan, while the side of the Second Avenue resembles more of a residential neighborhood, with jazz clubs and cafés in sight wherever you look to.

While Midtown's prices tend to be through the roof, you could afford to pay for that one without too much trouble and without sweating it a lot. Sure, it wasn't as big as you wanted to but not a shoebox either. A perfect in-between.

Living on the last floor of the building also had the luxury of being near the roof and letting you see out the window to marvel at the skyscrapers of one side and the more calm neighborhoods of the other. It was a weird resemblance of living at the coast, where two worlds crash together. Letting you be far enough of the chaos to be able to breathe and relax but not such that made you forget where you were living at.

Extremely convenient, considering that the entrance for the Subway was just a few steps away. There were also lots of bars near the area, and one of the most important rules of New York is to have a go-to place, just to be safe. Thankfully, the zone provided plenty of that.

It needed some fixing up, a little paint, and slight trouble with stuff in the kitchen. But after some weeks of Diane and other friends helping you, it slowly became the place you had always dreamed of.

Which is why, at the end of your shift, when you go to Maxwell Lord's office and the old lady from before lets you in with a warm smile, the fact that his office is bigger than your place is, to put it simply, infuriating.

Your mandatory heels click as you walk inside his office, forcing your back to stay upright once his heavy glance hits you full force. His eyebrow arches just as you stop a few steps away from his desk, not showing any sign of being intimidated by the way he's sitting with his legs open and leaning back on his chair.

Not at all intimidated.

Propping his elbow on the armrest of his chair, he rests his chin on his open palm and grins. The visual is one that reminds you of the kings and queens sitting at their thrones on the series you often binge watch when you're not too tired to do so.

You clean your throat, mustering up all seriousness that you can.

"Did you ask to see me, sir?"

Surprisingly, your voice doesn't waver for even a second as you talk, satisfying the part inside of you that resists on giving to Maxwell Lord's power.

He sighs, shaking his head slightly. With one hand, he waves at you to sit at the chair in front of his desk. The rings that garnish his fingers glint to the last glimpses of sunlight that his office takes in. The back walls are complete crystal, from the floor to the ceiling.

The ones that give to the building are Oxford grey, with a cabinet full of the best liquor you've ever seen to the left side and a white boardroom table to the right. It's arranged in a way that if he sits at the edge, everyone else is facing him with their backs to the landscape. You guess that sitting there feels like hanging at the edge of a cliff when you either accept whatever the man in front of you asks or you fall.

It starts to feel like that when you take a sit in front of him and he leans towards you, studying every movement you dare to do and the ones you stop yourself from doing.

"Are you satisfied with the position you're currently in?"

It takes you a second to realize that he's talking about work, not other things that your mind kindly provides. You squirm slightly under his eyes, without looking away.

"Yes sir," you answer, "it is one I am good at that has a good salary and flexible schedule"

He hums, lowering his eyes to the files spread over his desk that you hadn't realized were there.

You squint your eyes to get a good look at what he's reading.

All the blood leaves your face when you realize those are your files.

"Wouldn't you like a promotion?" He asks, not bothering to look at you as he moves the papers.

You frown at him, confused. A promotion?

"And what would it be, sir?" You say, hesitant to voice your question. He smiles at you and closes the folder, moving it aside as he leans towards you with his fingers interlaced.

"A few days ago my assistant quit" he answers, smirking knowingly of something you're unaware of. "I've been searching for someone to take their place, and I think you might be just perfect for it"

You clear your throat, amazed at how straight forward he is. No wonder why he's one of the most respected, if not feared millionaires.

"And why would you think that, sir?"

There's a clicking sound as he spreads his palms on his glass desk and rests his back on his chair, looking you up and down.

"You are very good at setting limits," he answers, "your files also say that you have experience in accountancy and management. You've been an assistant previously, which means you also know how this works"

You nod, looking at him straight in the eye.

You gulp as his eyes harden and his voice gets colder, deeper. "What I need right now is someone who can support my work and have a good effect on the success of my company. I need someone who tells me the truth and not what they think I want to hear"

He takes a deep breath and tilts his head, waiting for your answer.

Of course, you were fully capable of doing a good job, but that was not why you were hesitating on giving him a yes right away. The reputation of being a total asshole with his close workers was most likely not unfounded.

At your hesitation, he frowns at you.

"Is there a problem miss?"

You grip the chair with your fingers, torn between saying something and keeping quiet.

Ultimately, you take the decision to see for yourself if the rumors are true.

"When will I start?"

The big smile that spreads through his face sends shivers down your spine, gulping but repressing the desire to run away and hide.

"8 AM sharp tomorrow, don't be late. You can get my schedule from Amanda outside"

You nod as his look on you lingers for more than it's deemed appropriate, rolling one of his rings between his fingers with an arched eyebrow.

"You can leave now," he says, dismissive.

You quickly stand up and smooth your clothes, tilting your head at him.

"Thank you, sir"

He doesn't say anything else as you walk away, but he calls you just as you're about to step outside his office, stopping you abruptly. You turn around, tense.

"I sincerely hope you live up to my standards," he says, with a strong voice without a trace of the amusement you had heard before.

You're not sure if that's supposed to be a compliment or an insult. Your eyes harden, and you clench your hands at your sides, straightening.

"With all due respect sir, if you doubt of my capacity for the job you shouldn't have considered me in the first place"

Your answer startles him, and for a moment you think he'll fire you on the spot at the flame that seems to light in his eyes when he clenches his jaw.

But he only sits straight and nods at you, lips pursed in a thin line.

"Good night," you say, walking away with shaking hands once again. He only blinks, so you step outside the office with strong steps and not looking back, missing his smirk as he hears you talk to Amanda, arranging things for your first day as his executive assistant tomorrow.

He hopes you survive, he's become quite fond of you.

When you arrive home, every muscle feels sore already from the tension you had felt every second close to Maxwell Lord. You sigh as the sound of the keys resonate through the apartment once you step inside and leave them at the table. The heels feel even more burdening than other days, and you can't help but wonder how it will be from tomorrow on.

You shake your head and decide to take your mind off of it. Stripping off your clothes, you go take a shower.

The hot water feels amazing as it runs down your body, easing out all stress of the day from your muscles. With your eyes closed, you wash your body delicately, almost like a caress.

Before you know it, your mind starts to drift to your boss, at how powerful he looked sitting at his chair inside his office on top of New York, how he had looked at you with such hunger it made you shiver and burn with something you had never experienced before.

The man in your imagination starts to walk towards you, smirking and with his hands inside his pockets as you have your back to the crystal. He's cornering you, not letting you any option to get away even if you wanted to.

But the point is, you don't.

You squeeze your eyes shut inside the shower as your hand moves down to your clit, circling slowly and sending pleasure up your spine.

The man in your fantasies grins at you once you're too close to the glass, afraid of fully leaning into it.

He tilts his head, eyes blown and dark with a glint of mischief in them.

"Aren't you afraid to fall?" The illusion asks, extending his hand to your neck and caressing it with a ghost touch. Goosebumps spread through your skin when his thumb traces a line up to your lips, outlining them and making you open your mouth.

You shakily nod, letting him manhandle you to turn around and put your palms flat against the window.

You gasp at the sudden change, and he kicks open your legs so you're slightly bent over in front of him, facing the city.

His breath hits hard against your neck as he stands flush against you, moving his hand behind you and pulling your skirt up, leaving you exposed to him. One of his fingers hook at your underwear and pulls down, grazing your wetness and making you jump.

"Stay still." He whispers next to your ear, pushing his body against yours to pin you to the clear surface.

The real you jumps when you let yourself lean to the wall, breaking you out of your daydream when your skin touches the cold tiles.

Guilt creeps into your mind and replaces the red hot fantasy that your brain decided to create and torture you with.

You shake your head, thinking about other things. The fantasy must have been a result of the tension and tiredness, you chose to accept. After all, not every day you meet the owner of the company you work in and he decides to make you his closest co-worker.

You finish showering quickly after that, not letting your mind slip away from your actions as you dry yourself and then go to bed.

Your phone dings with a received message, but your mind is too far away from consciousness to do anything about it.

The first thing you do in the morning is call Diane and let her know your change of job, and the way she screams at your ear makes you flinch.

"How the fuck did that happen!?" She asks, as you climb down the stairs and then walk down the block to the entrance of the Subway with the MetroCard tightly held in your hand.

"I still don't know," you answer, "he simply asked if I wanted to and I just said yes"

Diane giggles and you roll your eyes at what she must be thinking. She seems to sing "Money, Money, Money" by ABBA under her breath, and it makes you laugh a little.

"And are you sure?" She asks.

"Too late to think about it, "you say. "But judging by what I saw on his schedule, the man doesn't even sleep"

"Which means you probably won't either" she finishes just as the background noise of people comes with her voice. Living in Queens and arriving by the up ground stations must grant her of service, but no one inside the subway appreciates someone talking on the phone, so you decide to end the call.

"I guess." you say, "I'll call you later, I'm about to enter the subway"

Diane wishes you luck, says goodbye, and hangs up. The rest of your trip goes with the usual maniac activity of the New York Subway, a void at the bottom of your stomach as you get closer and closer to your stop. You must have a terrified expression on your face because at least 5 different people look at you with concern in their eyes, and no one ever pays attention to someone else in the morning. You sincerely hope their concern turns out to be unfounded.

The sound of your heels clicking as you go inside the building and go straight to the elevator is a big contrast to just arriving at the lobby and starting to work right away. Your hands feel sweaty when they grip your briefcase, not used to carrying one around. There's even some cold sweat in your forehead, but you quickly wipe it off.

The ding of the elevator makes you jump when it arrives at Maxwell Lord's office floor, and you straighten again when you go out and walk towards it. Your cheeks feel hot when you remember the night before, but your mind quickly brushes it away. You're nervous enough as it is.

His voice hits your ears the closer you get to the door and Amanda is already there, looking at you with what you guess is supposed to be an encouraging smile. She must have a lot of experience dealing with him.

"He's waiting for you," she says, "his first meeting is at nine o'clock, and he wants you to manage it"

Not trusting your voice, you nod and smile at her, going inside the room.

His gaze immediately rises from what appears to be a contract and looks at you with the beginning of a smirk tugging at his lips, and he waves you to come closer. You oblige, keeping all emotion that may be going through you by showing a stoic face.

"Give me a moment," he says to the phone, then covers the speaker and turns to you. "I need you to work here with me, so your own office will be there"

He points to a smaller office at the corner of the room that you had failed to see previously, with a dark crystal barrier that most likely will let you see to his office but not let him see to yours.

You nod and walk to the door, opening without expecting much.

What greets you is quite the opposite.

There's a big desk with white orchids at the edge, with one side against the wall and a computer ready to be used in the middle, a fancy coffee maker in a kitchenette at the other side of the room and a small cupboard stuck to the wall on top of the sink. There are even some shelves with books about finances and management next to your desk. Another door is behind your chair, two steps away if you stand up.

You walk to open it and discover you've also got your own bathroom, with white tiles and a golden faucet. It looks so neat you're afraid of getting inside, so you close the door.

Having your own space to work feels slightly overwhelming. From spending all day dealing with people to having a room for yourself feels like a huge change done in just a day.

But out of everything that apparently comes with working for the CEO of Lord Enterprises directly, what takes the breath out of you is the sight you have of the city.

The city shines in front of your eyes, with yellow dots navigating the streets and hordes of people running from one point to another. You can see everything from there, almost all of Central Park filled with trees that soon will turn brown and yellow in the fall, windows that let you see how a lot of people start waking up and continue living, businesses that open to provide people with food, coffee or even just a place for people to take his mind away, sit down and breathe for a second.

The view brings tears to your eyes. This is the city that became your home when you arrived, full of wild activity and even wilder people. New York, after all.

You smile, realizing that this is closer to what you were searching for. There’s a new sense of excitement in your chest, full of expectation and desire to conquer. You feel ready for anything.

But his voice breaks you out of the moment when he calls your name.

"Please come here," you hear muffled through the crystal, and you can see how his chair is completely turned towards you with one leg up the other one and his fingers interlaced on top of his lap, looking at your door without really seeing anything, frowning.

So you take a deep breath and walk out again, with renewed energy. You know that, no matter how hard it may be, you're now on top of the world.

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added):

@evidenceofzoe @the-feckless-wonder @aeryntheofficial @cryptkeepersoul @cable-kenobi @fruitsaladtree

#maxwell lord x you #maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord #ww84 #ww84 fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #my writing #reader insert

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ninjagoat · 4 years

Text

Orange

Winn was sure she hadn't meant to stand him up. It wasn't like her.

But yet, he'd spent half an hour, alone, sitting in a restaurant he couldn't hope to afford; and it had gotten to him.

So he'd sent her a text. Read 8:32pm. No reply. He waited some more. Still no reply.

Then he read the text back to himself. And then hurriedly sent a clarification.

Still nothing.

So he'd gone home, panicking the whole time. Oh God. What if she never spoke to him again?

He'd tried to pass the time with one of the many projects he needed to do, but it was no use. He wasn't even hungry. He was just... wound, tight as a guitar string.

No, don't build James a jet-pack, Winslow. That's just asking for trouble.

There was a knock at the door.

Please be her, please be her...

He opened the door. It was her. It was Lena.

In a magnificent overcoat, one that probably cost more than his rent.

She'd probably come straight from the office.

Winn found he had nothing to say.

"Winn," she said, a slight tone of anger in her voice.

"Lena," was all he could respond with. Great job, genius.

"Have you eaten?" she asked, in the same clipped tone.

"No, I-" Barely was the first syllable out of his mouth, when Lena looked out into the hallway, and stepped to the apartment, away from the door; follwoed by a team of uniformed waitstaff who filed into Winn's apartment with a portable table and two chairs, moving Winn's things out of the middle of the living room to make way, then setting them up with a silver service.

Winn looked at the flurry of activity, then back to Lena, whose eyes were boring into him.

A thought occurred to him.

"If you even *think* of humming the Imperial March right now, you will have seriously misjudged the mood of your audience."

Ok then, maybe not.

The wait staff filed out, dinner for two by candlelight, under silver platters, set up right in the middle of Winn's living room.

"Thank you. Be ready with dessert," she addressed one of the staff.

"Of course, Ma'am," he replied, and closed the door behind him.

Silence hung in the air.

"So...hi?" Winn began.

"I know when I am late, Winn."

"Ok, I get that," he said, not sure where she was going with this.

"I do not need multiple messages telling me."

"Right, that was just because I thought you'd taken the first one the wrong way," Winn replied, anxious.

"I hadn't."

"I did not know that," he said, cautiously, "I am sorry if it made you feel like you needed to hurry."

"It didn't. If anything, it made me take my time."

Winn had long since accepted Lena was a complicated woman; but surely there were limits.

"That being said, I accept your apology; and for my part, I am sorry I made you wait in the restaurant for so long, and it won't happen again. Were they rude to you?"

"A little bit," he confessed, "But they're supposed to be, I think. Don't get anyone fired or anything."

"Very well, I won't," she said, with a finality that suggested the matter was closed. "Are you planning on taking my coat?"

"Oh, please-" Winn turned to the closet, to grab a coathanger so he could hang up the beautiful garment, then turn back to see-

GadZOOKS.

"That's... that's a very lovely dress you're wearing," he said, through the greatest case of drymouth he'd ever experienced, as she handed him her coat.

"Yes, I thought you might think that. I chose it especially. Are you hungry?"

Suddenly, he was starved. But he couldn't seem to answer. Hell, he couldn't even figure out how to hang her coat.

Who would ever have thought blood orange would be her colour?

Yes, Winn, because it's the *colour* that's making you like this.

"Uh," he managed, struggling with the coat problem in front of him, "What are we having?"

Lena lifted up a cover from one of the serving plates dramatically.

"Macaroni and Cheese."

"Gourmet?" he asked, finally getting it on the hanger.

"Kraft."

He hung the coat up in the closet.

"You did that especially?"

"You don't like it?" she said, picking up on his hesitance, "You have boxes of it in your cupboard."

"I do. And I appreciate the gesture, it's just- may I?"

She stepped aside, and Winn pulled out her chair like a proper gentleman.

"Do you think me having it in my kitchen means I have an unsophisticated palate, or something? I mean, I do eat grown-up food, on occasion."

"So, you *don't* like it?" she asked, confused, as he lifted the other plate cover, and then tried to figure out where to put them both. He paused, preparing his next sentence very carefully.

"It's more a comfort food, you know? You move from foster home to foster home, not a lot of stability in your life. But at least the blue box is consistent wherever you end up, right?"

He finally sat in front of his plate.

"This is amazing, by the way. All of this. Thank you."

He picked up his wine glass, and raised it. Lena responded in kind.

He sipped, and saw her look at her own plate nervously.

"You're not familiar with this as a food, are you?"

She sipped her wine. "Is it supposed to be this orange?"

"It is. They dye it that colour on purpose. Don't worry, it won't kill you."

"I'll admit, I was hoping for a slightly more optimistic worst case scenario than death," she replied.

"Well, I've eaten it before, and I'm okay," he told her, "I'm not dying, at any rate. Come on, count of three."

He picked up his fork, as he watched her investigate a macaroni elbow suspiciously with her own.

"One." She nodded along with his count.

"Two." He picked up a forkful, as did she; she sniffed it, more curious than reviled.

"Three." And, after a moment's pause, she put the forkful in her mouth, and chewed.

Winn did the same, and watched her. She looked a little grossed out, but also confused. She was trying to figure something out.

She quickly scooped up another forkful, putting it into her mouth before swallowing the first one, and chewed.

Still trying to work the problem. This was fascinating. Winn could have watched this all day.

She swallowed, finally; still pondering the dubious concoction.

"How is it?" he asked. She gestured at it with her fork.

"Turns out I *have* had this before," she said, quietly.

"Really? When?"

She avoided his gaze, and took a deep breath. "My mother used to make this for me."

Winn laughed. "Wow. You know, I would never have guessed that..." his voice trailing off as he realised her true meaning, "You're not talking about Lillian, are you?"

She shook her head, still unwilling to look at him. He quickly got out of his chair, and kneeled next to her chair; taking her cheek in his hand.

"Heyheyhey-"

"Please," she began, "I can't look at you right now."

"Why-"

"Because if I look at you, I'm going to see those big sympathy eyes of yours because you're making way too much out of this, and if I see them I'm going to start making too much out of this and then I'm going to cry."

He pulled himself into her, resting his forehead against hers. She still wouldn't look at him.

"Lena. Look at me."

She took another deep, and finally brought her eyes up to meet Winn's; and she took in his hopeful gaze and joyful smile. She held it for a moment, then spluttered out a laughing sob.

"Goddammit," she said, sniffing through her tears.

"No, no," he said, wrapping his hands behind her neck, fingers into her hair, carefully fitting her ears between thumb and forefinger, and kissed her wet cheek. "This is a good thing. An *important* thing."

"It's just a snack food, Winn-"

"-That *she* used to make for you," he reinforced, "That's allowed to mean something. You're allowed to let if affect you."

"Not like this."

"*Exactly* like this," he finished, and leaned in; placing his lips on hers, waiting that brief moment for her to respond, squeezing his bottom lip between her own just once before completing with a brief peck, and pulling away, just a little.

"Winn?" she breathed, interrupting his second approach.

"Yeah," he said, giant smile on his face.

"This is lovely... but I actually haven't eaten in nearly ten hours, and the food itself isn't too bad; so, if we could put this on pause for a little-"

"Oh, totally-" he said, planting a kiss on her forehead before getting to his feet and heading back to his seat, to find Lena shovelling the next forkful of yellow-orange goo into her mouth accompanied by a breath of relief through her nose; the kind from when at least a part of you genuinely thought you might never taste food ever again.

"Hey, slow down, you should save room for dessert."

"That's not really a problem right now," she said, garbled by food, hand covering her mouth, "There will definitely be room."

"What are we having anyway?"

She swallowed quickly. "Selection of Hostess Snack Cakes."

"Score!" Winn said, happily.

"Damn right."

#winn x lena #sorry everyone i have no idea how to do cuts on mobile

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